THE SEX DIARIES: 'We can do it now, AND after dinner': I'm obsessed with 27-year-old Eliot... he's sleek, powerful and perfectly proportioned

On the way home from central London with my son Hector, 14, we passed lingerie store La Perla. I stopped and peered through the window.

'What's the point in you getting that?' he said. 'Who's going to see you in your underwear?'

'Nobody!' I said, moving on. 'It's pretty, that's all.'

He eyed me suspiciously. Even though our three children knew their father and I were separated, the fact he'd moved back in to lay claim to the family home had muddied the waters.

Now we were living together again, the children thought we were a family unit once more, albeit a dysfunctional one: Nick and I had separate timetables and separate bedrooms.

Annabel Bond says she was obsessed with 27-year-old Eliot, whose body she describes as 'sleek, powerful and perfectly proportioned'

Nick would definitely not have enjoyed the fact I'd spent last Thursday kissing 27-year-old Eliot. Nor that I'd texted him every hour of every day since. I felt guilty too.

In truth, I was obsessed by Eliot. It was a juggernaut that could not be turned, even by the scrutiny of my naked body in the full-length mirror in my bedroom, surrounded by old dog beds, Lego and Barbies.

Barbie gave me an unwelcome comparison: unlike her, my belly was chubby, my thighs dimpled with cellulite. I had not been naked with anyone since my marriage ended (except a terrible one-night stand after a friend's party).

It seemed impossible to reveal my naked self to someone so much younger and fitter. But also impossible not to. I thought of Eliot every minute.

My breasts were still good, my cheekbones, too. Eliot knew I had three kids; he was (hopefully) less judgmental than me about my physical imperfections. Men often are.

So I began scrolling through hotels, deciding in which one Eliot and I were to have our first assignation.

I'd bought new lingerie — not from La Perla in the end, but from M&S: a silken black balcony bra and a pair of French knickers. They signalled a new risque version of myself, or so I hoped.

Other arduous preparations had to be completed. I shaved, plucked and trimmed. I could not yet face a Brazilian wax, even if I worried that Eliot had never seen pubic hair on a woman. But still, the feeling of unreality persisted.

Annabel didn't end up buying new lingerie from La Perla (pictured) but instead bought from M&S: A silken black balcony bra and a pair of French knickers

Was I really leaving my squabbling children to spend a sexy night in West London with someone I'd met in a bar?

When we met up a week later, I was startled again by the freshness of Eliot's face, the glare of his handsomeness. His thighs in their pale jeans, splayed out on the bar stool, radiated heat.

He was a different person in real life than on text; he left longer pauses between questions and answers, was more unknowable.

As we walked to the hotel, I was so nervous I couldn't speak. I was astonished he could chat so easily. Did he do this often, or was he better at hiding his feelings?

The hotel turned out to be filled with hen parties. When we got to the room it was airless, too close to reception and the window looked on to an internal courtyard. Unperturbed, Eliot took off his shirt, then tried to take off mine.

'We don't have to do it now!' I said, suddenly desperate to postpone the moment. 'We can wait until after dinner!'

'Or we can do it now, and after dinner,' Eliot said. He glanced at me, concerned. 'Does that sound good?' Unlike (some of) the men of my generation, he wanted to make sure he had my consent. I nodded, touched his bicep.

I had never been with anyone so fit. But it was hard to have amazing sex when I was thinking so much about trying to be sexy, sucking in my stomach, trying to show him my best angles.

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I stayed resolutely on my back, I didn't want my body parts hanging down over him.

Eliot had no such issues: his body was sleek, powerful and perfectly proportioned.

Even if we didn't know what the other one liked yet (how different this was to the well-oiled sex-groove of my marriage), I was turned on just by being with him. He could have done the chicken dance and I would have orgasmed.

Afterwards, we went to Nando's. It was the only place open. I didn't care, I felt buoyant, full of nervous energy.

I talked too much, to cover the fact we would be spending the night together. Afterwards, we went back to the hotel and had sex again, twice. It was amazing, but I was still in performance mode. I was loud, too loud perhaps, considering our proximity to reception.

Next morning, we were awkward with each other. I wondered how Eliot saw me now. At least he'd said, the night before, when he saw my stomach was free of stretch-marks: 'I can't believe you have three kids!' But he clearly was very aware of our age gap.

Neither of us had been in a relationship like this. It wouldn't, it couldn't, last. It would be a hot hook-up, and then we'd move on.

■ Annabel Bond is a pseudonym. All names have been changed