I know a letter is old school, but there's something about the tactility of paper. A physical connection you can't get from email or text. It warms me to think that the very paper you're holding right now has been in my hands, beneath fingers that yearn to one day touch and hug you for real.

But I'm getting ahead of myself already. You have that effect.

Like all good letters, this one starts with a confession: I'm inexplicably, deeply, wildly attracted to you. Your mind, your passion, your trust, and all that you represent.

No. Fuck it. I'm in love with you.

There. I've said it. No going back.

I know we're both happy in our respective lives, and the thought of jeopardizing that for either of us fills me with the darkest fear. But, my God, give me one night with you and you'll experience passion the likes of which you never knew existed.

You'll need a week's worth of panties, because the first pair will be wet before we meet in the city and the second will be drenched before dinner's over. An Italian place. Your favourite food; I pay attention to details during our stolen chat sessions.

As we sit, anonymous among the buzz of chatter and plates and the scent of pizza dough and oregano, I'll tease the fuck out of you. Tell you all the things I intend to do to your body and mind when we get to the hotel. Yet I suspect even my words will only scratch the surface of what we'll actually experience.

All through dinner in that new royal blue summer dress that complements your dazzling eyes, I want you squirming in your seat. When I scoop a chunk of ice from the water jug and describe where each melted drop will land, I want you to feel it. Imagine being blindfolded, body twisting as each freezing drip dribbles across shivering skin; your toned tummy, your delicate inner thigh, the sole of your foot.

When the waitress has taken our order, I'll hand you a carrot stick and tell you to glaze it with your slick honey. I want to see the excitement in your eyes as you furtively look around and sneak the vegetable beneath the chequered tablecloth. The faraway look as it nudges past your gusset, enters, leaves and you pass it back for me to suck. To bite. To savour.

When I tell you to touch yourself under the table, to slide fingertips inside your panties and wet them, upon returning the digits to the surface you'll smell them at my command. Taste them, right there in the restaurant. Slow, deliberate laps that turn us both on immeasurably.

And when I instruct you to remove your knickers and replace them with the fresh pair I bought, you'll do it without leaving the table, even after raising an inquisitive eyebrow at my audacity to suggest such a thing. As surreptitiously as you dare, you'll rock your hips and slither your panties from their resting place to your ankles where you'll hook them by a heel into your waiting hand.

Then you'll pass me the soiled garment across the tabletop. Watch me pick up the warm black lace. Inhale. See the need unfurl inside me, your earthy arousal infecting me to the core. It makes you tingle.

I want you flushed. Excited. Primed. Coiled to breaking point. On edge, all through dinner.

When we exit, hand-in-hand, the cool night air is a stark reminder of the heat inside us. I notice your nipples firm beneath the bold pattern of the dress. I pay attention to details.

The walk is short, just a few blocks past shop fronts, cafés and bars that spill raucous people onto the pavement for smokes, the city traffic dominated by slow-crawling taxis and private hire cabs ferrying the inebriated between pub, club and home.

Up the ramp, the glass doors of the hotel slide to accept us. Each click of your heels on the polished floor of the brightly lit lobby pierces my mind. We're finally here. Together. Within clutching distance of one another.

I nod at the reception staff as we pass. Press the domed elevator button. Tap my toes inside my shoes, trying not to show outward impatience despite being so close to having you in my grasp. I spin my wedding ring with the thumb of the same hand, wondering at what moment the unbroken circle of trust I pledged became skewed. How it's possible to love two very different women at the same time, with the same intensity, for two very different reasons.

When the lift pings and we step in, there's a well-dressed lady inside, all Armani, designer glasses and heels. I pray she can't hear my heartbeat thudding in the confined box. My hand grips yours. We want nothing more than to crush our lips together and fill the mirrored space with breathless panting and the heat of desire, but we have to wait. Four agonising floors in the world's slowest lift until the woman steps out. Until we're alone.

