His lips met mine. Devastatingly soft. Not an iota of hesitation.
He tasted of wood smoke and fine brandy. Under notes of pine and cream and arrogant British lord.
And . . .
And—
He waskissingme.
All my angst and confusion and scary feelings about him suddenly found an outlet.
I let it all go.
I arched into him, the mace can dropping from my fingers as they suddenly found a better reason to exist. My greedy fingers tangled in his silky hair. Muscled arms tightened around me.
Dimly, I noted the clankingsha-shunkof a camera shutter, the crunch of feet on gravel, the roar of a car motor leaving.
But I couldn’t care.
Jack washere.
Real. Substantial. Strong.
I was holding him. Blood pulsed underneath my hand against his neck. A heart thumped in the chest I was plastered against. Air moved in and out of his lungs, breathing life into me.
I couldn’t get enough. My hands roamed his body, eagerly pressing against ribs and collarbone and flexing biceps. I dipped two fingers inside the open collar of his shirt—possibly popping a button or two—marveling at the texture of him.
And still we kissed. Nip. Press. Repeat.
“Chiara mia.” His voice rumbled through our combined bodies. “Beautiful. Sweet.”
For the record . . . Jack Knight-Snow was one hell of a kisser. Did they teach kissing at Lord School, too?
I may or may not have moaned.
But . . . could anyone blame me?
I was melting into him. Drowning in glorious Jack goodness.
Abruptly, he released me.
I gasped, lurching forward. My body cried out in protest.
“Wha . . .?” I managed to gulp.
I raised my head, meeting Jack’s translucent pale blues just inches from my own.
Oh.
His gaze held so much . . . tenderness, sorrow, pain.
He lifted a ghost hand toward my face, mouth moving.
“What?” I leaned toward him. “What is it, Jack?”
His voice barely reached me, a whisper of sound:
“I’m going to pass out now.”
