She takes a deep gulp of her steaming hot coffee, followed by another and another, and I swear she must have burnt her mouth and tongue with the scalding liquid. Then, with a couple of pronounced but shallow head nods and few further swallows - as if she’s psyching herself up for some momentous feat and this is a horrific, jungle style, eating and drinking challenge - she hacks off a chunk of her lemon cake and rams it into her mouth. Her cheeks bulge like a gerbil storing food for the winter, and her mouth is so full that she can barely chew, let alone swallow.

“Mmm,” she mumbles, and a few crumbs escape her plump lips. “Biss iz zoooo gooommd.”

Another chunk of cake gets forced between her lips, despite her not swallowing the last, and frosting covers her entire mouth with a massive blob landing on her chin.

Why did I bring her here?

Ah, yes, because my mother has a built-in bullshit meter, and she’d know if I didn’t.

That is the only reason for this farcical coffee date.

Date? This isn’t a date.

Still, I was surprised when she followed me the short walk here. I mean, it’s not like I particularly encouraged her attendance. In fact, I went out of my way to show her I couldn’t care less if she followed or not.

But she did follow, and I want to ask why because I’ve been nothing but a prick to this girl and she hasn’t deserved any of it, but I’m finding it hard to be apologetic. The reason I’m finding it so difficult is because she makes me feel, and I’m not ready to let anyone else in except my kids and my family.

“Why don’t you call a waitress over and ask for a ‘to go’ bag and cup? If you cram any more into your mouth, you’re likely to choke.”

Her eyes flick to mine. Her cake-stuffed cheeks are so comical that I fight back the urge to laugh. Her face is a mess, and she can’t offer up a reply because she’s physically unable. If her eyes could speak for her, they’d be telling me to ‘fuck off’. As it is, she lifts her free hand and gives me the middle finger instead.

This should make her wholly unappealing to me, but for a brief second, one I struggle to accept, I find her the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

She dips her head and covers her mouth, diligently chewing away until she can swallow, then with a paper napkin, she wipes away the mess on her face, leaving smudges of lemon icing behind.

“Listen, Josh. Let’s not beat around the bush. You’re here because your mother told you to be, which if you think about it, is kinda sad for a grown man.”

She shrugs and looks at me like I deserve her pity before continuing, “And I’m here because you’re my boss’s brother. Why bother with niceties when neither of us chose to share this time together? I don’t know you, and you don’t know me, so let me drink up, and I’ll be out of your hair in no time.”

With her outburst complete, she forks the last huge chunk of cake, opens her mouth wide and stuffs the entire lot inside, barely able to close her lips around it.

“Mmm-seriously, mhey dooo goomd caakemm.”

I place my fingertip on the edge of my plate and push it across the top of the table.

“Here, you seemed to have enjoyed that, why not take mine too?”

“No thanks, I wouldn’t want to deprive you.”

She dabs at her lips once more, takes a last swig from her coffee cup and pushes up from the table to stand. From the point where we walked in here, to ordering our drinks and sitting down, to this moment right now where she’s about to leave, less than ten minutes have passed.

I don’t realise that I’ve done it until I feel the soft skin of her wrist under my fingertips, and her pulse fluttering beneath my touch, but my unexpected attempt to stop her leaving has shocked us both equally. Halle looks from my face to the hand that grips her lightly, and back again, with a question on her lips. Despite the overwhelming urge I have to let her go and hightail it out of here, the need to spend more time with her is stronger.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I confess like a sin. The words are thick like treacle on my tongue, betraying the man I want to become.

Her gaze lands back on my hand at her wrist where our skin touches, and she offers me her own admission.

“Neither do I.”

Her deep brown eyes find mine, and the pain I see in their chocolate depths is familiar. It’s like an old friend or a favourite coat. I want to slip into it and bathe in the ache. I want to rub against the soreness until the itch becomes a burn.

“Where do you live?”

She knows where this is going because she doesn’t even blink at my obtrusive question.

“I have my car. It’s not too far away. Nobody is home.”

