In the reassuring quiet of the taxi, with only the deeply resonant hum of the engine as an accompanying soundtrack, I attempt to rationalise the evening's events. As the epinephrine rush recedes, and my heart rate and respiration return to normal resting levels, I briefly close my eyes. Though intent on reclaiming my well-ordered, logical state of mind, surprisingly, it seems as if I am refused entry; excluded by the hiss of static, and a mad miscellany of emotions; wildly discordant and kaleidoscopic. The sensation is disconcerting and I snap my head back in alarm, staring straight ahead as if I have been momentarily stunned. I hear Louisa say my name, softly and somewhat cautiously, and I glance across to see that she is gazing at me, her expression rather touchingly earnest.

"How are you feeling?" She says cautiously, a sweet smile instantly transforming her from merely lovely to completely irresistible.

"I'm fine...Are you alright?" I reply, attempting to hold her gaze for an instant but, instead, she glances downward, tugging at the bottom of her skirt, self consciously.

Observing her rather touching and awkward attempts at modesty are even more inflaming and I find myself completely distracted by the freckle at the base of her throat, watching her chest rise and fall as she breathes, her fidgeting hands now struggling to stay neatly folded in her lap. After a moment, she places them, palm down, on the seat, drumming her fingers against the worn leather before sliding them beneath her thighs for the briefest of moments. When she again clasps them tightly on her lap, it suddenly dawns on me that usually breezy, insouciant Louisa is suddenly anything but, and I feel a stab of guilt that all the unpleasantness, all the fallout, all of my trespasses in fact, have been unfairly heaped upon her tonight. I search desperately for something to say but my mind is merely overwhelmed by awful cliches and hackneyed compliments.

"I could murder a cuppa." She says, without looking at me, her voice sounding surprisingly small and nervous.

"Yes...ummm...and you will be relieved to remove those shoes, too, I suspect."

She glances up, flashing me a slightly unhappy grimace.

"Yes Martin." She says firmly.

"It does, ahh, it does looks to me as if you are already experiencing...umm...noticeable swelling of the ankle." I add, sympathetically.

Her eyes widen and I wonder why she's so surprised that forcing her feet into such an unnatural and potentially dangerous foot position, as I cautioned her against, might now have medical implications.

"Really?" She says, and she almost sounds dismayed as she leans forward and runs an exploratory hand down her shin and around the back of her Achilles.

"Yes, It's interesting, isn't it?" I reply, relieved to back on safe and familiar ground. "The calf actually works as a pump, effectively enhancing the return of venous blood from the lower extremity to the heart. Amongst other things, it causes displacement of venous blood in both vertical and horizontal directions and generates an ambulatory pressure gradient between ones thigh and lower leg veins. Almost a peripheral heart, if you will. But, due to the angle the foot is placed at when wearing...ahh...high heels...the muscles of the lower leg are constricted, causing a reduction in the efficiency of the calf muscle and leading to...umm...swelling."

"I wonder if anyone noticed?" She asks, her voice a little shrill and, oddly, breathless.

"Louisa, you were in a room full of medical professionals...umm...highly trained to observe the slightest degree of inflammation. And I should mention that Robert made his reputation in orthopaedics. He will have reduced more bunions than he cares to remember, and he wrote the definitive paper on non-surgical treatment of Morton's neuroma, so, yes, he will have most definitely noticed."

"Yes...he was looking!" She cries and I'm bemused to notice her expression now almost seems to be one of horror. "But, I just...I mean I just thought...I presumed..."

I watch her face change as her voice trails off. I notice that her eyes are wide and they seem to be darting from side to side as if she is anxious and uncomfortable. I'm disappointed to realise that I seem to have upset her when it plainly wasn't my intention.

"Don't concern yourself, Louisa." I tell her, reassuringly. "If Robert, or indeed any of my colleagues, did notice your mild peripheral oedema they would certainly just have viewed you merely as a mildly interesting case, not an individual...let's say, they'd see you simply as a body, rather than as a person. It's how we are conditioned, more than anything."

As I reach down to give her an encouraging tap on her knee, the taxi pulls to a standstill, so instead, I alight quickly, offering her my hand as she swings her legs out sideways but I'm surprised to hear her mutter at me that she will be fine, unassisted. She glances at me as she pulls her self upright by leaning on the door, and there's something about her expression that makes me think she might be slightly out of sorts. It's probably quite understandable that we are somewhat nervous. After the sympathetic activity of my autonomic nervous system has spent hours in extended elevation, I feel particularly spent. Even the ridiculous bravado that saw me stride so confidently out of Hintze Hall seems to have evaporated and I am left with a strange distillation of emotions, an exhilarating concoction of apprehension and excitement.

