"I missed this," he murmurs against my mouth. 

His tongue strokes and tangles itself around my own as he continues to move deep inside me.  Pushing against my insides so hard that I feel stretched to the limit, just on the very cusp of pain and pleasure. His size and how he fits so tightly inside me always makes every movement of him so much more intense. His movements practised, timed, perfectly in tune with my own. Drawing out my pleasure to a building, explosive crescendo. 

How Aidan plays my body never fails to amaze me, like it's an instrument he mastered long ago.  One touch of his fingers in any given place can make it play the most beautiful note.  One touch of his mouth makes me sing in pleasure.  How is it that he knows how to pleasure me this quickly?   It took Oliver months to learn that I needed to be fucked hard if he was on top, and slow if I was.  It took him almost a year to decide that he didn't particularly care.  

Yet, Aidan does none of the things I thought were necessary for me to enjoy sex.  Aidan had rewritten everything, and every time with him felt more intense and more exquisite than the last.   It's dangerously addictive.  It should feel wrong. 

God, I never want it to stop.

"You did?"  I pant.  He circles his body so that his thrusts slow but still hit deep inside me on each one. 

"Mhm, you're fucking addictive you know."

How strange for him to say this when I was thinking the very same thing.  Is he inside my mind too? 

I close my eyes and drop my head back onto the couch. We hadn't made it to the bedroom.  He'd pushed me inside the house and onto the couch where he'd peeled me out of my clothes.  He'd managed not to tear my underwear this time, which was both considerate and disappointing at the same time.

I'm sorry about that," I lie.  I want him to miss me.  To want me desperately. Since he was free to miss and want me, perhaps he could do it for both of us?

"Fuck, Eloise," Aidan groans as his body tenses.  I wrap my legs tighter around his body and pull him deeper into me, desperate to hasten his orgasm even though there's a chance it'll prevent my own.  If he hadn't already made me come with his mouth then I might be doing things a little differently.   As it is I want to feel him come inside me hard and violent. I want to feel his strong, lean body shaking with the force of it as he does.  "Look at me," he says, his mouth close to mine but not on it.  My eyes spring open and I stare up into his large grey blue ones. 

Like always they take my breath away.  So open and emotive and intense that I swear I can see his soul in them.  I'd never believed that stupid cliché that eyes were the windows to the soul.  People hid things behind their eyes all the time; I was a master at it. I knew it could be done and done well.

Aidan's eyes were the exception to that rule.  It explains why at this moment I think about his dead mother and the image of him as a terrified heartbroken child.  Wrong bloody moment, Eloise.

"I'm looking," I whisper with a smile, my breathing short and shallow.  I see the concentration and exertion on his face as he continues to fuck me, as he continues to fight against his climax. He brings his hand up and holds the side of my face with it, palm to cheek.

"Tell me how I make you feel," he says.  He thrusts harder and I cry out. "Tell me how this feels." He slides his thumb into my mouth and the salty spice of his skin explodes deliciously on my tongue.  I feel my own orgasm building, rushing at me, and I bite down hard on the soft pad of his thumb before swirling my tongue around it.  Aidan smirks a little before removing his thumb and drawing it down over my breast.  He circles my raw aching nipple before pinching it hard and bringing it to his mouth. He shifts a little and suddenly I feel his fingers on the sensitive spot beside where his cock continues to move deep inside me. 

"My god, Aidan," I gasp, as my body spasms up off the sofa.  I grip his biceps hard, digging my nails into the soft sticky skin. 

"Tell me how this feels, Eloise," he repeats, panting hard now.  I have no idea why he needs me to answer this but it feels like its somehow about him missing this, and about how he hates that Oliver gets to have me whenever he wants, or maybe it's because he needs to know how it feels for me.

"Good, Aidan," I whisper.  "It feels so good."

He circles my clitoris with his thumb as he moves back and forth, in and out, deep and hard.  It's exquisite torture.  I'm going to come. 

"Aidan I'm... god."

My insides clench hard around him as the warm wet heat floods through me.  He gazes down at me with a rapt expression on his beautiful face as I ride out my orgasm around him.  He's hard and close and I can feel him throb inside me as he tries to contain himself.  Why is he trying to contain himself?