Something crackles between us, not pleasant like a sweet, longing buzz, more like a sharp, brutal shock that threatens to take away your breath if you let it. We both absorb it, relish the hurt that accompanies it and allow it to turn into a throb.

“Let’s go.” It’s a demand, not a question. I’m not asking, and she’s not waiting for a polite request or a shy enquiry. When this turned from an awkward, forced coffee date into something else, I couldn’t tell you, but I can say I’m unable, no I’m unwilling to stop it. We’re a car crash waiting to happen, and I’m fervently anticipating the whiplash and the bruises from our imminent and unstoppable impact.

I release the hold I have on her arm, and she hesitates for only a moment, before lifting her bag across her body and turning to walk out of the coffee shop. Our roles have reversed, for I am now the one to follow obediently, and just as I did when I led her here, she doesn’t turn around to check I’m behind her. She knows I am.

We weave our way through the bustling streets, dodging holidaymakers, and my gaze stays locked on her back. The loose cotton shirt she wears as a dress is cinched tightly around her waist with a wide leather belt, simple brown sandals with a flower motif stamped into the leather are on her feet and, as always, she wears a flower, this time a yellow gerbera, in her hair. Her legs are long, smooth and tanned and I’m transfixed by the way the curve of the shirt skims her taut thighs. Her toned muscles stretch and tense with every step, beneath her sun-kissed skin. She doesn’t rush, yet doesn’t meander. She walks with an inherent, relaxed confidence that carries through to the way she dresses, to the way she behaves and even, the way she speaks. She’s not trying too hard to please anyone and fuck if that isn’t incredibly sexy.

When we get to her beat up old bug, left in a shady side-road, she unlocks the driver’s door, throws her bag in the back seat and leans over to pop the locks on the passenger side. She doesn’t look at me, doesn’t motion for me to enter. The act of unlocking the door is enough of an invite for me to join her.

We both know that when I get in this car, it is for one reason only. We should feel awkward about it. There should be an uncomfortable tension.

There isn’t.

When I drag open the rusty door with a loud squeak and slip into the seat alongside her, there is nothing inside this car except her and me and the undeniable knowledge that we are going to her place for sex. There is no pretence of an invitation for a coffee when we’ve just left the remains of two perfectly good mugs on a coffee shop table. I’m not going with her to check out where she lives, or any other innocent reason that may or may not conclude with sex.

I am leaving with her for the sole aim of getting inside her knickers and her body.

She wants it.

I need it.

And I lock down all other feelings. There will be time for guilt later. The sneaking slither of shame attempts to creep from low in my gut, from the place that throbs with anticipation.

You’ve only been with one woman. You’re only supposed to be with one woman.

I push it back and lock it away with everything else.

“I don’t want you to think…” she begins, and I stop her with a lift of my hand before clicking my seatbelt into place.

“I don’t think anything. Don’t try to justify what doesn’t need any clarification. We’re both adults, and we’re both single.” The final word of my sentence tastes bitter on my tongue.

She swallows down the remainder of her words, puts the key in the ignition and her old car turns over with groaning rumble. We don’t make small talk on the drive to her place. Halle doesn’t put any music on the old car radio, and neither of us opens our windows making the inside of the car as hot as Satan’s armpit. The heat only serves to build the throb of need low in my gut. Sweat runs down my forehead, and my lungs burn with each inhale of the stifling air. I surreptitiously watch her fingers every time they wrap around the gear knob, fascinated by their nimble grace and the multi-coloured gloss covering each nail.

Pink, lemon, turquoise, purple, blue.

The polish is chipped on her thumbnail, and I want to run my fingertip over the flaw before taking the digit into my mouth and sucking on it.

Will her skin be salty or sweet?

Everything this girl does inside the scorching hot car is turning me on, and intensifying my raging libido, making me burn up from the inside out.

Her short, staccato breaths, and the play of muscles in her tanned forearm. The wisps of hair sticking to her damp forehead, and the thumb of her other hand tapping against the steering wheel to some unknown beat as she drives one-handed – all these things, these inconsequential nothings, have my blood heating in my veins and gathering in my groin.