I find myself staring at the security keypad with a perspective much like those taken by pinhole camera, monochromatic, dreamy, and lacking detail on the peripheries. I punch the code like an automaton and, as I hold the door open, it seems so much lighter than I remember, as if it were made of balsa wood. I feel suddenly too warm in my attire and my shirt collar feels unusually restrictive and uncomfortable. Surprisingly, I experience a surge of physical energy, as if I want to take the stairs at speed, two at a time, but Louisa is in front of me and, as I look up, I am suddenly captivated by a series of shimmering sequins and luminous beads; delicately clad curves, the colour of ripe raspberries and with all the brilliance of rubies, swinging slowly and seductively from side to side, mere inches in front of my eyes.

I fumble for my key and, finally, we are within the sanctuary of my flat. Mercifully cool, softly lit and blissfully silent, it once again becomes my refuge, our security, our retreat. Louisa immediately collapses onto the sofa, clutching at her feet, as if she can't remove her torturous footwear quickly enough, kicking the appalling contraptions off impatiently and abandoning them where they lie. I hear her groan with apparent relief as she clambers to her feet and follows me into the kitchen, where she stands and gazes out of the French doors, driving her toes into the plush, soft pile of the carpet while I make her a cup of tea and, reluctantly though without complaint, locate the sugar.

I place her cup on the worktop next to her and she thanks me but she doesn't turn around. I find myself lingering behind her, and suddenly, too, I am hesitant and unsure. It strikes me that I have become very used to Louisa as the instigator of so much of our physical contact and I realise how important it was that she assumed that role, such has been my shyness, my crippling fear of rejection. But, now, she too seems reticent, self-conscious, even coy, and I wonder about the effect of having asked so much of her this evening. I allow myself, cautiously, to recall her earlier admission that she loved me and, though I find it equal parts terrifying and mystifying, it dawns on me, reinforced by the sudden tingling in my abdomen, that her brave declaration probably used more energy than she realised, and required more of a response than I was able to provide.

As I think about her words, I am again visited by an exhilarated disbelief, everything suddenly seems very still and quiet, even the noise from the street seems subdued and almost inaudible. There is only Louisa and, though my world has always been dominated by cold, clinical brilliant white, now the warm cream of her skin is before me; within reach, so enticing, so perfect and unblemished, so alluringly and divinely feminine. I feel myself hesitating, still so ridiculously cautious despite having imagined this moment, in such detail, for so long. My opportunity has finally arrived, my moment to express how I feel about her in a way that doesn't require cliches or inadequate phrases; this is my time to respond to her in a way that feels right to me. Mercifully free of, and so very far away from, the faintly shameful distraction of coldly enunciated instructions or, worse still, a continuous litany of tersely-barked orders. I hear myself sigh and, as I inhale deeply, my conscious mind dissolves into liquid nothingness. A strange brew; a cornucopia of desire and anticipation, a melange of trepidation and need.

"I've wanted to do this all night." I say quietly, tentatively placing my hand on her shoulder and running my index finger lightly down the medial border of her scapula.

She remains motionless as I gaze down at her, finding myself surprisingly inflamed by her beautifully sculpted shoulders and the smooth peachy flawlessness of the skin across her thoracic spine. Emboldened, I lean down and press my lips lightly against her neck, sliding my left arm around her waist, drawing her closer, suddenly overwhelmed by a desperation to feel her body against mine. As I run my hand across the fabric of her dress, it feels like snakeskin, firm across her pelvis and softer as I reach down to her thigh. I close my eyes, and my mind is empty, oblivious to everything except her suppleness, her pliability and the way her softness yields to my fingers as I set out to rediscover all of her.

Her back arches as my mouth drifts up to her ear, soft tendrils of her hair brush my cheek, and I slide my hand lightly across her chest. As she pushes her lovely, firm bum against me, I note that she shivers; I feel her skin ripple and I hear her breath catch in her throat. I am even inflamed by her gasp, and electrified by the heavenly sensation of a handful of firm unfettered breast, she murmurs my name with a fierce intensity, and I am all but lost. For the briefest moment, I cling to her, my face buried in her neck, inhaling the scent of her, luxuriating in her softness, readying myself for the moment that, after so long, I relinquish my self restraint entirely.

