e walk to my car in silence. I stride along next to him, wondering why my heart is pounding, why I suddenly feel slightly sick, but once the engine is on and the music comes blaring out of the stereo, I start to relax a bit. I mean surely this is the perfect fling?

Not that I want a one-night-stand with Nick, just maybe a few weeks of delicious sex before saying goodbye with no broken hearts. One-night-stands aren't my style. I don't think they're anyone's style, are they? Sure, we've all done it, but even when you can't stand them, even when it's just a drunken mistake after a party, you still want them to call, don't you, even if it's just so you can turn round and tell them you never want to see them again.

It's an ego thing. Definitely. I don't want you, but I want you to want me anyway. So, I don't want a one-night-stand with Nick, but then there's always the worry that it'll be taken out of your control. You think there's going to be a repeat experience and you sit by your phone and wait for weeks for them to call and they don't, and unwittingly you've added another bloody one-night-stand to your list.

But as far as I'm concerned true one-nighters only really happen with strangers. When it's someone you know, particularly someone who's connected to you by friends, they usually do call again, and I sort of know, even while driving in the car that night, that no matter what happens Nick will call me again.

And you see, in normal circumstances, I would never dream of sleeping with him on the first night, as it were. If I had looked at Nick and thought, yes, you could be The One, I would have given him my number and let him take me out a few times before even considering going to bed with him. I don't put a time limit on it, though. As far as I'm concerned you just know when it feels right, but according to Jules you have to spend thirty-six hours in their company before you sleep with them. God knows where she got that from. Probably some trashy magazine, but I suppose that's about seven dates, which sounds about right.

Oh, all right, then, maybe after four dates.

But if I stop being clinical about it, I suppose the time I decide I'm going to jump into bed with them is the time when I know, as an absolute certainty, that they are crazy about me and they aren't going to disappear.

Although I have got it wrong. But only once. That was Michael. We fell in love for two weeks, spent as much time together as we possibly could, and, although I knew I probably should have waited, it felt so right I just thought, fuck it, let's have sex. Immediately afterwards he was fine. It was only when he hadn't called me for four days and this was the man who had called me three times a day, every day, for two weeks — that I realized something was wrong. Sure enough. He'd changed his mind. I can't even remember what shit he came out with. Something about not being ready for a relationship, blah blah blah. Usual crap. I was devastated. Devastated.

But it taught me a lesson, and the only reason I'm choosing to unlearn the lesson with Nick, is because Nick is never going to be my boyfriend, and when it's just sex, the rules change.

When it's just sex, you're allowed to be predatory, to make the first move, to entice them into bed, because it's not necessary to make them fall in love with you.

When it's just sex you're allowed to put your hand on their thigh while driving your car and say huskily, 'Will you come back to mine for coffee?'

When it's just sex you're allowed to lead them into your living room and kiss them passionately before they've even had a chance to take their coat off.

And then you're allowed to…

Sorry, I'm jumping ahead of myself here. Where were we? Ah, yes, in the car, listening to music, and neither of us is actually saying anything because I don't want to start just in case he tells me which tube station to drop him off at, so I keep driving, and eventually we turn into Ladbroke Grove and I have to say something, so I do.

'The tube's just down the road,' I say. Unimaginatively.

'Oh,' he says. And I smile inside.

'Do you want to come in for a coffee?' I say.

'I'd love one,' he says. And he grins.

So I park the car and I can't look at Nick because I'm very aware of his presence, of the chemistry, of this unspoken agreement we are entering into, and I just unlock my front door and we both walk in.

And you know what I love? Even though Nick isn't boyfriend material, I love the fact that he seems to feel instantly at home.

'Do you mind if I take my shoes off?' he says, and naturally I say no, although as I say it I pray he doesn't have nasty socks with holes in, or smelly feet, or something that will put me off him for ever. And I take a quick glance, and his feet, or rather his socks, look really quite nice, and I can't smell anything other than the smell of home, so I go into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

'You have incredible taste,' he says, wandering around, picking up things and putting them down. 'Really,' he reiterates. 'Such style.'

'Thank you,' I say, going through the motions of putting the kettle on, and watching curiously to see where he'll sit. If he sits on the chair, I think, I'm in trouble, because how can I manoeuvre myself into a position where he'll kiss me? Maybe I can perch on the arm of the chair, I think, watching as he seems to hover ominously by the armchair.

