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I was nearly twenty when I finally decided it was time to leave home. Eighteen glorious, filthy months of fucking my stepfather had been the best secret of my life, but Mum had come too close to catching us out too many times. Once she’d almost walked in while I was on my knees in the kitchen with his thick cock buried in my throat. Another time she’d called up the stairs just as he was balls-deep in my arse on my childhood bed. The risk was getting stupid. I loved the danger, loved how hard it made both of us come, but I wasn’t ready to blow up the family just yet.

So I found a small, bright flat in Pimlico, south London, only a short Tube ride from the finance firm where I was interning. The place was tiny, one bedroom, a neat little kitchen, a bathroom with a decent shower, but it was mine. The day I moved in I felt both free and strangely empty. That emptiness didn’t last long.

My stepfather came over the very first evening. He brought a bottle of wine and a hard-on that was already tenting his trousers when I opened the door. We didn’t even make it to the bedroom. He bent me over the kitchen counter, yanked my knickers aside and fucked me hard and fast while I bit my own arm to keep quiet. The walls were thin; I could hear the neighbour opposite moving around. That only made me wetter. When he came he did it deep inside me, then pulled out and watched his cum drip down my thighs while I was still panting against the cool worktop.

“You’ll still be my dirty little secret,” he murmured, kissing the back of my neck. “Whenever you want this cock, you just text.”

I did. Often.

It was only a week later that I properly met Alesha.

I was coming home from work, still in my smart intern blouse and pencil skirt, keys in one hand, a bag of shopping in the other. The corridor was narrow. As I fumbled for my key the door opposite swung open and she stepped out.

I stopped dead.

She was early thirties, maybe five-two, petite and perfectly proportioned. Medium skin with a warm undertone, oval face, large dark almond eyes, full lips with a precise cupid’s bow. Dark hair fell in soft waves to her shoulders. She wore simple black yoga pants that nothing to the imagination and a cropped top that showed a sliver of toned stomach. Everything about her looked elegant and strong at the same time.

“Hi,” she said, voice low and slightly husky. “You must be the new girl. I’m Alesha. Opposite.”

“Lacy,” I managed. “Just moved in last week.”

She smiled and my stomach did a slow flip. “Welcome to the building. If you ever need anything, sugar, Wi-Fi password, a shoulder to cry on about the rent, just knock.”

I laughed, a bit too brightly. “I might take you up on the sugar. I keep forgetting to buy any.”

She tilted her head, eyes flicking over me in a way that felt like a caress. “Come over later if you want. I’ve got a decent bottle of wine open and I’m rubbish at drinking alone.”

That was how it started. Casual. Friendly. Dangerous.

I went over that same evening in jeans and a soft jumper, hair still damp from the shower. Her flat was almost identical to mine but somehow warmer, candles, soft music, the scent of something spicy cooking. We sat on her small sofa with glasses of red and talked for hours. She told me about her Iranian mother and Ghanaian father, about growing up between two cultures, about her profession as Junior Crown Prosecutor for the CPS. I told her about the finance internship, how much I loved the numbers and the quiet power of the office, how I’d moved out to get my own space.

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