"Louisa?" I say, as gently as my racing pulse and ragged breath allows.

Though my voice sounds husky, I don't want it to betray my desire, for her to see the intensity of my feelings reduced to yet another accusation of neediness. As she leans against me, though, reaching around now to run her hands firmly up and down my thighs, surely she can't help but realise how badly I want her. I find myself biting lightly on her earlobe and, as she lets out a soft squeal of delight, I slip my hand underneath her skirt and slide my hand up to the top of her thigh, relishing the warm, silky firmness of her skin beneath my fingers.

"Yes, Martin?" She replies after a moment and I can tell by the tone of her voice that she means to torture me; that, as always, she will tease me until she finds my limits.

I know this game, it's her specialty, but it also dawns on me that I can play it too. I have played it and, when I did, I admit I rather enjoyed it or perhaps, more accurately, I greatly enjoyed the spoils.

"You're not drinking your tea." I reply solemnly and, I feel suddenly possessed, visited upon by the sort of confidence I never knew ever existed within me.

Before she can respond, I glide my hand up to her hip and hook my thumb over the side of what feels, from initial investigation, like a wonderfully silky pair of knickers. I nuzzle her neck appreciatively, revelling in every shyly revealed element of her mystical, enigmatic femininity. She laughs and places her hand over the top of mine, through the fabric of her rapidly ascending dress, giving my fingers an encouraging squeeze, before sighing theatrically and reaching for her cup.

"Don't make me spill it on the carpet." She warns, as she takes a cautious sip, and I am forced to content myself with breathing heavily into her neck and idly tracing the patterns of the beading of her bodice with a slow, lazy finger.

As I stand there, somewhat dreamily, the whole room suddenly echoes with a deep and intense, raucous growl and I'm horrified to realise that it is borborygmi, and it emanates from Louisa. Instantly she starts to laugh and, as the peristalsis continues, there is another, even louder gurgle. She puts her cup down hurriedly and rubs vigorously at her abdomen.

"That won't help!" I tell her firmly, reluctantly letting her go.

She turns to face me, somewhat bashfully, her face flushed and her eyes sparkling. The fact that she is completely irresistible to me does not mitigate the fact that she is almost completely irresponsible when it comes to the sensible intake of nutrition.

"I suppose you're going to tell me now that you haven't eaten all day?" I ask, irritably, before I suddenly realise that, having promised her a meal and then prevented her consumption of it, her apparent hunger is obviously my fault.

As I see the return of the indignant glint to her eye, I hastily raise my hand in a gesture of culpability.

"Would you like me to make you something? An omelette perhaps? Or some toast?"

"Martin, you've got to be kidding!" She says, grinning at me, and shaking her head incredulously. "You're just going to stop now, pop on an apron and whip up a light supper?"

I stare back at her, helplessly, and I'm momentarily confused, unsure of how to proceed. I open my mouth to speak and then close it again rapidly, before reaching down, self consciously, to adjust my cuffs.

"Here was I thinking we were about to...you know...and now I discover that what you actually want is for me to set the bloody table!" She says and she sounds disbelieving and almost cross.

I clear my throat unhappily.

"Louisa..." I reply haltingly, attempting to process what has suddenly and so bafflingly, gone wrong. "I'm merely concerned for you. I'm well aware that you hate it when I mention your health but I was...I am...worried that, given your history..."

"Given my history, what?" She replies quickly, inclining her head at me questioningly.

"Well, you might...faint."

A slow smirk spreads across her face and she bites her lip as if to try and control it, innocently looking up at me from under her eyelashes, her eyes sparkling with mirth.

"That's very modest of you, Martin. I admire your self-confidence, I really do."

I frown, momentarily confused until, suddenly, I realise what she is implying and I feel myself blush, horribly, from the roots of my hair to the soles of my feet. As I stare back at her, appalled, my face burns.

"What?" I gasp, indignant and embarrassed "No! I was just...I'm...It's.."