His pace has slowed but he continues to milk me with his fingers and lazy, rhythmic pushes and circles of his hips that cause my body to writhe and dance beneath him.   He feels so good. 

"I love feeling you coming around my cock, Eloise, fucking hell." He quickens his pace again and removes his fingers and brings both hands up to hold my face, his fingers wrapped around the back of my neck as he crushes his mouth to mine.   His body stills for an instant before he begins to empty himself into me, hot forceful thrusts that fill me up.   He grunts deliciously against my mouth, biting my lips with a tender force as he moves his hips into me slow and staggered now. "So good... you feel too fucking good," he tells me. 

I moan against his mouth as I squeeze the soft hard muscles of his behind with my fingers, before kissing my way across his cheek and down to his neck.  His beard is long today, longer than I've ever seen it, and it tickles the skin on my face as I graze my cheek against it, craving him. 

When his body finally slows to a stop, he buries his face into my neck and bites softly, before moving to settle next to me. He stays inside but shifts us both so that he doesn't crush me.  I close my eyes and concentrate on the breaths coming from his mouth, the way my chest rises and falls in time with his breathing, the way his cock spasms quietly inside.  Soon, I feel myself lulled into a sort of trance-like state as the weight of sleep and post-coital exhaustion settles over me. 

Just before I lose consciousness I hear him mutter something that sounds like, "So perfect. I knew it..." as he kisses the skin on my shoulder.

When I open my eyes again the large gorgeously decorated room is in muted half-darkness.  Aidan is snuggled close to me, head on my breast, and mouth distractingly close to my nipple.  I'm not sure if he just woke up too, or if he just now senses I'm awake, because he turns his head and gazes up at me with a soft smile. 

"I fell asleep," I smile back at him. He presses his mouth to my breast but keeps his eyes on me.

"I know, you were snoring like a drunk sailor,"

My eyes widen. "I was not. I don't snore!"  He gives me contradictory look and so I hit him lightly on the arm. "You're lying."

He shifts his position and moves up my body so that our faces are level.  Then he brushes a hand over my face, moving my hair out of the way and looks deep into my eyes.

"Yeah, I was," he admits.  "Kinda wish you did though."

"You wish I snored?" That makes no sense.

He draws his finger down the bridge of my nose and over the bump at the end to my lips.

"Yes, because then I wouldn't like sleeping with you so fucking much." He doesn't meet my eye as he says this, just watches the movement of his finger as it traces an outline around my lips and then moves down my chin to my throat. He doesn't want to like sleeping with me?  I feel a strange pulling sensation in my chest.

"Well, I've been known to fidget and talk sometimes," I whisper, still slightly stunned by his words.

"Well, maybe I'll get to witness that for myself at some point," he says and reaches his mouth up to mine.   When he kisses me it's slow and tender, and he twists his head to the side to deepen it.  He moans so softly in the back of his throat that I almost don't hear it, and like every time he moans as he kisses me, it has a warm clenching effect on the needy spot between my legs. 

When he pulls back from my mouth he licks his lips, before an extremely wicked looks spreads across his face.  "I contemplated fucking you with my mouth while you were asleep by the way." Oh my god. "Told you I was filthy." He doesn't look sorry about it, only mildly regretful. "I kinda liked the idea of waking you up like that."

Oh I like the idea of that too.

I swallow. "Why didn't you?" My voice is a hoarse, barely-there thing.

"Didn't know how you'd react."

"To your mouth down there?" I smile, "I think you know exactly how I'd have reacted."

He grins. "Point.  I'll remember that next time then." He brings his lips to mine again and kisses me rougher, biting on my bottom lip.  I wrap my arms around his neck and lose myself in the soft massaging motions of his mouth as it sucks at my tongue and lips.   He tastes so familiar now.  He tastes of Aidan.  A taste I'd never forget. 

He moves away from my mouth to my cheek and then my neck and I tilt my body up off the sofa into his. I'm desperate for him to be inside me again, desperate for us to be closer than we are currently, desperate to feel his skin under my nails and in my mouth, his body between my legs as he penetrated me. The extent of how much I want him is almost terrifying, as is how necessary he's beginning to feel to me, how vital.

