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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.”