Once upon a time, a small girl watched jealously as her mother was gifted a fancy box of chocolates.

She continued to stare at that box, covetously, as days turned into weeks, and it went on to sit untouched - and apparently unwanted - on the kitchen table. She pined over those chocolates more than she had longed for anything else in her young life. Craved them.

One day, left alone in the kitchen, she decided enough was enough. "Just the one," she told herself. "And, if mum notices the box is open - if she ever even tries to open it, that is - I'll just tell her I don't know anything about it."

She opened the box as carefully as she could, slyly peeling back the tape with her chubby little fingers. Determined to make it look as untouched as possible. Eyes wide in delight at the eight perfect pieces of chocolate sitting in front of her, she selected "just the one" and replaced the box precisely in its original spot.

Only to return ten minutes later for another one.

And another.

When her mum came looking for her daughter, concerned because she'd been so uncharacteristically quiet, she discovered the girl next to an empty box, hands and guilty face smudged with melted chocolate.

That girl was, of course, me.

It appears that as an adult, I haven't changed much. And not just because of my chocoholic tendencies: I'm talking about my apparent inability to stop after "just the one".

Because, back in our fancy suite, in the present, the hand-holding is gradually morphing into something else. Something far less innocent.

It starts off with the most basic of actions, initiated by yours truly - I find myself leaning my head against Lewis' shoulder, and I hear him suck in a juddery breath. His counter-move is to lightly trail his free hand up and down my arm, and I accidentally emit a contented sigh. We're contained within a pleasant yet scary bubble of palpable tension, protected from the outside world. But the building pressure is beginning to suck the oxygen out of this contained space, and my own breath is becoming increasingly shallow.

I'm really trying to concentrate on the witty repartee taking place on the screen in front of us, but most of my attention has been diverted by his touch. Every fibre of my being is telling me: "one more won't do any harm" and I'm trying to resist, but it's like that damn box of chocolates is sitting in front of me all over again.

"Ruby?" His voice is gruff in my ear and thick with longing. Both syllables of my name hang in the close space between us, dripping in meaning.

"Yeah?" I seem to be struggling with my speech again. It's very unsettling when words have always been the one weapon I've had in my arsenal to use against him: now they fail me completely. I raise my head, turn to face him, and he swallows hard, dark eyes intent on mine. Fire burns within the irises, threatening to consume me. His hand tentatively reaches for my face.

"Can I . . ." he begins hesitantly. I don't let him finish. I already know his question.

And I already know my answer.

"Yes."

Our lips meet in one synchronised rush of breath, and everything goes hazy around me as I lose myself in the sheer pleasure of it all. It's somehow hot and sweet and gentle and desperate all at once. His tongue swirls briefly around mine, and it seems so fucking fitting that we both taste of chocolate right now.

I could feast on him forever.

We've kissed for display purposes already, and as a prelude to and during sex . . . But this is a whole new level. He's treating it like the main event; an art form. I'm his muse, and I guess he is mine now, too, because I've never felt this lit up inside from such a simple act.

I guess the main difference though between this kiss and those other kisses is something even more important though - this is the first since we've admitted (albeit indirectly) that we both have feelings for each other. And somehow that makes it the most powerful kiss, the most mind-blowing, that I've ever experienced.

Yet another frightening realisation to add to the collection, folks!

"Didn't we agree that what happened last night was a one-off?" he asks softly as we briefly pause for breath, mouths hovering centimetres apart.

"Is that what you want?" I pull back slightly, heart sinking as I'm suddenly very much aware that my own words could prove to be a deal breaker here. Damn you, past me!

Lewis shakes his head. "I never wanted that." His lips graze my cheek as he traces my bottom lip lightly with his finger, and a shiver of happy anticipation tiptoes its way down my spine. "I agreed to it because I thought it might be my only chance to be with you." He sounds uncertain, unsure: he probably knows it's risky to admit such a thing around the emotionally jumpy kitten that I am.