My attraction and lust for him was like nothing I'd ever felt before.  Not for Oliver, not for anyone.  It makes me question what attraction is in its purest, basest form.  Animalistic, raw, needy.  All things I feel overwhelmingly about this man who isn't my husband.  It would fade.  This near obsession. It would fade. It had to. Because it terrified me. 

"I'm starving," Aidan murmurs against my neck before biting softly. From our position on the couch we have a perfect view of the Lake, and from here it looks as though the sun is slowly sinking into it.  

"You're always starving," I smile, turning my nose into the dense facial hair of his neck to inhale his scent, a scent that is almost drug-like in its effect on me.  I'm hungry too but I'm too sated and comfortable to actually move to see what's been left for us by Ted in the 'welcome basket'. Aidan settles next to me again so that we're lying side by side on the large red velvet couch.  I turn to face him so that our noses touch and our chests, stomachs and thighs are pressed against each other.  I can also feel the hardness of his erection pressed against me and it's distracting as always.

"Yeah, well if you want me to be this constant ray of sunshine then you have to feed me," he says as he strokes his fingers softly across my collarbone.  It makes my entire body tingle and shiver and I feel my nipples sharpen against his warm chest.

"Oh I have to feed you?" I smile.

"Yes, it's about bloody time you made me something to eat," he jokes. He actually has a point. 

I sigh dramatically. "Fine, but I don't know what there is. Ted said some basics.  We'll probably have to go shopping tomorrow. Let me go look." I go to move, but he stops me by placing a hand on my hip pushing me back down, enclosing me between him and the back of the couch.

"Changed my mind," he says, pressing his erection harder into my thigh "I'll starve."

I do a weird sort of half-moan half-giggle and let him fold me into his arms. I wrap my free arm around his body to scratch my nails across his perfectly round backside.  He kisses his way across my face with soft feather light kisses and moves us so that I'm forced to slide under his body, my legs falling open to let him settle between them again.  He lowers his head to my chest and takes a nipple into his warm wet mouth where he tugs and sucks at it, making me arch under him.  He flicks his tongue over it several times in steady torturous motions until my nipple feels heavy and sore, and then looks up to watch my reaction as he closes his mouth over it.   He does the same with the other and then gives me another of his wicked smiles and begins to move down my body to where my legs are open and my need for him the greatest.  

Suddenly, distractingly, a strangled sound escapes from Aidan's body, his stomach to be more precise.  He kneels up and my eyes widen as he looks up at me in surprise.  I purse my lips to stifle a laugh. 

"Now I feel guilty," I say. 

"You fucking well should." He runs his hand across his stomach and drops his head. "I'm about to keel over.  You've fucked me and starved me," he groans. "I'm your fucking sex slave aren't I?  That's why you brought me here?"  

I gaze down at his magnificent body, his shoulders broad, his arms strong and muscled, his pectorals pronounced and firm, his torso majestic and mouthwatering.  He'd make a glorious sex slave. 

Whilst his head is still down I sit myself up in front of him, ducking my head under to catch his mouth with mine. He kisses me back hungrily, growling as he does.  Probably because he's starving.  Because I've used him like a sex slave.  I want him to fuck me again.  I need to feed him first. 

I pull back from his mouth and he rubs his stomach again and pouts. 

It makes me smile. "You're a bloody drama queen, Aidan Foley," I shake my head.  "Let me go see what I can feed your poor emaciated form." I go to pull away but he keeps his arms wrapped around me, eyes twinkling with humour as he continues to pouts.  He pushes his stomach — and his erection — against the front of my body but finally relents and lets me get up from the couch. 

I grab the soft white blanket, which belongs to the couch but had been discarded onto the floor earlier, and wrap it around me before padding across the huge lounge into the kitchen area.  Behind me I hear him stand and begin moving around the room switching on some lamps. 

The kitchen is large and modern yet with a rustic feel and a large dining table that looks out onto the lake.  The fridge is double-sized and very American and along with a large eight-rung cooker dominates the space.  On the worktop near the fridge is a small wine rack holding three bottles of what looks to be red wine — well if anything at least we had alcohol. That should make him happy.

When I open the fridge I see a further three bottles of white wine and one bottle of champagne. There's butter, milk, some tomatoes, and a fairly large cheese board holding five or six different coloured cheeses.  I also spot a box of succulent looking olives and a selection of delicious looking meats.  In a cupboard I find a fresh seeded loaf of bread, some tea and coffee and various condiments.  I'm impressed, but since this place didn't come cheap I guess it wasn't just generosity on Ted's part.  In any case it's not what I'd consider 'some basics' — I could definitely do something with this. 