She starts to laugh and, before I can finish my sentence, she reaches up and kisses me, joyously and enthusiastically, pulling my head down towards her and clasping her fingers around my jaw. Just as I'm about to give in, as the flame flares again and I'm suddenly keen to try and resume where we left off, she grabs my hand and pulls at it wordlessly, squeezing my fingers ferociously and uttering a sharp "Leave-it!" as I attempt to pick up her dangerously discarded shoes from the middle of floor. The lights remain on, the curtains are still open, and a half empty cup is abandoned on the countertop. There is even a cold empty teapot, swimming in soggy brown dregs, beside the sink but Louisa has put her foot down and I follow her unquestioningly. As much as it usually pains me to leave the house untidy, at this moment, I almost don't care.

I remember imploring her to allow me to hang up my jacket, and feeling completely baffled at her insistence on undoing my tie, appalled by her surprise that the damn thing wasn't elasticated as she pulled carefully at the bow. I raised an eyebrow at her reproachfully, informing her just how insulting an accusation she was making but she merely flashed me an enigmatic smile, languorously removing the strip of black silk from beneath my collar, and tossing it carelessly onto the chair.

Endeavouring to maintain a modicum of dignity, I curse the number of layers I must remove, and the number of fasteners that impede my progress; the cufflinks, the clasps, the endless tiny buttons. Frustrated, I fumble with my watch strap and, as I finally manage to disengage with my footwear, she reaches for my hand and intertwines her fingers with mine. My breathing becomes shallow as she glances at me, so shyly, her eyes deep green in the half light, and her expression less than composed. As I notice the slightest nibble at her lip, I think how odd it is that I should feel relief at the impression she too is nervous. But, somehow, it makes this moment a lot less intimidating than it really ought to be. For the Louisa before me is a Goddess, a celestial being, an Inamorata, truly a sylphlike enchantress, and I am merely a clumsy, wordless, unworthy man, who fortune has inexplicably smiled on.

"Can you unzip me please Martin?" She says, and the intensity of the look she gives me nearly cuts me in half.

My pretence of calm, my faux nonchalance, even my deeply ingrained air of composure, all gone, volatilised into the ether as I reach out a tentative hand to touch her. Strange how I don't remember the act of removing her clothing. Kneeling beside her, however, gazing down at her breathlessly, for a moment incredulous, will stay with me forever. As my heart hammered in my chest, I'd attempted to commit her to memory, to take in every incredible detail until I could restrain my self no longer and dropped down onto my elbows, entwining myself around her, desperate to feel the soft silkiness of her skin against mine, her smooth body so warm and inviting.

At first, as I gazed at her, I felt almost reverential, more like a worshipper than her lover, but now I feel a rapidly overpowering heat, a hunger to discover her, to run my hands across every inch of her flesh, relishing the feel of her, the taste of her. Her response to my every touch seemingly so appreciative, rewarding me, miraculously, with her desire for the most intense of intimacy, for tenderness and mutual pleasure, and by her openhearted, joyous enthusiasm. I thrill at the sound of her sharp intake of breath, her low, provocative moans of appreciation, better still, her emphatic cry of my name. And, because this is Louisa, she laughs too, but it still feels so encouraging, so delighted, so endearing, as if the emotions she feels are simply too much, her desire so intense that she feels as if she will be overwhelmed.

I run my hand up her thigh as she wraps herself around me and I feel her tremble; the vehemence of her response, and the magnitude of my own need, seem to threaten that this all might be over rather too prematurely. I realise that I need to slow everything down but Louisa does not give me the impression that she agrees. I manage to slide over on to my side without crushing her and I run my hands carefully over her hair, finding her mouth again, kissing her gently as I try and regather my wits. But, in her own inimitable fashion, determined always to have the last say, she presses against my shoulders, forcing me onto my back. For a moment I watch, transfixed, as she reaches up and releases whatever restraints have been fixing her hair in place. It tumbles down around her shoulders, thick and lustrous, and she runs her fingers through the unconstrained tresses, shaking her head as if it feels like an enormous relief. As I stare at her, so natural and unpretentious and so overwhelmingly beautiful, I feel another moment of sheer incredulity, unable to shake the disbelief that this beautiful, warm, joyous creature should want to be with me, that she should be so seemingly comfortable in my bed.

My hand goes up to touch her hair, to feel it's softness again, to stare up at her as she decides it's her time to take control. The feeling of her mouth on my chest is like a revelation, as she uses her tongue to rather mind blowing effect, so much so that I'm struggling to get any oxygen, my breath shallow and ineffective. I feel her fingers caressing my stomach and I shiver with pleasure as the anticipation of where she is going becomes almost unbearable. She feels my reaction and flashes me a wicked smile. I'm helpless now, prone and, for an exquisite moment, vulnerable. After a moment, all reason escapes me, any modicum of restraint has gone, and I am incapable of conscious thought. My heart is pounding so hard that I can hear my carotid artery thundering in my ears; my head feels light, such is the intensity of my need.