The moment the doors slide shut you're on me. Kissing. Clutching. Sighing. I know the unblinking eye of the security camera is there, but fuck it: our needs transcend decency. The kiss is something else. Animalistic and raw. Too bad it can only last a few short floors before the lift's muted ping announces our arrival. We fly apart, faces flushed, lips pink, sparkles in our eyes.

I practically drag you down the crazily carpeted corridor behind me, fumble the keycard and bundle you inside, the door barely closing before you're slammed back against its inside, nothing but our heavy breathing and hands swishing across fabric greeting the silent room bathed in silvery moonlight.

The kiss is as ferocious as it was in the lift, my hands all over your body as yours are on mine. Your fingers tear at my shirt, unbuttoning it between us so you can scratch nails across my skin, working lower and unsnapping my trousers too.

Snaking your hand inside, you trace the edges of my hard cock, already oozing, a wet stain in my undershorts. Hot and raging in your hand, we gasp into the kiss as you fondle me.

Pulling away a moment, freeing my length, you hoist one edge of your dress, yank your knickers aside, and your eyes roam to mine, lust burning between us, obvious even in the low light. My cock finds your entrance almost on automatic. You swipe your slit once with it to wet the tip, curl one of your legs around me and kiss me hard.

I drive inside, your breath disintegrating in my mouth as I cup your face in my palms. Your hands fly to clutch my back, holding me tight, seemingly nothing but us in the world.

Our union is frantic, my cock sawing in and out of your soaked pussy, bursts of colour and texture flashing through my head to illuminate the monochrome room, each thrust fuelling needs suppressed for what seems an eternity.

You cross your arms behind my neck and pull me to the kiss as we fuck against the front door, no regard for noise spilling into the corridor, energy crackling unchecked between us.

Sliding my hands from your face I grip your shoulders. Push back, unfolding you against the frame as I glide palms out along your biceps, elbows, forearms then hands, locking together when I pin you to the wood and pound up into your searing, wet cunt. Your shivers and moans are electrifying, interrupting the sanctity of the stark room.

The angle of your hips causes your clit to grind against my pelvis on the in-stroke and you groan. We both do. There's no way we can hold back any longer. The tease of the day – of all the dirty conversations, spoken and typed, we've had over the months – result in our bodies tensing.

Mouths and tongues furiously at work, my humming moans presage the erratic rhythm of release. As I break down and lash hot come deep inside you, the quivering rumble of your orgasm follows, selfishly clutching at my spasming hardness. To hold me in you. A primal want.

Becoming weak-kneed against me, only my hands and grinding cock keep you upright, pinned to the door. I bury my face in your neck and kiss. Nuzzle. Nip. Release washes through me in unrelenting waves. I let it.

I know your body is gripped the same. Tangled neurons and twisted heat unwinding and recombining as the rush consumes you. Racing heart. Thundering blood. Untamed fire.

When I eventually slide out and the gusset of your knickers snaps back to contain our flow – another pair ruined – I release you and scoop you in my arms. You smell of summer heat and untold promise and I want to devour you.

Carrying you to the king-size bed, I lay you down and let you wriggle to its centre. While I observe your heaving chest, your smile and décolletage deliciously flushed, you settle against the soft pillow.

Discarding my clothes item by item under your watchful stare in the moonlight from the open curtains, I crawl onto the edge of the bed, still ravenously hungry for you. The dress provocatively rides up when I spread your legs at the ankles, my focus on the junction stained with our mixture.

I drool at the sight of your ravaged beauty. My lips part and I inch towards you. You're so fucking alluring, wearing that dress and that look. Your freshly-fucked-but-God-I-want-more expression should be bottled and sold. I'd buy a lifetime's supply.

On all fours, I crawl between supple legs I have, until now, merely imagined, realising the imagery in my head was a pale imitation of reality. You widen them as I near their convergence. You know how much I adore panties. The wetter the better.

Slinking down onto my belly, I maintain eye contact with your bewitching blues as you rest against the plump pillow, still wiggling a little in the post-orgasmic fog of our frantic fuck.

