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I take Kristof’s hand as we exit the opera house, the soaring beauty of the final aria of Norma still running through my mind. I’ve always loved the opera. The passion, the drama, the sexy story and the exquisite voices of the singers never fail to leave me breathless and, I must be honest, also a little horny. I’ve always found a trip to the theatre or the opera to be romantically old-fashioned, something to be savoured, with the glamour of the women dressed in beautiful silks and taffetas, covered in beads and sequins and dripping in diamonds and pearls. I love how the men are old school, dressed to impress with crisp white shirts and impeccably tailored suits. It smells expensive, oozes sophistication and makes me feel like I have stepped back in time. I adore the whispered chit-chat before it starts, sipping a martini in our box and the pin-drop silence during the performance as the audience immerses themselves in the beauty, followed by the standing ovations at the finale. I like a show; as I said, it turns me on.

I squeeze Kristof’s hand, and we exchange a secret smile as we follow the rest of the audience out into the cool of the evening. I shiver as we stand on the steps, waiting for everyone to disperse. In part, from the chill of the evening; earlier, it had been unseasonably warm, so I left my jacket at home, but mainly from the anticipation of being alone with Kristof. Always the gentleman, Kristof shucks off his dinner jacket and wraps it around my shoulders. The heat of his fingers against my skin as he does so ignites the fire in me further, and I look up and down the street, wondering where Beau, our driver, has gone.

“He’ll be here soon, my love,” Kristof smiles. He knows what is running through my mind, and I giggle as he backs me up against the ancient stone wall of the Opera House, his lips claiming mine as his body presses against me.

“You look beautiful,” he whispers, “I don’t know if I can wait to get you home.”

I breathe in the heavy, musky scent of his aftershave, spice and an earthy vanilla note that is his signature, and let the heat of his body warm me, the thought of fucking him right here, right now, already soaking my tiny lace panties. I can feel him, already hard, straining against his tight trousers, as he whispers sweet nothings to me, kissing and nibbling at my ear, my neck and finally my lips again.

At last, when I am almost dizzy with desire, we hear the soft purr of the limousine as Beau pulls up to the pavement alongside us. Kristof pulls back, straightens his suit and takes my hand, leading me to the car where Beau is holding the door for us.

“Good evening Monsieur, Madame. Apologies for my lateness; the traffic over the bridge was shocking.”

“Good evening, Beau,” Kristof replies, and I nod. Beau is a handsome, older man who has been driving for us for many years. He is polite, well-mannered, and trusted, and he is always incredibly discreet.

Kristof helps me into the car, sliding in beside me. He leans forward and speaks to Beau before we depart. There is something about returning the scenic route as we are in no hurry, and the evening is beautiful.