on the one thing she oughtn’t.
He’d kissed her.
That’s what filled her thoughts. She had bigger,
more immediate problems. She’d almost died. She had
no business thinking about his mouth on hers, no business thinking that eleven years of naughty dreams
should have made his kiss mundane. But she couldn’t
seem to stop obsessing about that single point.
He’d kissed her.
Twice.
The first kiss, the one before the fire genies had
come, had been hot and wet and deep. Exactly the way
she’d thought it would be. It had sent a flash flood of
lust drumming through her.
But the second kiss was the one that cut her open
and laid her bare. Because that’s what he’d done out
there on the forest floor when he’d pressed his mouth
to hers and let her feel his emotions.
He’d cut himself open, laidhimselfbare.
His every thought had been in the touch of his lips
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and the thrust of his tongue and the taste of his blood
shared between them. Desperation. Rage. Futility. She
had tasted his emotions, blending with her own.
That kiss had been something more than she’d ever
dreamed about, and the thought of finding out what that
something more might be scared the shit out of her.
She realized she was still staring at his mouth. And
he was staring at hers.
“What?” he murmured. “Nearly dying cranks your
