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‘Take a seat,’ he said, gesturing to the sofa. I sat down, then immediately shifted as my thighs stuck to the leather. Christ. Had his mum polished this as well?

‘You want a wine?’ he asked.

‘Yes please,’ I said.

Joe disappeared into the kitchen while I glanced around the room. Glittery photo frames covered the walls – school photos of Joe and his little sister smiling proudly in tracksuits and trainers in the garden like tiny Scottish models for Sports Direct. On the other wall, photos of them older, arms wrapped around each other, their mum in the background laughing in every single one. At home, my photos were all professionally printed canvas artworks – carefully curated and styled. But somehow this messy haphazard display felt warmer. My eyes prickled unexpectedly. I blinked, not entirely sure what had just come over me.

‘Here you go, doll.’ Joe appeared behind me and handed me a small tumbler of dark red wine.

When I turned, his face creased with concern. ‘You OK?’

I wiped quickly at my eyes and forced a smile. ‘Yeah, sorry,’ I said, clearing my throat. ‘It’s the chemicals. I can smell about seventeen different types of bleach in here.’ Which, to be fair, wasn’t entirely a lie.

Joe pulled a face and nodded. ‘Aye, my mum’s started selling those Spanish cleaning products,’ he said, grinning. ‘She’d wipe the corn off my shite if I’d let her.’

I grimaced and sank back into the sofa. Lovely.

I sniffed my glass suspiciously. ‘Is it mulled wine?’ I asked. ‘You know . . . festive?’

Joe blinked at me. ‘Mulled wine?’ he repeated, horrified. ‘Never heard of it.’ He lifted his glass. ‘It’s tonic,’ he paused. ‘Buckfast.’

Buckie. Right. Of course it was. I took a cautious sip and immediately pulled a face. Joe laughed and sat closer.

‘Aye,’ he said, draping an arm around my neck. ‘I get the feeling you’re no used to boys like me.’

‘What gives you that impression?’ I asked.

He leaned closer, his mouth almost touching mine. ‘You seem a bit . . . uptight,’ he said. ‘Like you’ve got a lot going on up there.’

That might have been the understatement of the century. I didn’t answer, just stared into his ridiculously blue eyes.

‘Want me to help you relax?’ he murmured, putting his glass of tonic on a shiny glass table. Coaster, I thought instinctively.

Then, before I could respond, he moved forward, putting on his best seductive voice to say, ‘Hermione!’

Next thing he was kissing me. Hard. Passionately.

I pulled my legs onto the couch, and he lay on top of me, continuing to kiss me. The intensity and desire of it surprised me – I’m not sure I’d ever had quite this much feeling put into it before. He was moaning against my mouth, and I felt his hand travel between my legs, rubbing me slowly.

Fuck. I was wet, soaking wet.

As he felt the dampness, he seemed to get even more excited, pulling down my thong and unzipping his trousers in almost an instant, revealing his sword. His dick was a decent size and girth, I thought with a surge of pleasure, noticeably beefier than Rupert’s. I giggled as I watched it coming towards me, then I simply wrapped my legs around his waist and, with a single push, felt Joe Ferguson inside me.

Finally.

I had first dreamed of this moment almost two decades ago.

‘Fucking hell, how do you like that, English girl?’ he asked, thundering into me.

I moaned back, too distracted to chat – or to correct him that I was born in the exact same neighbourhood as him. I hadn’t had an orgasm in months, and right now I was concentrating hard.

‘Is my dick big enough for you?’ he continued, grunting.

‘Yes,’ I whispered, still getting ploughed into.

‘Tell me it’s the biggest dick you’ve ever had.’

Jesus. Joe was certainly more vocal than I was used to.