After I re-tie the blanket under my arms, knotting it at the front like a towel, I set about making a platter of almost everything in the fridge to feed my starving sex slave.

"White or red?" I shout, as I inspect the bottles of red in the small wooden wine rack.  An instant later I feel his mouth at my neck, then his arms slide around me.

"You're taking too long," he mumbles against me, kissing the nape of my neck before biting my shoulder gently.  The wiry hairs of his face tickle my skin and I twitch away from him, giggling.  "Fucking hell, this looks amazing," he reaches out and goes immediately for an olive and pops it into his mouth.  I smile in relief.

So Aidan likes olives.  Of course there's lots about him I don't know, but him liking olives is strangely important to me.  Almost critical.  Oliver also liked olives. I couldn't have married a man who didn't like olives.  Or cats.  I wonder if Aidan likes cats. 

"It's a pretty impressive use of the term basic welcome basket," I inform him and he nods. "Is there anything you can't or don't eat?" He gazes down at the large platter thoughtfully and shakes his head. 

"Only thing I can't eat is marmalade."

I frown. "Marmalade?"

When he looks at me he looks a little edgy. "Marmalade," he confirms.  "Even the name gives me the fucking creeps.  Can't touch the stuff.  Can't look at the stuff.  Especially the stuff with the little strips of orange peel in it - fucking evil." He visibly shudders.

I stifle a smile, pursing my lips to hold it in, not wanting to make fun of him.

"Ok, I'll try and remember that," I nod. "So there's no circumstances where marmalade is acceptable?"

"Fuck no.  Absolutely none.  I wouldn't eat it if it was—." He stops talking and his face softens. He drags his eyes lazily over my body as a dark hot look comes over his face.  "Okay, one. There's one circumstance where I would eat marmalade."

"Care to share?" I smile even though I'm certain I know what the circumstance is.

"If you were covered in it," he says.  The heat in his eyes makes me feel very very warm.  "You're the only circumstance where marmalade is acceptable."

"I'll try and remember that too," I whisper. 

Suddenly I hate Ted for not including marmalade in his 'basics'. 

"Red," he says, his eyes still dark with desire.  It takes me a minute to figure out what he's talking about because I'm still caught up in the image of Aidan licking his least favourite foodstuff from various parts of my body.  

As soon as I clear my head of the image I nod and turn to lift the bottle of Sangiovese from the rack and hand it to him. 

"The corkscrew is just there," I point behind him where I left it.  "Wine glasses are above your head."

When he turns away to open the wine I stare longingly at him.  He's pulled on his jeans, and without his worn brown leather belt they hang loosely around his hips, staying up only by the grace of gravity it seems.  The dimples of his lower back are perfectly symmetrical above the waistband.  The smooth golden expanse of his muscular back almost makes my nails curl and sharpen with the desire to mark it.  What on earth is wrong with me?  He'd be terrified if he knew the direction of my thoughts.

Turning back to the food I try and think of something else, something that doesn't involve consuming him like a succubus. I follow behind him with the tray as he carries both glasses and the bottle through into the living room, where he's arranged lots of cushions on the floor in a circle.  He's also put the fire on, which seems to be the only thing in the house that doesn't contain real wood.  It's one of those traditional looking wood burners but is, on closer inspection, electric.  It gives off a lovely warm light and a small proportion of heat, which is nice.  Even though it's not a cold night, the sweat from our earlier exertion has dried off now and I feel a slight chill. 

I place the large tray down in the middle of the circle of cushions as Aidan takes a seat, placing the bottle and two glasses next to the tray before stretching out on his side.

"I just need to go put something on," I tell him.

"Here, have this," he stretches over towards the couch and grabs his discarded blue T-shirt and hands it to me.  Wearing his clothes was becoming a habit.  Every time I did it felt more natural than the last, and more intimate too.  Aidan on the other hand looks as though he has no inward feelings about it at all.  He looks as though he's just solving a problem with the most obvious solution. I take the shirt from him and he moves back to the circle and lifts his red wine, taking a healthy sip before reaching for a piece of bread. 

