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“They should be able to talk some sense into each other.”

“You are making me feel better.”

“I feel pretty good myself,” she whispered.

Cas let her breathy gasp reverberate through him. Seconds, he waited seconds, savouring the sensation of breathing in time with her, feeding the lick of arousal into a flame, before he closed the gap. He caught her lower lip between his teeth, nibbling, then swallowing her moan of pleasure. Her scent surrounded him, pure Beatriz, and he wanted to shout his gratitude that she was here with him—a woman he liked as much as he lusted after.

She pressed closer, open-mouthed, demanding entry. Pliant in his arms, a sweet armful of woman. Textures, she was a mass of textures—silky hair, satin-soft skin, the polished texture of her silk waistcoat—and his hands raced everywhere, wanting to imprint the sensations on his mind. Then, he lost himself in the kiss. Kisses, one leading to the next, straining to be closer. Better than in the café, better than their gentle exchange at the picnic. No one was watching, so they were free to run riot. Her hand slid under his shirt, her fingers trailed across his midriff, walked toward his nipple, and he sucked in a breath.

“We’re not actually going anywhere tonight, Beatriz.” He drew back, resting his forehead on hers. His breathing was ragged, his restraint shredded, but this was Beatriz. He was holding on tight to decency, or fairness or something. He didn’t want Beatriz regretting this in the morning, regretting him.

“Damn you.”

“We’re making out.”

“You do that when you’re a kid in the back of your parents’ car.”

“Substitute Anna’s flat for parents’ car.”

“You’d better lock your door.” She wound her fingers through his hair and tugged. Hard.

Already aroused, the vibrations left his cock aching.What did you say?

“Pardon?” He stared at her.

“I’ve nearly walked through the last few nights.”

“What were you wearing?” Stupid question when he’d just torture himself with images and fantasies of her later. Beatriz had left him more familiar with his right hand than he’d been in months.

“Sometimes, I’m naked.” She breathed.

“Textures.” He swallowed a moan. “I fantasise about the taste and feel of your skin.”

“Me too,” she confessed. “That’s why I toy with the idea of layers. A voile dressing gown then a sheer silk shoestring-strapped negligee before you find skin.”

“I like the way you think,” he groaned. “We’ll take it slowly.”

“We started with four weeks and the clock’s been ticking. Define slowly.”

“Have I warned you I’m a procrastinator?” Cas was holding on to his control by a fingernail.

“I don’t believe you. You’re thoughtful, deliberate, delicious.”

He surrendered to another kiss.