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trailing on the ground. She wanted to touch him, reached out blindly for him, found her hands pushed away.
    Her legs parted. That tantalisingly ticklish sensation again. A feather…that was it. On her thighs. Between her thighs. Brushing her heat. Tickling her curls. Now fingers doing the same. Now a gentle breath. His tongue. Oh,, his tongue. Licking her thighs. Closer. Flickering round the edges of desire. Then not round the edges. A gentle touch…too gentle. A sweeping movement now, hot on hot, wet on wet. Such sweet pleasure, she was melting. Belle pressed herself against his mouth. More.
    Instead, his voice, insistent now. “Who is it you want, Belle?”
    Edgy, he sounded edgy. Passion, but it could be anger. She could not tell. She bit back the urge to plead with him.
    Tongue and mouth again. Sucking and licking. Twisting and clenching. Throbbing. She was so close. He stopped. “Ewan.” Her voice was husky with passion and need. Her fingernails dug cruelly into his shoulders. “Ewan, for heavens’ sake, I want you. Now.” Co-operation, not defeat. There was a limited pleasure in resistance and she had expended it.
    For what seemed like eons nothing happened. Belle waited impatiently in the enforced darkness. Then suddenly he was kissing her—a hard, insistent kiss. She could feel tension in his shoulders but it was notanger. He was as desperate as she was. All of a sudden, she wanted to give him what he needed. “I chose you. I wanted you last night. I did not care about the bet. I want you now.”
    The blindfold was torn from her, and she saw amber eyes gazing at her, dark with passion. A mouth sculpted into a victorious smile. She cared not, secure in the knowledge that she possessed him as much as he did her. Her nails dug harder into his flesh.
    Ewan knelt between her legs. No teasing now, he licked her roughly, unerringly, tugging and sucking with just enough friction to drive her into a frenzy, pulling her hard against his mouth as she climaxed, pulsing into him, onto him. Waves turned to ripples and he licked again, turning the tide back from ebb to flow, pulling her to her feet, bending her over the sofa. She could feel him behind her, the hard length of him nudging against her.
    Ewan rubbed himself against the perfect white cheeks of her bottom, his hand cupping her, feeling her rippling, so achingly arousing on his palm. He could see her, dark pink and wet as he entered, slowly, pushing in between layers of heat and damp, her muscles pulling him in, feeling her parting, gripping, holding him as he pushed in and in and in, all the while watching himself as he thrust into her, feeling as if every fibre of his body was being set ablaze.
    Belle clung to the back of the sofa. Her knees were pressed against its edge. Ewan’s legs pressed into the backs of hers. Rough hair. His breathing heavy. His hands clutching. Higher than before he was going,more and more until there was no more and he paused tantalisingly. She pushed back against him, gripped him, experimentally rocked back and forth, loving the way even such a tiny movement rippled inside her. He felt thick and hard and high.
    Ewan withdrew then plunged in again with that same deliberate, excruciatingly exciting slowness. It became another battle; the need to keep him inside her, to stop him withdrawing, to hold him. And she was winning. He was thrusting harder now, faster. She could feel the delightful slap of him against her bottom as he bucked. She could tell from the way he seemed to expand inside her that he was close. She felt her own muscles contract in response. An echo of her climax or a continuation or something new, she didn’t care, except it whirled her away unexpectedly, and immediately she felt him shuddering in response, a thrusting becoming a pounding becoming a release, and she felt him spilling into her and she moaned his name without realising, holding him vicelike to feel and feel and feel as he spent himself.
    Afterwards, he