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He raises an eyebrow. “Bloody hell, I’m not taking photos of my cock when it’s soft. That’d be fucking weird.”

I don’t know why he feels so strongly about this point, but the forcefulness of his statement makes me laugh. I’ve seen his penis when it’s soft—not for a long time, admittedly—but I remember it being really quite lovely.

“Anyway,” he says in a low voice, “you were always the one who took the lead in the teasing, but when we actually . . . you know . . . I was in control. You said sex was years away”—he smirks, not believing me for a second—“but just so you’re aware, when I’ve been taking these pics, I’ve been thinking very carefully about what I’m going to do to you when it finally happens. I’ve got it all planned out, and trust me, it’s going to make every fantasy you’ve ever had seem pretty fucking tame.”

He holds my gaze, and my pulse quickens at the raw hunger I see there. I remember that look well—it’s been so long last I last saw it.

He licks his lips. “You’re right to keep me waiting, but the longer you put it off, the more worked up I’ll get, and so the more details I’ll add to my plan. It’s already pretty extensive. If you resist for too long, there’ll be so much we need to fit in, we won’t be able to leave the bed for days.”

His words send a wave of heat straight to my core. The wine has loosened me up, and this promise turns me on more than I care to admit. I can almost feel his hands on me already, guiding me through every wicked scenario he’s imagined. My heart races at the thought of him pushing himself inside me, filling me completely. I clench my thighs together and bite my lip, desperately trying to focus on something else, but it’s impossible with him looking at me like he wants to devour me.

God, given our history, I absolutely cannot cave to Lewis any time soon. Like I said to him by text, we have to work on the other parts of our relationship—the romance, the bits we didn’t explore enough when we were younger. But for how long will I be able to resist him? On future dates I really must go easier on the wine. Because the way I’m feeling right now, it would be all too easy to let him do what he wants to me.

Lewis lifts his water and takes a very long sip, staring out the window as he does so, like he’s trying to calm himself down. When he eventually lowers his glass, he meets my gaze again and winks. “Anyway . . . shall we look at the dessert menu?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

IONA

Perched high on its rocky throne, Edinburgh Castle stands proudly above Scotland’s capital city, watching over the bustle of people and cars on this crisp late October morning. For the past ten minutes, I’ve been convinced that it’s to the historic fortress that Lewis is leading us—but no. We walk on past it and continue along one of the Old Town’s picturesque streets, lined on either side with tall, narrow buildings made of weathered stone.

“So . . . our mystery date isn’t at the castle.”

“Nope.” Lewis grins. “And I’m not giving you any clues, so stop fishing.”

He’s ridiculously upbeat, considering we left Bannock at six this morning. Then again, he’s used to getting up early. Me, less so. I’ve only just finished my second coffee of the day, but I’m still sleepy. I don’t want to come across as ungrateful, given he’s whisked me away for the weekend, but to justify the early start, this surprise—whatever it is—better be bloody good.

We’ve left our overnight bags in the car for now, but Lewis has a large—and heavy-looking—rucksack on his back. He’s being tight-lipped about its contents, so it must relate to the date somehow, but I can’t think what could be in there.

“Are we going on . . . a picnic?”

He laughs. “You’ll never get it, so there’s no point guessing. But trust me, you’re going to love it.”

There’s a boyish energy about him today, and tired though I am, there’s something infectious about it. I think he’s excited because he has a Saturday and Sunday off from the hotel—the others are covering for him. He’s a bit like a kid on the first day of the summer holidays, with no more school for weeks.

Or . . . maybe there’s another reason he’s buzzing.

“I’d like to make clear, once again, that you will not be getting lucky this weekend, Lewis. As I told you, sex is years away.”

It’s been a month since we went to the Glen Garve Resort for dinner, and since then I’ve insisted that Lewis dial down the romance when organising dates. We need to focus on re-establishing our friendship, and at the resort we got way too hot and bothered. I blame the wine. And the fact we were both dressed up and looked so damn good. The orgasmic food and opulent surroundings didn’t help either.

“Don’t worry, we’re not sharing a bed tonight. We’ve each got our own.” He nudges my shoulder playfully.

We’ve not yet kissed, but he’s not above trying to fit in a bit of physical contact where he can. To be fair to him, though, it’s always innocent.

“I know the rules,” he adds. “Nudity is strictly for photographs only.”

By now I have enough images of Lewis’s penis that I could, if I wished, compile a rather risqué coffee-table book—it’d certainly be a conversation starter. I think I’d call it Dick Pics: A Visual Journey.

Much like our dates, the sending of such photos has become less overtly sexual and more playful—if that’s not too odd a thing to say. I tweaked the rules because, really, how many “regular” pics do you need to see of a guy’s dick? Once you’ve seen a few, you’ve seen them all, right? That’s why I now give Lewis a little more time along with a challenge, like Make it look like something else or Include a prop I wouldn’t be expecting or Take it with your kilt on (but no boxers, obvs).

And you know what? It’s so fun! I always look forward to seeing what he comes up with, and wow, he has quite the creative streak. Now that we’re both over the initial naughtiness of the game, I find I mainly giggle at the pictures rather than being turned on by them, but Lewis is okay with that. He sees the funny side too. I love that he’s never taken himself too seriously in front of me that way—I can’t imagine many guys are as uninhibited.

We continue walking, leaving Edinburgh’s Old Town behind us and entering the more modern area of the West End.

“Whatever you’ve organised, I doubt it’ll top the last date,” I comment.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure.”