Although I have imagined this moment for so long, the slow, deliberate seduction of my dreams is evaporating along with my self control, and I am now as raw and ravenous as any wild animal. The way she reacts to my touch is intoxicating, and I feel freer than I've ever done in my life. In an instant I am transformed and invigorated, spontaneous and unrestrained. For the first time I understand the term making love, in the purest sense of the word, and I'm amazed at how different it feels, so far removed from anything I have ever experienced before, as dissimilar as fire and ice. Truly existential, every pleasurable sensation cathartic, every gratification transformative.

Her mouth slides across my throat, I feel her heat as she whispers in my ear; half begging, half insistent; how could I not be rendered almost insensible by what she so ardently demands of me? She wraps herself around me and pulls me on to her as we roll over in an insanely chaotic moment of mindless, uncontrollable lust. Slender arms slide around my neck; she pulls my head down toward her and devours my mouth like a woman starved. It takes me a moment to free my arms, and I try once more to support my own weight because, though she doesn't seem to either mind or even notice, I fear I might crush her. I run my fingers lightly across her rib cage, cupping her breast in my hand and stretching down to use my mouth until she shivers involuntarily, and her skin ripples beneath my tongue.

I'm breathing hard now and a noisy gasp catches in my throat as I feel her teeth graze my nipple. I hear myself cry out; an inarticulate, gravelly moan of desire. I realise that she has abandoned herself to me; and involuntarily I hook my arm beneath her knee, forcing it upwards so I feel myself enveloped as if I am cocooned in satin. I realise that I am beyond the point of no return. As gently as my desperation allows, I guide myself into her and, with the sensation, I feel euphoric; moving slowly at first until I hear her beseeching voice again, even more insistent now; her hands at my buttocks, we are each as hungry and frantic as the other.

Her legs are around my hips, pulling me down toward her and we move in perfect synchronicity. Enveloped by warmth, encapsulated by a soft smoothness that is all encompassing, the sensation is nothing short of incredible, almost mind-altering in its aching intensity. Every synapse fires in my brain simultaneously, my mind is empty, almost if I have entered an altered state of consciousness. Caressing the sweet, smooth curves of her breasts, stroking her nipple with my thumb, she gasps breathlessly until I feel her twitch and shudder beneath me and, in that moment, whispering her name, I am overwhelmed by the most exquisite sensation of pure and perfect joy.

For a moment, I bury my face in the softness of her neck and feel her hair against my lips. I glance again at her beautiful face, her eyes are closed and perhaps I am momentarily delusional but she seems almost rhapsodic. Though it hardly seems possible, she is even more beautiful than ever before, her face as smooth and still as if she were a classical sculpture, hewn of marble. I shift my weight and I'm suddenly conscious of how tiny and delicate she feels beneath me. Brushing the hair gently back from her face, I press my lips to hers for a fleeting moment before I reluctantly separate myself from her. Collapsing onto the mound of tangled bedding, beside her, I lie on my back and I'm surprised to notice my still-heaving chest is glittering with perspiration. Numb and euphoric, I run my fingers through my hair, basking in this glorious, unbelievable moment; even more wonderful, more intense even than the most provocative of dreams that my sleeping mind was able to conjure.

A languid hand reaches out and I feel the delicate sensual pressure of her touch, as she traces the cephalic vein down the length of my arm.

"Oh my god, Martin." She says, her eyes sparkling and a mischievous smile pulling at her lips.

I turn my head and gaze back at her in amazement and I don't ever recall being so happy to hear my own name spoken out loud. Her presence beside me makes me feel the warmth of a thousand suns and, for an exquisite moment, the world is still, silent and calm. For a moment I allow myself to take in the perfection that is her naked body, and my breath releases in a long, shuddering sigh. Reaching over, I reconstruct what I can of the bed linen and, as I pull the sheet up to cover us she grasps my arm and murmurs my name again. I wrap myself around her and the last thing I am conscious of, as prolactin-induced sleep claims me, is an unfamiliar, yet deliciously intoxicating, all-enveloping sensation of bliss.