The white moonlight flickered on the counterpane as Peter drew it back. Susan stood rigidly, at the end of the bed, not helping, arms folded.

Peter came around the bed and stood facing her. He reached forward and disengaged her hands from their tight grip across her chest. They stood for a moment holding hands. Sarah was desperate, her heart pounding. Why was there no word from Reception. What had happened to her message?

Folk music sounds filtered in from the bar below, a lilting Irish jig in the heart of the Somerset countryside. Happy voices laughing and joking. No talk now - just the supreme tension from being alone together.

Peter pulled her to him bringing her hand behind her back so she could not move.

She wriggled and passively resisted, her mind racing. She avoided his lips, turning her head aside expecting the rescue call from Reception. It should have interrupted their dinner. They had passed Reception on the way up to the bedroom, the message could have been handed over then. What had gone wrong? What was causing the delay?

Then, with a sinking heart, she knew that now it didn't matter. She could back out now and call an end to her plan or she could commit herself completely. To continue meant that he was going to kiss her as he wished, to explore her mouth with his tongue, move his hands over her body as he wished. Her skin crawled at the thought. None of that would now be changed if the message was delivered at this late stage.

Unaccountably, she remembered her school's pledge 'Roehampton girls in life's adversity keep their promise'. She had promised and to retain credibility, against all her plans, the promise would now have to be kept.

Seemingly faraway, she heard the snap of buttons coming undone. Hers first - she felt so exposed as her dress fell to the floor - then Peter's followed. The buckle on his belt clattering loudly on the polished wooden boards.

Outside, the inn was busy with guests and visitors - all within easy reach - yet she was isolated and defenceless against the intimacy she dreaded.

His kisses slid from her lips to her face, then onward to her shoulders and breasts. She felt her nipples harden involuntarily. Then there was the slow lingering descent onto the bed.

Only the complete intimacy of their skin separated them now.

A rustle in the dark and the tearing of foil paper - small reassurance but another step to the moment ….

He towered above her in the shadows. The only sound in the room his heavy breathing. She had no excuse. She buried her face deep in his shoulder, scrunched up her eyes and, little by little, forced herself to receive him. A shrill gasp marked the final moment of her commitment.

He paused briefly at her cry, enjoying the moment of possession and the novel sensation of being deep inside this new woman then started his measured and rhythmic movement.

To Sarah, time that had sped by in the early evening now slowed to an endless crawl. Even the flower-patterned duvet pushed aside by his eager hands seemed to fall to the floor in slow motion. Like a butterfly on a thorn she was transfixed, unable to move, out of control and each thrust stripped away her emotions until a deep sensation of chill came over her and she felt him no more.

Like a steam engine on a steep incline, his breathing grew faster. The headboard beat a brief tattoo on the wall. Then with a sharply in drawn breath, a long drawn out shuddering sigh, it was done.

Tightly she held him, not through desire but because it is what people do after making love. Eyes flooded with tears, quickly wiped away so they would not be seen. She waited, with his body pressing heavily down on her, until, thankfully, he recovered his breath and moved away to the side.