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underhang
of her bottom. His other hand was on her back, soft and light.
    The orgasm seemed to go on a long time, a jerking, pulsing
jumble of pain and bliss. Out of her head, Miranda was a castaway washed up on
the living rock of Patrick. He was her refuge, and she clung on, sobbing and
thanking him.
    Eventually, she fell back into herself, intensely aware of his
erection boring into her. It was like a knot of oak against her, hot through his
trousers. She could feel it glowing, almost pulsing, calling to her, the heat of
it echoing her own. Without stopping to ask, she slid off his knee and pressed
his thighs apart with her hands. Shaking, fumbling, she unfastened his trousers
and rummaged amongst his shirttail and underwear to draw him out into the light
and air, an angry reddened column of primal desire.
    Before he could speak, she slid her lips over his crown and
started sucking hard and not too skillfully, as if her life depended on it.
    “Oh, you beauty,” shouted Patrick, half purr, half snarl, all
desperation and long withheld need. His clever hands sank into her hair,
gripping her head, directing her efforts, making her take more of him. “Use your
tongue more, love…agh…yes…that’s what I like.”
    She licked and sucked and swirled her tongue all around his
glans and every bit of his shaft she could reach. He tasted both foxy and
delicious, salty and fine, and he vocalized as she mouthed him, just as she’d
cried and shouted when he’d spanked her and then thrust his fingers into
her.
    When he tensed and went rigid, she reached out and gripped him
around the waist, hugging him for dearest life, so he couldn’t withdraw. As he
started to jerk, she sucked harder, flicking him sinuously beneath his glans,
stabbing and probing like a guileful serpent intent on his pleasure.
    A harsh oath echoed around the little room as he filled her
mouth. Then came another and another, lurid, agonized utterances so unlike his
usual easy amenable tones that it might have been another person entirely
ejaculating onto her stroking tongue.
    I love you.
    The words echoed in her head, just as Patrick’s profane cries
of pleasure rang in the room. Even as he climaxed, and she gloried in it, the
revelation terrified her. And confused her. She wasn’t even sure if she’d
thought it, heard it, or whether it had been the product of her mind or his.
    She only knew that wherever the thought had originated, it had
been the truth. She certainly loved him whether he loved her or whether he
didn’t. Letting him slip from between her lips, she looked up at him, half
hoping he was still insensible with ecstasy, eyes closed, out of it.
    But he wasn’t. His blue eyes were as stormy and confused as her
feelings, although perfectly lucid. He stared back down at her, intent,
astonished…afraid? Then he frowned, made a sound like the growl of a wounded
beast and lunged forward, grabbing her by the shoulders and urging her back
almost roughly on the rug in front of the settee. In a muddle of her limbs and
his, Miranda found herself on her back, her sore bottom pressed against the
rough texture of the cheap carpeting. She hissed through her teeth at the surge
of pain even as she reached for him, trying to pull him over her.
    “No!” he hissed back at her, shaking off her grip, and instead
of mounting her, slithering down onto his knees and crouching between her legs.
She howled when he grabbed her hard by the buttocks and lifted her, wrenching
her panties right off, then opening her up to him like a fruit and plunging his
ravenous mouth down between her thighs to feast on her sex.
    “Patrick! Patrick!” she shouted as he plagued her with lips and
tongue—just as she’d done him—and sucked hard on her tender clit with ruthless
intent.
    Before she could hardly draw breath again, a fierce, hard,
painful orgasm wrenched at her. Agonizing in the intensity of pleasure and the
way Patrick’s fingers dug deep into the punished muscles of the