And he kissed me . . . slow. Agonizingly, maddeningly, painfully slow.

I loved kissing. I also loved what it usually led to, but I was especially loving this part with Leo. The beginning, when everything is new and exciting, and everything in the entire world boils down to sweet feathering lips and quiet sighs. When the stars fade and the earth ceases to turn, its axis forgotten in the wake of things like: which way will you lean and which way will my neck naturally turn, and is it possible that I can actually detect your fingerprints, because my skin seems so alive right now and my nose just brushed yours and the tiny groan that just rumbled from deep in your chest is the most erotic sound imaginable, and gee your hair smells terrific.

I kissed him and he kissed me, and in that country kitchen we kissed for a thousand years. Or at least fifteen solid minutes. That’s a long time for just kissing . . . or not nearly enough. No above-the-shirt or below-the-buckle action, no thrusting or grinding. Just kissing. My hands stayed on his shoulders. And a little bit in his hair. His hands stayed on my waist. And a little bit on my bum. Except for that glorious moment when they came up to cup my face in his hands, tracing his thumbs over my cheekbones and turning my face so that he could tickle my neck with his lips.

Slow and lazy, unhurried and some kind of wonderful, his tongue dipped against mine again and again, and I could feel little prickles and tingles all along my spine. And by little prickles and tingles I mean Katy Perry–sized fireworks, my body waking up under his hands and wanting more, needing more. If his mouth alone could do this, what might happen when other parts were involved? I felt lust tug low in my belly, pooling in my blood, threatening to run wild across my body.

I pulled back from him, my lips swollen, the area around my mouth tickled hot from his beard. My head tipped back a bit, seeming to float along, my body knowing what to do even if my mind didn’t quite understand exactly what I was feeling. The feeling underneath all the swimmy and silly and tipsy from the farmer, the feeling that something epic and unusual was happening. Leo followed me back, his lips tracing a path down my neck, licking and sucking and groaning as his hands now came up to carefully thumb open one button on my shirt, and then the next.

He looked up at me, his eyes heavy and dark and thrilling. He raised an eyebrow, I nodded, and he began to peel the edges of my shirt back, revealing an edge of lace. And as he bent his head back to me, his lips barely brushing the tops of my breasts, I knew exactly where I was hoping this would go—and exactly the conversation I needed to have before it went there. Losing myself, and my fingers, in his hair, I murmured in a low voice, “Leo?”

“Mmm?” he replied, his lips tickling my throat.

“Remember what we were talking about earlier, about love at first sight, and relationships and Prince Charming and all that?”

“Mm-hmm,” he said, turning those blazing eyes up toward me. “Prince Charming, sure. Were you going to ask to see my sword or something?”

I could feel his grin; it was wide enough to touch the tops of both my left and right breasts. I giggled in spite of myself, then tried to use my big girl voice. “You know I’m only here for the summer, right?”

“I’m aware. Were you aware you had a freckle in between your—”

“I’m aware,” I said, groaning, my skin buzzy and tight. “But, the summer—”

“Yes, you’re here for the summer. And only the summer. You mention that a lot. Do you turn into a pumpkin in September or something?”

I grinned, but then turned serious again. “I mention it a lot because I like things to be clear-cut and aboveboard, with no messy misunderstandings later on. So, you should know I don’t really get involved. Actually, I don’t at all get involved.”

He stopped the kissing and the awesome, and lifted his face to look at me. Really look at me. He seemed to be studying me, trying to figure out what I was thinking, and what I wasn’t saying. And even though I’d had this conversation with men before, this time I felt a . . . curious sort of twinge. But before I could marinate on it, he nodded. Then he returned his lips to my collarbone, and I twinged no more. And as his mouth grew heated across my skin again, as I felt my hips begin to move against his, my phone rang from across the room.

I groaned, leaning back against the table as he looked across the kitchen.

“Do you need to get that?” he asked, his hands slipping back down to my waist and tugging me against him, holding me closer. Yes, closer!

“No, I don’t think so,” I replied, sinking my hands into his hair. Thick and silky, it curled naturally over my fingertips. We played a silent waiting game as the phone rang three times before finally going to voice mail. And in that time, we breathed together, my chest rising in time with his.

I bent over to kiss the top of his head, and he moaned. “You should do that again,” he murmured into my skin.

“Do what?” I asked, repeating the motion.

“That,” he answered, kissing the top of my breast. “It lets me see all the way down your shirt.”

Laughing, I smacked his back, letting my nails dig in a little as I dragged my hands up toward his shoulders. In retaliation, he squeezed my waist a bit harder, his fingers digging in to a borderline tickle.

And the phone rang again. Oh, for the love . . .

I tried to reach my phone without leaving his lap, but couldn’t. I huffed as I lifted myself off Leo, taking two steps forward then one step back for one more kiss. He leaned in hungrily, and one kiss became eight. Eight became thirteen. My phone stopped ringing.