In order to put his T-shirt on I'll need to drop the blanket entirely and stand naked whilst I pull it over my head.  Oh bloody hell, it's not like he hasn't seen everything already. I pull open the blanket and let it fall to the floor, then I feed my hands into the soft cotton of his t-shirt and drag it over my head.  The scent of him inside is overpowering.  Hot and male with a faint trace of sweat which makes my mouth water.  So even his sweat drives me insane. Good to know. When I re-emerge, I take a deep breath of normal, non-Aidan air, and brush my hair back from my face and move to sit down. 

I freeze. 

He's staring at me with his mouth slightly open, his eyes dark and heavy and his hand resting between his legs.  The look on his face is hunger, desire, and need and it settles my own concern at how I can't seem to look at him without wanting to ride him until he passes out. Because the look on his face is exactly the same one.  

"You're a fucking work of art, do you know that?" he says.  

I still can't move.  But I feel a ripple run over my whole body from his words.  He shakes his head and lifts his glass slowly to his mouth and drinks deep and slow, savouring the taste of the wine the way I want him to savour me.  In this moment I feel envious of that wine.  I hate that it gets to be in his mouth and be tasted and consumed by him.  I want to be consumed by him. 

"I know nothing about art, you know that," I tell him with a small smile as I sit down.

The side of his mouth twitches. "Well, I know a wee bit, and you're the most perfect thing I've ever seen."

Perfect. Christ. Perhaps he didn't see me for who I was after all. The weight of his stare is almost suffocating and I have to drop my eyes for a moment.  But like a magnet the intensity of it pulls my head back up. 

"I'm not perfect Aidan," I say quietly.

"Perfection's like art Eloise, subjective," he states.  

As we stare at each other Aidan seems to be daring me to disagree with him, though on which point I'm not entirely certain.  I reach across for my wine and pick up an olive and pop it into my mouth. It's succulent and delicious as is the wine. Fruity and easy and coats my throat deliciously as it goes down.

"Tell me about your book," he says, gentler.  "The one you came up here to write,"

I take another welcome gulp of my wine and watch him tear a piece of bread with his skilled fingers before wrapping it in cheese and then meat.  When I don't answer right away he looks up at me and urges me with a look.

"What do you want to know?" I stall.  Talking to Aidan about my writing made me feel like a fraud somehow.  Like he could see right through me to the talentless hack that I was.  I love writing but I love it for me, as a way of writing down all of the thoughts that made so much noise in my head.  Publishing it never seemed like much of a possibility. Who'd want to read what was in my head?  The day my book got published was exciting and terrifying.  Most of the words inside it were my thoughts and feelings and the idea of someone reading them made me feel exposed and vulnerable.  

Also the idea of talking to him about this specific book was uncomfortable given that he had become a cipher for one of my lead characters. 

"What's it about? Is it a sequel to your other one?" He asks conversationally as he munches away. His easy tone relaxes me. 

"It's kind of a sequel. It's an extension of some of the themes from the first one, some characters are the same, some different." I lift my glass again and sip, staring at him over the rim. 

"I liked the priest guy," he says as he gulps from his own glass.  He watches my eyes as they go wide and my mouth drops open. I feel my face flame and my mouth dry up.

"You read it?" Why hadn't he mentioned that on the train?  He'd let me go on and on about it and yet said nothing of the fact that he'd read it. 

He nods, and smiles softly.  "Yes," 

"Great. Thanks for the £7.99," I shake my head and look away, taking another long sip from my glass.  Yes, him having read my book makes me feel very exposed indeed.

"Found it in a toilet," he smirks and I cover my mouth to stop me spitting out my wine as I laugh. 

"You're a talented writer, Eloise," he says casually.  Somehow his casual tone, said as he drinks his wine and chews his bread, makes it feel all the more genuine and less awkward to accept.

"Says the man who doesn't read as much as he should," I smile.

"Well, I would read your stuff," he nods. "Ever thought about doing a screenplay?" 

I shake my head. "No, I haven't."

He nods and pops another olive into his mouth as he stares at me hard. "You should. I think you'd be great at it.  Your dialogue was great —most books I find get the dialogue so fucking wrong. Films too as it happens. But yours felt spot on. Your characters were believable, especially your female lead.  It wasn't really aimed at me I get that, but I found something in it.  You were born to write stories, Eloise."