Phew. He seems to think twice about the chair and settles into the sofa. I kick my own shoes off, ready to curl up like a cat, bring the mugs to the coffee table, then panic about my make-up and quickly disappear into the bathroom.

I blot the shine off my nose and forehead, and think about a fresh coat of lipstick, but no, too obvious, so I just shake my hair around a bit to give it a wild, wanton look, then sashay back into the living room to put on some music.

Seduction music, I think. I need something soft, jazzy, sexy. Something that will put us both in the mood. I flick through the CDs until I find my fail safe Sinatra CD. Perfect. It always worked in the past, and I put it on and turn the volume down so it's barely throbbing in the background, then I walk over to the sofa where Nick is sipping his coffee and watching me.

'I need a woman's touch,' he says, as I curl up at the other end of the sofa, not wanting to sit too close, but knowing that I'm only a hop, skip and a touch away from the passion I'm so desperate for.

I raise an eyebrow and he laughs.

'I meant in the home,' he says, and I laugh too, then we both make big shows of drinking our coffee, although you can't really drink it, it's far too hot.

'What's your flat like, then?' I ask.

'A hovel,' he says, and he laughs.

'No, really,' I push.

'Yes, really,' he says.

'Why?' I ask, although quite frankly I'm not that surprised. Bachelor pads seem to fall into two categories. If the bachelor in question has money, it's all black leather and chrome, with nasty airbrushed pictures of sports cars on the wall and huge, fuck-off TVs and stereos. And if he, like Nick, hasn't got a pot to piss in, it will be overflowing with books and papers, and dirty clothes, and rubbish. Trust me. I know these things.

'Well,' I say, raising my mug. 'Here's to winning the lottery.'

After this we seem to relax. We talk about Sal, about her boyfriend, about us. I tell him I'm not into relationships, I've had enough of getting my heart broken and I'm not ready for anything serious.

He nods intently while I say this, and says he knows how I feel. He grins and tells me he hasn't had a serious relationship in two years, but that after his last — a miserable five-year relationship with Mary, who loved him but didn't seem to like him very much — he definitely isn't ready for commitment.

And then he looks up at me with those incredible blue eyes and says, 'But I'm very attracted to you,' and even though I'm the one who's supposed to be in control, the one who's made the decision to have a fling with him, my stomach turns over and does a little somersault and I start to feel ever so slightly sick.

There's a long silence, and then I say, 'Thank you,' because I don't know what else to say, and I can't say that I'm very attracted to him too because it sounds really naff, and anyway he must know that because why else would I have invited him back.

So we sit there in silence for a bit and then I offer him another coffee, even though I've hardly touched mine, and he shakes his head and my heart plummets.

Shit, I think. Shit, shit, shit. He's going to go home. Oh fuck. But he doesn't. He grins and says, 'You know what I'd really like?'

'No.' I shake my head.

'I'd really like a bath.'

'A bath? Are you mad?'

'I know it sounds bizarre, but I've only got a shower in my flat and I miss baths. Would you mind?'

I shake my head, wondering what the hell this is about, because this is a completely new one on me. Am I supposed to sit here and file my nails while he has a bath, or am I supposed to talk to him? What on earth am I supposed to do?

I don't have to think about it for very long because just then the phone rings.

'Hi, babe,' says Jules. 'It's me.'

'Hi,' I say guardedly, in the tone of voice that tells her this is perhaps not the best time to be calling.

'Uh oh,' she says.' Something tells me you're not alone.'

'Mmmhmm,' I say, as Nick gets up off the sofa and turns the music down slightly.

'Who's there?' she says. 'It's a bloke, isn't it?'

'Mmmhmm,' I say again, eyes widening slightly as Nick starts grinning manically at me, unbuttoning his shirt.

'What's going on?' she pleads, as I start giggling.

'You really want to know what's going on?' I say.

'Yes!'

'Okay,' I say, as Nick starts dancing around the room doing a bloody good imitation of a stripper, except it isn't sexy, it's very, very funny.

'Okay,' I repeat. 'There's an extremely gorgeous man jumping around my living room and taking off his clothes.'

Nick wiggles his hips in appreciation of my description of him.

'Oh ha bloody ha,' says Jules. 'Seriously. What's going on?'

