He grinned. “You are, huh?”

“Yeah, tell me all about your oar. What position did you play?” I asked eagerly, wanting to flesh out this fantasy with some real-life details.

He laughed. “You know nothing about crew, do you?”

“I know there’s a guy at the end that chants or something.”

“The coxswain?”

“Now you’re talking.” I sighed, playing at swooning. Emboldened by his chuckle, I hopped out of my chair and right onto his lap. He was surprised, but also seemed delighted. “Please keep saying more words like coxswain.”

“You’re besmirching one of the oldest traditions in American prep schools, and I won’t have it,” he scolded as I wriggled a bit, prompting him to push back from the table a bit to give me more room. Which enabled his arms to wrap around my waist, his thumbs tracing little arcs on my skin.

“Besmirch isn’t nearly as good as coxswain,” I teased. “Give me more pretty preppy words, like Izod or Perrier.”

“What year do these preppies live in?” he asked, watching me with an amused grin as I played with the buttons on his shirt.

“The Year of the Coxswain has a wonderful ring to it.” I leaned in and rubbed my cheek on his beard. “Did I mention how much I like this beard?”

“You haven’t, but thanks. I was thinking of shaving it off, though.”

“Don’t do that yet, there’s something I want to try first.” I let my hands come up to his beard, roughing it up a bit with my fingertips.

“What might that be?” he asked, scooting the chair back a bit more. I took the opportunity to rise up a bit, throwing one leg over to straddle him.

“I can’t tell you. Not yet,” I said, feeling my cheeks heat up.

He held my face in his hands. “Look at you blush. I wonder what you’re thinking about,” he teased, happy.

“Shush,” I said, laughing. I rocked forward a bit, tipping my hips and arching my back, and his face went from amused to instantly focused. “Why aren’t we kissing yet?”

“Hell if I know,” he replied, then kissed me strong. He kissed me hot. And when his tongue teased, my lips parted—hell, my thighs parted . . . more . . . And he kissed me wet.

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—”