I recognized the last part as the last name of my client. ‘Spanish, English, and Irish. That’s quite a combination of names.’ Pausing to grin, ... reached inside my jacket and pulled out a pen. ‘Now, what do your friends call you and what’s that phone number?’ I held the pen above my left palm ready to write. She looked at me for a long second then asked, ‘You’re serious aren’t you?’ When I nodded she continued, ‘My friends call me Irish. I’m tempted to give you the number, but I think I’ll wait. Okay, fair enough, it wasn't Pete's fault that David and I bumped into each other a week later, perhaps I would have done better if we hadn't. It wasn't Pete's fault we had exchanged phone numbers, that I think is the point where I started to cross the line.I couldn't blame Pete for choosing David to play with, he is intelligent interesting and charming. It really wasn't in me to blame Pete for David inviting me to an illicit liaison, and I couldn't in all honesty blame Pete when I. Picking her up with his hands around her waist he lifted her so that he could enter her as her legs rose to clamp around his hips, her arms twining around his neck, her face burying in his shoulder, her hot breath panting against his damp skin as he thrust hard into her still throbbing cunt. He rode her hard and deep with a desperate pace, frantically as if this would be his last time, his mouth was hard upon hers and his arm tight as if he would never let her go, and when he came his shout was. I remembered that I'd noticed it the first time through too.I decided that I'd had enough of these bubbles. Wasn't I ever going to get some sex? In the stories that I'd read, the protagonist got to indulge in great sex, his enthusiasm bolstered by adult technique and insight. All I ever seemed to get was the vicarious thrill of Susan's firm yet... I berated myself for these thoughts. Pissing off the Almighty was not the way to go. Ah fuck it! I'd read Dante's Inferno and the Niven and Pournelle.