he took that sound as approval to proceed. I wanted him to. I wanted him to unzip the back of my skirt and let it fall to the ground. I wanted his hands to wander down the curves of my body, over my waist, my hips, until they stopped at the bare expanse of thigh above my stocking tops. I wanted him.
His fingers moved to the waistband of his trousers and I heard him unbutton his belt. The leather sprang back against the small of my back like a short, sharp slap. I started undoing the buttons of my blouse until the fabric fell open and I felt the cool air on my skin. He pushed the blouse off my shoulder and kissed the smooth scoop as if he were tasting me. And when the blouse slipped off with little resistance, I turned around and we had just enough distance between us for him to observe me. Naked, except for my bra, thong, hold-ups and heels. I saw him smile, a small curve of the right-hand side of his mouth, and I felt turned on, not just by the thought of what was to come, but by the way I had made him feel. My power over him.
Part of me knew that we would end up like this from the moment I had first seen him. From the second I had burnt my hand and he had put the napkin over my flesh.
We were on the sofa now, leaving a trail of clothes and underwear behind us. He sat down and took my hand, pulling me towards him until I straddled him. His eyes closed and my fingers trailed the soft hair on his chest, lower and lower until I took his cock and teased it into me. I had not had sex for some time but I knew what I was doing and I could see the pleasure on his face.
For a second I thought about Vivienne McKenzie and David Gilbert, imagined what they would say if they could see us like this. But the heat flooding my cheeks was not a rush of shame but of burning desire, an urgent need to feel him deeper and deeper inside me.
I rotated my hips around him and arched my back. He cupped my breast with his one hand and leant forward to draw it between his lips. He teased my nipple with his tongue, playing with it, biting it softly, sweetly at first, then harder until I screamed out loud. There was not enough space around us for our need, our desire. We fell on to the floor and somewhere I registered a soft burn of carpet fibre against my skin, but it was forgotten as his hands were in my hair, his hungry mouth devouring my lips, my cheeks, the lobes of my ears. He was on top of me now. One hand pushed my legs wider apart and I could hardly breathe. I started to gasp as the pressure built. Heat radiated from my core. I cried out, my fingernails digging into his skin, my belly tensing as darts of sweet exquisite climax fired around my body. I wanted to capture that feeling, bottle it, I never wanted it to end. And as I looked up at the ceiling, waiting to hear my breath regulate, feeling him roll over and lie beside me, I wondered how long I would have to wait before we did it all over again.
It was a relatively straightforward hearing the next day in court. The emergency asset-freezing injunction was not a particularly complex application, although I would have aced it even if it was.
In my first week in chambers, Viv McKenzie had told me that life at the Bar was about confidence and I was on fire that morning in court; articulate, nimble, prepared to deflect whatever opposing counsel had in their arsenal. It hadn’t mattered that I had only skim-read the file that morning on the Central Line. Hadn’t mattered that I was so tired from the night before; a night we had spent more time fucking our way around the loft than sleeping. It hadn’t mattered that I had rolled into court, just a few minutes before our 9.30 a.m. appointed start date, in yesterday’s clothes and a fresh pair of sixty-denier tights I had bought from Boots at Liverpool Street station. I didn’t need my armour, my stockings, my red lipstick, my freshly starched shirts. I had the memories of him.
After a few minutes of small talk with the client’s solicitor on the steps of court, I returned to chambers, across Fleet Street and into the sanctum of Middle Temple. It surprised me how fresh and different my familiar surroundings seemed to be. The shady cloisters and alleyways that at times unnerved me, were now places for secret assignations and amorous trysts. I had missed taking my medication last night and this morning, and I knew I would soon feel a comedown, panic or derailment, but for now, my mind was consumed by him and all felt well.
I stopped at the reception of Burgess Court and asked Helen our receptionist if I had any messages.
‘I’ve sent you an email, with the names of everyone you have to call back,’ she said, fishing under the desk. ‘And this parcel came for you.’
I frowned as I looked at the big black box with grosgrain ribbon tied around its belly.
This was not a brief. Not even one from the most prestigious ranks of solicitors.
I took it upstairs to my office and put it on my desk, hesitating a few moments before I pulled at the ribbon and opened the box. Inside, there was a cloth sack and inside that was another bag. The bag. The butter-soft black leather case I had seen in Selfridges the night before. My mouth felt dry and I bit my lip to stop a smile.
I unzipped it carefully. I never did find out how much it was but it felt luxurious and expensive. I dipped my hand inside, wondering if there was some kind of card or note, even though I knew exactly who it was from. As my hand disappeared further and further into its depths, I felt something else. Not the sharp, smooth lines of paper but something soft yet textured.
Puzzled, I removed it from the bag to inspect it and laughed out loud when I saw it was a delicate black lacy thong.
‘All right, Fran,’ said Paul’s voice behind me. ‘Couple of jobs for you here.’
I thrust the thong back into the bag and tried to summon my court-face but as I turned to Paul, I don’t know who looked more embarrassed. Me. Or him.
I don’t know who first came up with the nickname ‘the Piranha’ for Robert Pascale, but it was wholly appropriate when it came to his legal reputation. A former investment banker turned divorce lawyer, he had created a lucrative niche for himself at the very top end of the market – his speciality being the sort of bank-balance depleting, pip-squeezing court cases that made Daily Mail headlines and millionaire businessmen shiver.
But Robert Pascale did not look like a ruthless carnivore. His appearance was that of an old-school dandy, silver hair swept back from his face, impeccable suits with a top pocket in a contrasting shade of silk. Out of court, he was invariably charm itself, and I knew that charm was about to be directed at me when I saw him in the corridors of High Holborn’s Central Family Court.
He put his mobile phone back in his pocket as I approached him.
‘Francine, How are you? You’re looking so radiant I’d have to kiss you if I wasn’t afraid the client might see us and think I was fraternizing with the enemy.’
I laughed nervously at the mention of his client. I had come early, without David, without Martin, for two reasons. The thought of being alone with Martin was one that filled me with both terror and excitement. I had not seen him since I had left his Spitalfields loft two days earlier. We had texted like teenagers the afternoon I had received my leather bag and panties, but our correspondence had tailed off to more sober exchanges that involved me reassuring him about the First Directions meeting, and the anxiety that had invariably followed had made me think that my forgotten medication had been more damaging than I thought.
But I also wanted to come early to see her. To see Donna. I did not want my first sight of Martin’s wife to be in a windowless courtroom, when I knew that all eyes would be upon me, and I could not be trusted to hide my curiosity and my emotions.
‘I’m