My face creeps closer to the mess we've made, trapped by your knickers. I can smell us. Salty and sweet. Thrilling.

Kissing your left inner thigh, you twitch. Again with the right, my stubble scuffing the surface. You crave my touch in your needy centre to stack another climax on top of the gradually decaying first.

Facing your snatch, I edge closer until you can feel my breath permeating the wet fabric. With the burst of the fucking behind us, and hours ahead of us, I can take my time. And I fully intend to.

I let the heat of my mouth play across your panties, your hips writhing to try and steal the touch that I keep maddeningly out of reach. Only when I'm good and ready, I lower my face to your knickers and kiss. You gasp as my mouth connects with the material, the lewd act heightened by the orgasmic fragments still flitting like cherry blossom in the breeze.

Sliding my hands up your thighs, I tuck fingertips into the waistband and drag down, ever so slowly, peeling the garment from its resting place amid a helpful wiggle of your shapely hips. The scent of our combined come is immediately released and I'm struck with light-headedness at its potency.

A thick blob perches at your splayed entrance as I draw the panties to knees that you drift closer together, permitting the continued downward travel of your sodden underwear.

Tugging further past your heels until they're free, I toss the panties to the bed as you splay for me once more. Open and inviting, I dive back to within striking distance. The gooey blob has grown during the panty removal, oozing, ready to roll to the sheets. Before that can happen, I extend my tongue and lap, curling to scoop the fluid safely.

It pools in my open mouth and I lap again, coaxing thick drop upon drop from your slit as you squeeze your inner muscles. I've never tasted myself before, and the combination surprises me.

When I've extracted as much as I can, I rise and crawl over your body to straddle you, lower my mouth to hover above yours and part my lips. The bittersweet, bubbling mixture drizzles from my lips and plays across yours. You part them to accept the gift.

I open my mouth further, translucent white beads tumbling more freely into yours, slithering onto your outstretched tongue to slip into your mouth and down your throat as you swallow.

It's so fucking sexy and I immediately plunge to kiss you, swirling my tongue to catch remnants of our lovemaking from inside your mouth.

I could kiss you forever, but as your breathing deepens at the kiss, the desire to follow up and chase your first orgasm with a second to amplify its diminishing tail is greater.

Crawling back the way I came, a slippery string of saliva stretching and breaking from your open mouth to mine, I return to lie between your legs. God, your sticky cunt's so beautiful. Begging.

Turning my head slightly off-axis I kiss each pussy lip, lightly at first, then harder until I'm drawing the lips into my mouth one at a time. Your moans fill the room and fuel me.

Facing your pussy directly, I bring my tongue into play, lapping at a leisurely pace from the very base up between your folds and stopping a breath away from your clit.

Again and again I do this, each full sweep driving you frustratingly closer and higher, yet not quite delivering. You growl at me, begging for more contact and my eyes flick to rest on yours. Gauging. You might think you mean it, but I can tell they're just words at this stage.

I'll know when you really mean it.

Lapping at a devastatingly slow pace, you squirm as my breath is the only contact at the apex of your drooling slit. Veering off to one side I flutter my tongue up and down one edge of your hood.

Each exhalation nudges your delicate clit, the feathery breaths eliciting sighs and gasps, the denial of direct contact pure torture. You bring your fingers to the nape of my neck and try to pull me in but I move away, casting a stern gaze until you flop your hands to the bed again.

Returning to the opposite edge of your clitoral covering, I lap in tiny circles. Then make a Z-shape. Then start drawing random letters of the alphabet, sometimes on one side, sometimes crossing to the other.

Never directly. Never the same action twice. Everything keeps you guessing. On edge.

Each time I cross from one side to the other, I blow your jewel at one angle or another, making you writhe. Sometimes hot. Sometimes a steady stream of cool air. You never know which until it lands.

Your breathing turns ragged. I know your peak is approaching and smile to myself. Wrapping my mouth directly around your clit, I suck. One long, sustained inhalation drawing between my lips. You grip the sheets in your fists and swear, body stiffening.