I stare at him a long time.  So casual in the way he just made my heart sing.  His words weren't forced or because he felt obliged to compliment me.  So he said it for one of two reasons—he meant it.  Or two— he wanted to make me happy. 

"When did you realise you were born do what you do? You didn't give much away when I asked earlier?" I ask him.  His mouth tilts up coyly as he picks up his glass and drinks.   I love watching him eat or drink.  Like his hands, watching his mouth moving and doing things entices me.  There's a grace and elegance to everything he does, almost like watching a dance, as though his features are moving in time with a song I can't hear.  He's intoxicating to every single one of my senses: his voice, his smell, his taste, and his body to my touch. It was becoming increasingly clear that I'd rather look at him than any other single thing most of the time. 

He licks his lips as he considers his answer. "I don't think I was born good at anything to be honest," he says letting out a sigh.  "Brother, son, nephew, boyfriend, man." My ears catch on hardest to son and boyfriend for very different reasons. He was someone's boyfriend?  Of course he was Ellie.  What, you thought he was a monk?  "Being an 'artist' was something someone else labelled me as," he almost sneers the word 'artist'. "It's not what I am and it certainly doesn't mean I'm any good at it." I hold my breath because I want him to continue talking. He hasn't looked at me since he started talking about himself; he moves his eyes from his glass to the flickering glow of the fire. From here his profile is of a long straight nose — from the side his nose looks perfectly straight —and of smooth golden skin that contrasts deliciously with the hair on his face.  "And before you say anything, no, that's not humility, it's just how I feel about it."

When he looks back at me his eyes are serious but they twinkle with the light and the effects of wine.  If my memory is correct his cheeks should start to flush round about the second glass. 

"I read the article," I say quietly before taking a gulp of my wine.  I'd bought the magazine at the station and read his article as I'd waited for him. 

His expression flickers ever so slightly and then he nods and takes another long sip of his wine. I want to tell him that I'm sorry about his mother, but I hate when people tell you they're sorry whenever something bad happens to you. It's awkward and requires you to tell them not to be. I feel like it puts the responsibility on you to comfort them. So I don't tell him I'm sorry. 

"I don't want to talk about it," he says. His voice isn't harsh but it may as well be. He doesn't want to talk about it.  Like on the train he didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to talk to me about his life in any meaningful way. He could talk about it in interviews with strangers but not with me. I feel my spine stiffen again, like it did on the train when he shut me out.  Was I just sex to him then? Was that all this was? That's all it can be.

I nod and down the rest of the glass before moving to refill it. After I've filled mine over halfway, I reach out the bottle to him and he takes it and refills his own. 

"It's good," he says, inspecting the bottle.  "Will I open another one?"

"If you like," I mutter, feeling bruised. In fact a lot of red wine right now seemed like a good idea. Maybe this whole thing was a mistake.  I feel foolish again, like I did at Nicole's dinner party when I had to watch him flirt with Sasha. I feel silly and immature. 

Oblivious to my thoughts, Aidan lifts himself from the floor and disappears into the kitchen. Would him talking and opening up to me really mean I meant more to him?  Probably not. He's a fortress. That much I'd gleaned in the short time I'd known him. His art was how a man like that expressed himself, and he'd had to give that interview to promote his art.   I knew that's how these things worked.  Most likely he didn't want to talk about himself to that pretty journalist either. Most likely he hated it, in fact.

By the time he comes back and sits down next to me I'm feeling a little lighter about the whole thing. He sits the corkscrew and bottle of red in the middle of the pillowed circle and stretches back out, so that he's lying and I'm sitting up peering down at him. 

"I'm glad you invited me," he says shoveling a few more bits and bobs into his mouth.  "I like it here."

"Well, like you said, not like you had much else on."

He sits up again and reaches for the corkscrew and begins opening the wine. "Not much. Mainly I'd planned on fucking you for the next four days.  Can do that just as easy here," he shrugs and lifts his to mine, his eyes twinkling again. "Probably better actually.  No distractions."

My entire body ripples with something warm and Aidan-infused.  "Are you always straightforward?" I manage.

"Depends."

"On what?"

