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Fletcher stared into her eyes for an interminable moment, the seconds dragging by in concert to the bees.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

Then with a small smile playing around the edges of his lips, his eyelids drifted shut, and he covered her mouth with his.

Bliss. Pure bliss.

Rayne released a ragged sigh and, looping her arms about his corded neck, sagged into him and kissed him back.

His tongue lazily played with hers, tasting and exploring.

Unlike the disgusting kiss forced upon her when she was fifteen, he didn’t plunge his tongue into her mouth and make her gag. Nor did he roughly grope her breasts or mash her bottom.

He tasted of mint and fruit and Fletcher—not onions and spirits and unbrushed teeth.

Wanting their kiss to go on forever, Rayne melted further into him—until she was unsure where she ended and he began. She lost track of time—lost track of what was right and wrong. Forgot to be afraid or worry about her reputation.

And that was saying something indeed.

Fletcher was her world—her universe. He was all that mattered at this moment.

Every minute they spent in each other’s arms made her want more. Like a woman starved, she took everything he generously offered, and it still wasn’t enough.

“Fletcher,” she moaned against his mouth, arching into him.

At last, he broke away and, with his forehead pressed against hers, his breathing rasping and fitful, he said, “Nae more, lèannan. I canna control myself with ye. Ye are intoxicatin’. An irresistible aphrodisiac, Rayne Wellbrook.”

Intoxicating? An aphrodisiac?

Her?

Me?

And just like that, in the blink of an eye, as bees and butterflies drank nectar from fat blossoms, two more pieces of her heart became his.

It wasn’t until she lay in her bed late that night, reliving their kisses, that she recalled he’d never told her the what else she’d asked about.

What secret did he guard as fervently as she guarded hers?