I sit in the pew of the crematorium at Hendon Cemetery as the celebrant begins the service. As I look at my mother's coffin, I can't help but be glad that death claimed her in the way it did, silently in her sleep. An early morning phone call a week ago let me know that she had suffered a massive stroke during the night.In truth, her death has been a bit of a relief; her quality of life had been deteriorating over the last couple of years and Alzheimer's had stripped her of the person she was. Instead, the woman I had been visiting the last few years was convinced she was eighteen and she had the mouth of a sailor. The mother I knew disappeared a long time ago, and even though I have had time to mourn that loss, the grief still bites, opening up the scar that I thought had long since healed.A sound startles me and then a body slides into the seat next to me. I don't have to look up to know that it is Alex."I thought you were in America?" I whisper. Since our encounter in the baseme

I pull on my ball gown and then realise I have no way of zipping up the back. Try as I might, nothing is going to help me get that zip up. With a sigh of frustration, I realise that I am going to need Alex's help. I call down and moments later I hear his footsteps on the stairs. As he enters my room, I take in the sight of him suited and booted in his tux and, for a moment, my heart skips a beat.I turn so that I am standing in front of the long mirror, holding up my strapless bodice, with my bare back to Alex. "Could you give me a hand with the zip? I just can't seem to get it to budge," I ask. Without a word, Alex crosses the room and comes to stand behind me. I catch his eye in the mirror and smile at him, but an expression I can't read crosses his face. I would say it was lust, but I know better than to think that Alex feels that way for me, no matter how tingly he makes me. His hand rests on the small of my back and I hear his breath hitch, but he doesn't say anything as he slowl

A week has passed since our night in Alex's dungeon and I have not laid eyes on him during that time. That's not to say we haven't communicated; I have had plenty of emails, text messages and even bunches of flowers. Yet every night I fall asleep alone in my own bed, and wake up alone, the only sign that Alex has even been home being the dent in the pillow next to mine and the smell of him on my sheets. I am so frustrated I want to scream.I am pottering around in the kitchen after a long day at work, making myself a cup of tea, when I hear the front door slam so hard I swear the hinges rattled. I make my way through to the entrance hall and look around, wondering what the hell is going on. I spy Alex's coat flung on the rack, and I cast my eye around looking for clues. I hear more thuds and, as I spot the open door to the basement, a ginormous crash. I am apprehensive now. This is completely at odds with Alex's normal calm and collected behaviour, so I creep down the stairs as quietl

Daylight streams through the cracks in the curtains, waking me from my deep sleep. I shift and can feel the stiffness radiating through my body. Somehow in my post-orgasmic bliss, I managed to forget about my bruised arse, but as I roll over, I let out a small yelp."Liv?" I turn my head to find Alex regarding me with sleep-filled eyes."Sore arse," I murmur."Roll on your front," Alex commands, and I comply immediately. He slips the duvet down to reveal my bottom lined with red marks and faint bruising. "Fuck, Liv, you have no idea how horny it makes me seeing you like this." He runs a light hand over my sensitive cheeks. "Oh, baby," he says in a worshipful whisper. With gentle hands, he moves my knees, pushing them underneath me so that my arse is in the air and I am balancing on my elbows. Before I can think about what he is doing, Alex starts by laying a trail of light kisses all over my skin. I shiver, the sensation sublime, as my body responds to the gentlest of caresses. The ki

I lean my head against the cold window of the train carriage and sigh. I am exhausted. It has been two days since I got the call from Charles that interrupted my brunch with Alex and I was forced to cut our day short. Charles had received a call about one of the most challenging books we have been trying to trace. A private collector in France was offering it up for purchase and so, of course, Charles expected me to go at the drop of a hat, even though I was supposedly 'sick'.So here I am, after an excruciating forty-eight hours, returning empty-handed to a furious Charles. It's not my fault that the manuscript was a fake, a very good one at that, which is why it took me ages to verify, but that doesn't stop Charles from behaving like a brat when things don't go his way. It didn't help either that the owner of the document was indignant when I told him that it was a forgery and threw me out of his house, calling me a liar and a charlatan. At least that's what I understood from my sch