And - sure enough - my heart lurches nervously at his confession, like a tiny boat adrift in the middle of the treacherous North Sea. There's no land for miles, no life jacket, no way to escape. I have to trust Lewis to help me navigate these dangerous waters safely and to make sure the waves don't overcome me.

I dive back in. Just one more.

"Round two, then. Let's go, big guy!" I decide, doing my best to keep my voice light and teasing, and I can hear the relief in his laughter, as I pull him to his feet and we race to the bedroom.

Ding ding ding! The gloves are off, and we're back in the ring. But this is nothing like a boxing match. It's slow and romantic; tentative movements as we start to explore each other. Don't get me wrong; round one was excellent. But the second round . . . Oh god, it's like exquisite torture!

It feels as if he's testing me, mouth and hands roving slowly over my body, finding my sensitive spots and targeting them. Taking the time to get to know each part intimately, making mental notes of what makes me moan. Then his soft mouth brushes my neck as one finger slips inside me, sweeping lightly against my clit. My breath hitches loudly, and his delighted chuckle vibrates against my collarbone.

"I would never get tired of making you gasp like that, Ruby," he murmurs, and my insides clench involuntarily because that sounds scarily like a promise. My back arches as he increases the pressure and brings his lips back to mine for a kiss. I'm so ready to come undone, on the verge of a precipice. "Lewis, I'm so close," I manage to say.

"Not so fast." His voice is wicked now as he pulls his hand away, and I cry out in frustration. He still likes to tease me, apparently, whatever the situation!

Thankfully, he's only paused to retrieve a condom, to slide inside me, and then his fingers are back exactly where I need them. Tracing gentle yet determined circles around my core; manipulating me in the nicest possible way. I close my eyes and let myself just feel. His skin is warm and soft against mine, and he seems to fill me perfectly. My head drops back involuntarily, a silent invite for him to press a constellation of kisses along my throat. "Fuck!" I hiss as my body gives in and bucks against him. He surrenders seconds after me, and we collapse in a heap together.

We lie in silence for a moment. I think we're both wondering what's next: this was the point everything went tits-up (pardon the expression!) last night, after all. "What's the main feeling tonight, then?" he asks eventually. "Regret or relief?"

I stare at the ceiling, biting my lip, debating how honest to actually be. "I guess relief, again," I say finally. "But not the same type as last night."

He rolls over onto his side, his gaze black and intense. I have to look away; I can't be caught in that forcefield any longer. "What do you mean?"

I grimace, trying to organise my thoughts. "Yesterday I was thinking 'oh good, it's out of my system'. Then I realised it really wasn't. That I wanted to do it again."

"So now you're relieved we did?" he surmises quietly. Wariness shadows his tone. "And is that . . . It now? Was round two the knockout? Game over?"

"I don't know," I reply. "My head is a mess at the moment. This . . . Whatever this is . . . It's flipped everything I thought I felt. I'm struggling. Suddenly, it seems that I might . . . Like you?"

I glance furtively at him, and I can tell he's struggling not to smile. "Aw, you do?" he asks teasingly, a glimmer of naughty pixie shining through. "That must be really difficult for you."

"Just a tad," I nod. "I wasn't expecting to have feelings."

Lewis sniggers. "I wasn't expecting you to have feelings either," he jokes. I growl at him, and he winces apologetically. "So . . . Are you going to let me stay with you tonight?"

"God, you really have been playing the long game to get to sleep in this bed, haven't you?" I tut, but I can't help the grin that spreads across my face. It felt wrong when he left last night - I realise now that was one of the parts that upset me the most. Deep down, I'd wanted him to stay.

"There's something I haven't told you," he whispers a few moments later, after we've slid under the covers, and he's flicked the light off.

"What is it?" I ask shakily, into the darkness. I'm not sure I'm ready for any big revelations tonight - the events of the last few days have proved shocking enough!

He moves closer, draping an arm over me. His breath feathers heat across the shell of my ear. "A Rubik's Cube has always been my favourite puzzle to solve," he says softly.

And, suddenly, I don't hate that nickname anymore.

So . . . How are we feeling???