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evening. Pleasant, that too.
    The gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath his pressed shirt. Whiskers on his chin, his cheek. Long lashes, a shade or two lighter than his midnight black hair.
    Thank God those penetrating eyes of his weren't trained on her.
    She eased down, a lock of her hair falling forward and skimming his cheek. She reached to lift it away and found herself running her fingers along his jaw, the edge of his ear, his eyebrow, almost as if she sought to memorize the shape of his features, the feel of his skin. Cupping his face, she brushed her lips across his, her brain buzzing, her blood thumping in her ears. His mouth was warm and unyielding, just as he'd promised, the stubble scraping her chin and cheek coarse and unfamiliar, yet somehow quite agreeable.
    She drew back, releasing a drawn breath. A quiver of movement in his shoulders as his hand flexed, wrapping tightly around the stem of the wineglass. Other than that, he gave no intimation that he had felt her touch. Or enjoyed it in the least.
    Perhaps she had done something wrong.
    She tilted her head and moved in again, instinctively understanding that this would bring her closer, the fit more natural and possibly more correct . Furthermore, she felt a rabid inquisitiveness to really know the feel of a man's lips on hers, something to replace her less-than-considerable accumulation of experience. Indeed, much was based on imagination and hearsay rather than actual practice .
    A brief taste wasn't nearly sufficient.
    Lowering her lashes, she swallowed once, slid her hand to the back of Zach's neck and pulled him toward her until their mouths grazed. Like pieces of a puzzle, she maneuvered until the fit was precise. She wasn't sure what to do with her tongue.
    She'd read enough wanton novels to know she needed to use it.
    Once, twice, she rolled it across his lips, making sure to delve into each tucked corner, each ridge, each edge. It was a moist and much more pleasant experiment than she had expected. And for a time, this alone satisfied her.
    However, there was more. She'd read that, too.
    Carefully, she threaded her fingers through his hair and dabbed at the corners of his mouth, then along the seam, begging admittance. Coaxing his lips apart. He smelled faintly of starch, wine, and smoke. Delicious. Enticing. She felt his heartbeat thudding beneath her breast, felt hers race to match the rhythm.
    Finally charitable, he opened his lips, enough to allow her inside. The sweet, wet taste of him flowed inside her mouth. Further melting her with pleasure.
    Although Savannah wouldn't go so far as to claim he participated.
    So she tried harder to engage him, swaying against his chest, the heat of his skin burning through the layers of cloth covering her breasts. She explored the smooth edges of his teeth, the occasional brush of his tongue fairly shaking the ground beneath her.
    More .
    It was all she could think, all she could envision. And he knew. He knew ... but would not relent. Her frustration built until she felt a dizzying wave of anger. Untangling her fingers from his hair, she shoved away from him.
    "So you'll give up that easy," he murmured, his tense breaths batting her cheek. "I'm surprised."
    "Go to hell." The weakness of her voice disquieted, especially when his sounded smooth as butter.
    He laughed, his lids hanging low. "Come back here. I'll try this time." He made a quick cross over his heart. "I promise."
    On trembling legs, she pushed off the back of his chair and tried to stand.
    Laughing again, Zach wrapped his arm around her waist and lifted them to their feet. Stunned, she stood in his embrace, her gaze searching his. She was unsure of what he wanted, what contest he hoped to win. Were they were still involved in any contest at all?
    "I thought two were playing this game, Miss Connor." He trailed his finger down the edge of her jaw, cupping it gently. "Was I mistaken?"
    Before she could answer—could unravel the muddled thoughts in