The Last Letter from Your Lover

you like another?’ she said, when he had finished it. ‘There’s a little more in the bottle.’
    ‘I suspect I’ve had quite enough.’ There was a lengthy silence. ‘What am I supposed to do, Moira? He shook his head, as if engaged in some ongoing internal argument that she couldn’t hear. ‘I give her everything. Everything . She has never wanted for a thing.’
    His voice was halting, broken.
    ‘They say everything’s changing. Women want something new . . . God knows what. Why does everything have to change?’
    ‘Not all women,’ she said quietly. ‘An awful lot of women think a husband who would provide for them, and who they could look after, make a home for, would be a wonderful thing to have.’
    ‘You think so?’ His eyes were red-rimmed with exhaustion.
    ‘Oh, I know it. A man to make a drink for when he came home, to cook for and fuss over a little. I – it would be perfectly lovely.’ She coloured.
    ‘Then why . . .’ He sighed.
    ‘Mr Stirling,’ she said suddenly, ‘you’re a wonderful boss. A wonderful man. Really.’ She ploughed on. ‘She’s awfully lucky to have you. She must know that. And you don’t deserve . . . you didn’t deserve . . .’ She tailed away, knowing even as she spoke, that she was breaching some unspoken protocol. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, when the silence stretched uncomfortably beyond her words. ‘Mr Stirling, I didn’t mean to presume . . .’
    ‘Is it wrong,’ he said, so quietly that at first she wasn’t sure what he was saying, ‘for a man to want to be held? Does that make him less of a man?’
    She felt tears pricked her eyes . . . and something underneath them, something shrewder and sharper. She moved over a little and placed an arm lightly around his shoulders. Oh, the feel of him! Tall and broad, his jacket sitting so beautifully on his frame. She knew she would revisit this moment again and again for the rest of her life. The feel of him, the liberty to touch . . . She was almost faint with pleasure.
    When he did nothing to stop her, she leant over a little and, holding her breath, placed her head on his shoulder. A gesture of comfort, of solidarity. This is how it would feel, she thought blissfully. She wished, just briefly, that someone would take a picture of them pressed together so intimately. Then he lifted his head, and she felt a sudden pang of alarm – and shame.
    ‘I’m so sorry – I’ll get . . .’ She straightened, choking on the words. But his hand was on hers. Warm. Close. ‘Moira,’ he said, and his eyes were half closed, his voice a croak of despair and desire. His hands were on her face, tilting it, pulling it down to meet his, and his mouth, searching, desperate, determined. A sound escaped her, a gasp of shock and delight, and then she was returning his kiss. He was only the second man she had kissed, and this instance was beyond the realms of what had preceded it, coloured as it was by years of unrequited longing. Little explosions took place inside her as her blood raced around at super-speed and her heart fought to escape her chest.
    She felt him easing her back across the desk, his murmuring voice hoarse and urgent, his hands at her collar, her breasts, his breath warm on her collarbone. Inexperienced, she knew little of where to put her hands, her limbs, but found herself clutching him, wanting to please, lost in new sensations. I adore you , she told him silently. Take what you want from me.
    But even as she gave herself up to pleasure, Moira knew she must keep some part of her aware enough to remember. Even as he enveloped her, entered her, her skirt hitched above her hips, his ink bottle digging uncomfortably into her shoulder, she knew she was no threat to Jennifer Stirling. The Jennifers of this world would always be the ultimate prize in a way that a woman like her never could. But Moira Parker had one advantage: she was appreciative in a way that Jennifer Stirling, that those who had always had things handed to them, never were. And she knew that even one brief night could be the most precious of all precious things, and that if this was to be the defining event of her romantic life, some part of her should be conscious enough to file it safely somewhere. Then, when it was over, she could relive it on those endless evenings when she was alone again.
    She was sitting in the large drawing room at the front of the house when he returned home. She was wearing a