I’m painfully hard. My long forgotten dick is aching with the rare sensation of my hard-on. My sex-drive, that’s been non-existent for months, has reared its head like a beast awakened from a long slumber. There will be nothing polite or even sophisticated about what is going to happen when I get her alone. The way I feel cooped up in this car is indicating I’ll likely embarrass myself when and if I get inside her. No, there is no if. I will be inside her before the hour is out.

“We’re here,” she announces as she pulls up outside a modern apartment building that rises a dozen or so stories. It’s in a residential part of the island, halfway between Ibiza Town and San Antonio Bay.

“I share a place with Zoey and Rachel, but neither are home. We, uh, left Zoey in the town and Rach has a date. They’ve gone on a boat trip so…” Her nervous rambling trails off when I place my hand on her arm, the damp heat of our skin slick and yet sticky.

“Take me inside.”

Her eyes find mine and something more than this itch we both want to scratch, passes between us.

“Okay.”

I couldn’t tell you what the foyer looked like or how long the lift took, or even what number her apartment is because all I’m aware of is her.

I not sure if it’s her or me that makes the first move when we enter her front door, or if it’s a combination of us both. But before it has clicked shut behind us and before another word is spoken, my lips are on hers, my hand is threaded through the damp tendrils of hair at her nape, and I’m steadily backing her into the nearest surface. I couldn’t tell you if it is a wall or a door, all I know is that I need my body against hers, my skin touching her skin and my hands learning every curve. I want to lick the sweat from her skin. I want to drink from her lips, and I want to bury myself so deeply inside her that I forget my own name.

My hands find her hips and then curve around to her firm, heart-shaped arse, encouraging her to lift her legs and wrap them around my waist. At the contact of my rock-hard cock against the heat of her core, I groan into her mouth, and she whimpers before swallowing it down and squeezing me tightly between her thighs.

“Bedroom… that way,” she mutters against my greedy lips while tilting her head to indicate the direction. The way her mouth remains locked with mine shows her need to be just as voracious as the hunger raging through me, and it almost tips me over the edge. I have to physically stop myself from lowering her to the hallway floor and fucking her without remorse in the next ten seconds.

Neither one of us is willing to break from the other for fear of ending the heady, lust-filled spell that has blanketed us both and is driving us higher and higher towards the peak. I can’t even think about what happens when we fall over the edge. I’m here, with her, with her pussy rubbing against my dick and her tongue licking and learning the wet heat of my mouth and where I should feel guilt, I feel nothing but ravenous, all-consuming desire.

“This means nothing,” she groans in-between biting licks, and during the seconds it takes me to carry her into her room before I all but throw her down on her bed.

I stare at her sprawled across the white sheets. Her kiss-bruised lips glisten in the sunlight, her strawberry blonde locks are in disarray, and the apples of her cheeks are flushed with want.

“This means nothing.”

My chest heaves with exertion and the pulsing lust running through my veins. If she thinks I’m about to refute her words and promise this means something, she’s mistaken. It’s sex. It’s a base need I’ve ignored for almost a year. Nothing more, nothing less.

With a hand on each of her ankles, I drag her to the edge of the bed before flipping her onto her stomach.

“This means I’m going to fuck you now,” I eventually reply as I step between her spread legs and roughly grip the tops of her thighs. Within seconds, her skirt is pushed above her waist, her knickers are discarded without care, and I free my cock from the fly of my shorts, not even bothering to undress. Within another ten seconds, I’m eight inches deep and bottoming out in her tight, wet heat as she cries out in surprise.

If she thought I was going to go easy on her and make love, she was wrong.

I’m here to screw and then leave.

I have no love to give, but I haven’t lost the ability to fuck, and as I draw back and watch my slick cock disappear into her with my next thrust, I know this is all I’ll ever have from here on out.

Meaningless sex.

Fucking.

Shagging.

Screwing.

Using.