We don’t make a habit of money changing hands in the bedroom. But since he’s been abroad, it has been known to happen. Just a couple of times.

We’re standing by the bed, and he’s got that look in his eyes: the one that says he’s just about to pounce.

I glance up, catch his eye, and say ‘I need to get some cash for a cab to the airport.’

His smile turns wicked. He digs in the back pocket of his jeans for his wallet, flips it open and drops a couple of notes on the bedside table.

I watch, mock aghast.

When he turns back to me, I can’t help it, I start to laugh. I’m standing there, in his arms, and I’ve got a serious case of the giggles.

‘Git!’ I splutter. ‘You can’t –’

I stop.

He can, and he knows it.

He’s laughing too, and then there’s that sweet, sweet moment where the laughter turns to kissing, and we’re stood there, half snogging half laughing until he tumbles me backwards and shoves my dress out of the way.

‘What am I worth?’ I ask, as he thrusts deep, making me gasp. ‘£25?! Is that all?!’

His movements slow, and he rolls his hips against mine, making me throb and burn for him.

‘How much do you think you’re worth?’ he whispers, nipping at my earlobe.

‘More than that!’ I’d say, if I was even half capable of pretending that I’m not loving this. ‘Loads more!’

‘Well?’ he asks, lips millimetres from mine.

‘Forget it,’ I say. ‘I’d fuck you for nothing.’