'Seriously,' I say. 'He's about to take his shirt off.'

Nick takes his shirt off.

'And,' I continue, as lust starts to rise up from my groin, 'he's got a perfect washboard stomach.'

'I don't believe you,' she says, as I hold the phone out to Nick.

'Hello,' he says, as I practically salivate over the sight of his lean, muscular, naked torso. 'Who's this?'

There is a pause.' Nick,' I hear him say, as he unbuttons the flies of his jeans, giving me minor heart failure. 'Having a bath,' he says next, and then he starts laughing as I grab the phone off him.

'What did you say, what did you say?' I beg.

'Bloody hell!' says Jules. 'Now I believe you. But who the hell is Nick?'

'It's a long story,' I say, thanking God that Nick wears boxer shorts and not something disgusting like purple Y-fronts or those revolting briefs. 'Can I call you tomorrow?'

'Just tell me, is he naked?'

'Not yet,' I say, eyes glued to Nick, who is trying to balance on one leg as he pulls off his socks, 'but I think he will be soon.'

Nick wiggles off into the bathroom.

'Fucking hell,' I whisper quickly. 'He's gorgeous!'

'As long as you know what you're doing,' she laughs.

'Having fun,' I say. 'Something I haven't had for a while.'

'Okay,' she says. 'I'll let you go. Call me first thing, and for God's sake use a condom.'

'Right,' I say, and laugh, because Jules is the only person in the world who knows about the condom drawer — a drawer in my bedside table that's filled to bursting with condoms of all different shapes, sizes and colours, most of them, it has to be said, supplied by her.

I can hear the bathwater running, so I get up, walk through the bedroom, thanking God I had the presence of mind to make the bed this morning, and gingerly push the door open before creasing up with laughter.

Nick is sitting in the bath as the water pours in, and he's put in practically a whole bottle of bubble bath — this doesn't bother me because it means I can't see anything, which I've been dreading because I don't know him well enough to take it in my stride — and he's put a plastic shower cap on his head.

If he wasn't so damn gorgeous he'd look ridiculous. As it happens, he looks cute as hell, and I pull the loo seat down and sit on it, shaking my head.

'You really are crazy,' I say, as he rubs his face.

'No I'm not,' he says, lying back. 'This is lovely. Why don't you join me?'

'I had a bath earlier,' I say.

'So? I need someone to scrub my back.'

Oh fuck it, I think, standing up and untying my cardigan. This isn't exactly the way I'd planned it, but what have I got to lose?

Thankfully Nick doesn't watch me getting undressed. He lies back in the bath and closes his eyes, and I keep a close watch on him to check he isn't peeking. I'm not quite ready to take off all my clothes in front of him, so when I'm down to my underwear I grab a towel and go back into the bedroom.

'Libby?' he shouts as I go. 'Have you got any candles?'

I find three, and, after I've taken my bra and knickers off in the relative privacy of my bedroom, I wrap a towel around myself, light the candles, and switch the light off in the bathroom, putting the candles around the room.

Nick sits up, facing away from me, and I let the towel drop and climb in behind him in the bath.

'Here,' he says, handing me the soap over his shoulder. 'Back scrub time.'

'You just did this because you wanted a massage,' I say, soaping his back and wondering how on earth I've managed to get so intimate with someone I hardly know in such a short space of time.

'Mmm,' he murmurs. 'A bit lower. Yup, that's perfect.'

I look at my hands circling his back with soap, at the flickering candlelight picking up the definition of his spine, his shoulder blades, and when his back is covered I put the soap on the side of the bath and slowly, smoothly rub his back.

I have my legs on either side of him, and, as I rub his back, Nick picks up the soap and starts soaping my calves. I catch my breath as I feel his big, strong hands gently soap my legs, over the knee, down to the ankles, holding my feet as he rubs them in silence.

And as we half sit, half lie in the bath, the music coming from the living room seems to take on a distinctly sexual feel, and before I even know what I'm doing I lean forward and kiss his neck. I hear him groan as my lips touch his skin, and I open my lips and taste him, sucking softly as my lips travel up to his earlobe. His hand stops circling on my leg. He's stopped moving, and everything seems to be happening very slowly.

He turns as the water sloshes around him in the bath, then looks at me through eyes glazed with lust, before kissing me softly, open lips teasing mine for what seems like hours, before finally licking my upper lip as I moan and slide my tongue into his mouth.

