The time after he’d left me was always the best and worst time. I felt perfect, loved, full and satisfied, but I still knew that soon I’d need him again, and he wouldn’t be there. I could feel it as I lay on my bed, like storm clouds on the edge of the horizon.

Another reason it was bad was that I knew as soon as he left me, his thoughts might linger on me for a time, but, inevitably, they would wander to the next girl, the next fool, the next Victim. I’d made the error of making him a priority, while he’d only made me an option.

I would lie there, my heart beating fast as I remembered the feel of his hands on my skin, the flash in his eyes when he gazed at me. They looked so alive. I would put my head on his chest to hear his heart beating, to hear him living. I’d watch avidly as his chest rose and fell, rose and fell, with his skin stretched tight across his ribs. I’d run my lips across his body, feeling the smoothness and hardness of those bones, just millimetres from the surface. And all the time, he’d watch me, staring intently and levelly, never giving away his thoughts or feelings. When, to him, I was an open book – he could play me like a piano, knowing exactly what to do, and when, to get the best reaction.

I had to be careful what I thought, because with one glance, those blue eyes could pierce straight into my brain and through to my soul and innermost thoughts. I always felt slightly vulnerable when he looked at me like that. It wasn’t just like he could tell what I was thinking; it was like he could tell my past and future too. I felt exposed and helpless, and always avoided his eyes when he looked at me like that.

If he could tell my future, he could tell what was to happen to us. I wonder if he was scared, if he wanted to stop it somehow? I would doubt it; he would have seen it as a challenge.