"On what you consider to be straightforward.  You have no idea what I'm holding back here," he chuckles sexily.  "Don't want to offend your delicate ears."

"Try me." My breathing is so short and my thighs and belly feel tightly clenched. I reach out my glass to let him refill it, then I hold his eye and drink, slowly, seductively. The smile spreading across his face is wicked and tempting. 

He lets out a sigh and licks his lips. "Ok, well don't say I didn't warn you."

"Promise."

Another flicker runs over his eyes and his mouth twitches. "I want your perfect mouth wrapped around my cock, Eloise.  Pretty much as soon as possible.  It's distracting. I literally haven't thought about anything else in the last ten minutes. Watching you eat turns me on."

My face flames as I stare at him.  I can't look away.  I stare into his eyes as he stares into mine and I imagine my mouth wrapped around his cock.  Because the wine is going to my head I decide to flirt a little, and so I drop my eyes and look up at him from behind my lashes biting my bottom lip softly.  Aidan spreads his legs a fraction and leans back on his elbows, clearly deciding to see my flirt, and raise it. 

"Delicate ears unoffended," I tell him.  "But thanks for the warning.  More than you gave me earlier when you told me what you wanted to do to me while I was asleep," I point out.

He nods as he drinks. "I'm a filthy bastard remember. But I meant what I said, you'd be surprised by the amount I hold back," He smirks.  

Jesus I want him. Would I? I want his cock in my mouth.  I wish he'd fucked me with his while I was asleep.  He continues to make me loose and wanton and I feel no worse for it.  I feel alive and vital and very desired.

"I'm honestly not sure I would be." I move my legs, spreading them so that he can see a little but not a lot. 

His eyes drop down and his tongue slides out to lick his bottom lip. When he angles his head to the side for a better look, I widen them a little more. "Fucking hell.." he groans.

"How hard are you right now?" I ask, ensuring that when I move to lift my wine, his t-shirt rides a little more up my legs. His eyes seem to ignite, as though he's shocked by my straightforwardness.  How ironic.

"Pretty fucking hard," he admits.  His voice is a low rough growl.  The one that makes him sound very Irish.  Christ, I love when he sounds like that. 

Before I take a sip of the thick red, I lick my lips. "Show me." I have no idea who I am right now.  I'm half-starved, half-drunk and fully turned on and the need to consume him has abated none. 

Aidan stares at me a few moments before gently setting his glass down on the floor beside him and bringing his hands to the button on the front of his dark blue jeans.  My mouth waters as he unbuttons the top button and begins to unzip.

Then, very gently, he reaches into his jeans and pulls himself out. The sight of him causes my stomach to somersault wildly, thirst flooding my tongue.  He's very hard and his large edible erection is wet at the tip making it glisten in the soft glow of the fire.  He says nothing as he strokes his thumb over it, watching me intently as I flick my gaze from his eyes to his cock and back again. 

"Well, that's informative," I smile, sipping delicately on my wine once more.  My heart has started to hammer though and I feel a warm delicious heat unfurl across my stomach and thighs.  I need him right now.  The space between my legs has started to throb with need, a steady pulsating reminder of what it's missing.

"So, should I put it away or do you have plans for it?"  He smirks, the side of his beautiful neat mouth lilting.

Decisively, I take one last sip from my glass and place it behind me.  I can't crawl towards him like some sort of lap dancer come porn cliché, so as I contemplate how to get to him, I drop my gaze to his cock again and lick my lips.  The wine is delicious but I know he's even more so.

"If only you were a little closer," I sigh. 

Aidan moves immediately, somehow managing to slide his body along the floor with grace.  He settles himself when his hips are parallel with mine, and that all I need do is lower my head and my mouth.  The need to taste him is urgent now. I want all of him. I want to pleasure him with my mouth until he explodes from pleasure into it.  I place my hands on his thighs and slide them upwards to grip the base of him which is smooth and hard in my hands. 

"Fuck," he groans as I begin to move my hand, the faint pulsating between my fingers matching the one between my legs.  I give him one last look and lower my head. 

Aidan raises himself up on his elbows to watch me and the idea of it only turns me on further.  As soon as the taste of him explodes on my tongue I feel his whole body react, his legs spreading wider, his back arching, his throat releasing a deep male groan. 

Then my mobile rings.  It's Oliver's ring tone.