I let go and you groan, "Nooo," hips slumping back to the bed.

Blowing air across the saliva-coated pearl, you hum and groan as it dries. Your hands rise from the sheets to cup your breasts through the dress, squeezing, working up to the firm nipples that are almost bursting to greet the blanched moonlight slanting into the room across your wriggling body.

You pinch and I time my actions with your own, opening my mouth again and encircling your pleasure button. When you tweak the caps, I graze your clit and you arch into my face, grinding.

I open my mouth wide so the contact disappears and you hiss. Just my hot breath blasts across your engorged nub as excitement consumes me. It's as if I'm wielding a feather, my fluttering breaths its teasing caresses. Barely touching.

My tongue flicks occasionally to sweep an edge, or the top of your folds, or to tap the tip of your clit with the tiniest, most fleeting brush.

Your hands crush your chest, fingertips pinching hard, body writhing beneath me.

"Pleeease."

I pause, gazing up over your mons to check. Fuck yes, so close. Your long lashes flutter, barely able to contain the dancing fire within, your pupils wide and dark in the night. Swirling my tongue in a long, slow clover shape, I brush each quadrant alongside your jumping clit in turn.

"Fuuuuck. God, pleeeease." Your body is alight, sparks I can practically detect in the darkness, fizzing beneath your skin. I draw away, lap my tongue from the very base of your pussy that swishes against the starched hotel sheets, up, up, flicking off the tip of your clit like a tiny springboard.

You arch your back, body lifting, gripping your tits through the dress.

I slither my hands under your inner thighs to support you at the crease where they join your tantalisingly smooth bottom. Hooking my thumbs into your pussy entrance, I peel the sticky lips apart, ogling your drooling hole, poised, hovering off the bed. All mine.

Your eyes lock with my gaze, the intensity burning within me as I drive my mouth forward to attack, finally devouring your dripping centre.

My tongue snakes inside, chin pressed into the base of your entrance, nose directly over your clit. I snort air over it, wiggle my face from side to side to apply direct stimulation and you shriek.

The torment ends. Your body convulses. Hands slam from tits to the bed, gripping and twisting the sheets. And, fuck me, I've never known wetness like it. My tongue and chin become coated in your delicious elixir as your open-mouthed groans bounce around the room.

You freeze, the glorious moment of nothingness consuming your entire body and mind. That vulnerability, that splash of unfettered joy scribbled across your face is my ultimate prize.

I furiously lap the tumbling juices, gulping you down as the contractions begin, rhythmically clamping my tongue between your hungry walls. Swatting away my face, you flop to the bed and I let you fall, watching you writhing, contorting, lost. Fuck, it's the most beautiful sight.

My cock is steel as your eyes squeeze shut, flashing open occasionally to take in what you can of your surroundings. Your cheeks dimple, mouth oscillating between flickering smiles of rapture and chewing your trembling lower lip.

I sit up between your thighs, letting you unwind, taking time to appreciate every roaring flare inside your body. Basking in the glow I created. Soaring. Diving, the twitching peak stretching timelessly until it ultimately abates, slowing.

I'll do nothing more, until you come to rest. Just marvel at your wetness, your true unmasked beauty as your beacon of energy burns just for me, gradually diminishing to a diffuse, sparkling glow inside.

When you're spent, I'll crawl up alongside you and lay one arm across your quivering tummy. Just lie there, stroking your flushed skin, sharing our illicit connection that would tear lives apart yet would seal others. Ours.

Your head rolls to face me, expression brimming with contentment and passion and love and fire for whatever the night brings next. I gaze back, offering a loaded smile, my exhalation unexpectedly catching in my throat as I lean in, our lips brushing before the kiss takes over.

Losing myself once more in your embrace, my split heart thumps with untamed desire. I know we can't be. But give me one night, one stolen weekend with you and I promise you will know love, lust and longing on a scale you never thought possible.

While my heart might be divided, my soul is yours. Always.