“And I should very much like to be kissed by you, Nicolas.”

He pauses only a moment, gaze locking on mine, as if to be sure I’m not simply playing the flirtation game. Then his mouth comes to mine. It is tender, light as the kiss of the wind, and yet it steals the breath from me, and I stand there, quivering, unable to breathe as I wait in hope of more. His lips part against mine, the kiss deepening once he is certain of its welcome, and . . .

Oh, this is a kiss.

In my novels, my intimate scenes are considered quite scandalous. They are pure innuendo and allusion, with no frank detail—that would be pornography, and while I am quite fond of the sort written secretly by women, it is not the purpose of my stories. I still include great sensual detail on the act of lovemaking . . . and none at all on the act of kissing. I write “they kissed,” and then I carry on to the more exciting parts. There is nothing exciting about a kiss. I have had dozens, and they ranged from repugnant to tolerable, and so, having clearly experienced the full spectrum of kisses, I could declare them worth no more than those two words: they kissed.

Nicolas’s kiss does not land on that spectrum. I cannot even see that spectrum from where it does land. This is a kiss that demands I track down each and every copy of my books and expand those two words to a chapter at least, and yet I cannot imagine how I would put such a thing into words. Simply put, for once, I lack the language.

Perhaps I could find the language, but I will not try. I have lived my life compiling experiences as fodder for my novels, and this is not one of those. This is mine, and mine alone, and I shall only say that I do not believe, before this moment, that I have been properly kissed. Nor that I have properly kissed someone in return, having no model to follow. Nicolas provides that model, and I throw myself into the study of it, and when I break for breath, he is gasping and glassy eyed, and I will take that as a sign of my success.

Nicolas strokes my hair and murmurs something, and I strain to catch the words, only to realize it is not the low tone that makes them elude me—it is the words themselves.

“I do not know French,” I say.

“Good.” He smiles as he brushes my cheek.

“Then I do not know what you are saying.”

He leans in, his lips coming to mine. “Good.”

He says more, the words spilling out, and I make a noise of frustration.

“Did you growl at me, crécerelle?”

“It is rude to speak in a language the other does not understand.”

“Terribly rude.” He says something else, in French, and then kisses me softly. “Would you like to know what I am saying?”