I'm vaguely aware that as he's kissing me he's half standing up, twisting his body round, and when he sits down again in the warm water he's facing me, his legs over my legs, his lips never leaving mine.

And as we carry on kissing, I pull the bathcap off his head and drop it over the edge of the bath, and slink my hands around his neck, pulling him closer as he drops his head and kisses my collarbone.

I shiver.

He sits back and picks up the soap again, still looking at me as if to check this is okay, which by this time it most definitely is, and very gently starts soaping my arms, my elbows, my hands, and sweet Jesus, I never knew how sensual hands could be, or how turned on I could be by someone gently slipping and sliding soap over my fingers.

And he moves the soap up my arms, on to my shoulders, then slowly circles my breasts, moving closer and closer to my nipples, which are rock hard, but not quite touching them, not yet.

Then he slides the bar of soap over my left nipple and I gasp, and look down into the water because by this time the soap has made all the bubbles disappear, and I can see his cock, thick and hard, and I slide the soap out of his hand and down the side of his cock, and it's his turn to gasp as I slide it up and down the shaft, around his balls, up around the head.

The soap slips out of my hand, and he picks it up and traces a line down my body, over my nipples, down my stomach, and across my clitoris as I close my eyes to feel these incredible feelings, and all I can think of as I reach again for his cock is that I want to feel him inside me.

I hear a slurping noise and I jerk my eyes open and Nick laughs as he holds up the plug, and it breaks the spell for a second, but just a second, because as the water slips out of the bath Nick pushes me on to my back, and, as my legs rest on either edge of the bath, he kisses his way down my body until I feel him pause between my legs, and I open my eyes and look at him, and he's looking at me as if to ask, is this okay, and I close my eyes and sigh to show him that it is.

And I feel his tongue slip in between my legs, and, as he licks, sucks, laps at my clitoris, I feel a wave of orgasm building up inside me, and after I've come, my body jerking like crazy in the confines of the bath, Nick looks at me and smiles, and I kiss him, tasting myself in his mouth, and I lead him out of the bathroom and into bed.

I slip a condom on his cock that is jerking with anticipation, and I push him on to his back and straddle him, positioning myself so I can ease him inside me, and when he's about an inch in I gasp because I really had forgotten how good this feels.

And it's perfect. The perfect fuck. Not too short, and not too long, because nothing, nothing is worse than men who think all it takes to satisfy a woman is hours and hours of deep, hard pounding. Please. I'd rather watch paint dry.

But Nick is perfect, and I love that feeling of power, being on top, being in control, and I love watching his face as he finally gives in to an orgasm.

When it's over I think he'll probably be the type to roll over and fall fast asleep, but he doesn't. He puts his arm around me and cuddles me for ages.

'That,' he says, after squeezing me very tightly, 'was lovely.'

'Good,' I say. 'I thought so too.'

'And you,' he says, kissing my nose, 'are one hell of a sexy lady.'

'I aim to please,' I laugh.

'You certainly did,' he says. 'And now I want a story.'

'A what?' I raise myself up on one arm and look at him.

'A story. I want you to tell me a bedtime story.'

'What about?'

'Anything you like.'

'But I can't think of anything.'

'Oh, for God's sake,' he sighs dramatically. 'I suppose I'll have to tell you one, then.'

'Yes, please!' I say, in a little girl voice, feeling strangely like a little girl, all safe and warm and protected, encircled in his arms.

'Once upon a time,' he starts, in a soft, low voice, 'there lived a little girl called Libby. Libby lived all by herself in a huge yellow sunflower at the bottom of a beautiful garden.'

I sigh and snuggle up closer.

'At the back of the garden,' he continues, 'was a great big house, and in the house lived Mr and Mrs Pinchnose. They were called Mr and Mrs Pinchnose because every time they went into the garden they pinched their noses because Mr and Mrs Pinchnose hated the smell of anything fresh and beautiful, but what they never knew was that it wasn't the smell of the flowers, or the trees, or the river, it was the smell of Libby.'

'Are you saying that Libby smelt?' I say indignantly, although I'm smiling.

'I'm saying that Libby smelt fresh and beautiful,' he says.

'Oh,' I say. 'That's okay, then,' and I pick up his hand and kiss it as he carries on talking, and before I know it I'm fast asleep.