Yasmin was still for a moment, then she shrugged, muttered something in French, and opened her mouth.

Since Giles had an organized mind, he invariably categorized kisses: welcome, unwelcome. Deep kisses, searching kisses, enflaming kisses, terrible kisses . . .

A new category was needed. Soul shattering. Life changing. His senses flamed to life as Yasmin’s tongue met his; the combination of her taste and smell went straight to his head. He wrapped an arm around her narrow back and brought her body to his, kissing her again, his instincts driving him to devour her, mate with her, make her his.

He couldn’t stop himself from thinking about her possessively, although the reasons why she could never be his were legion.

Legion.

Yasmin was not an appropriate countess. Yet, none of that mattered now, when he had her in his arms. She smelled of roses. Not bold red roses, but ruffled pale pink petals in early spring. Along with a touch of almond, and a hint of raspberry, and something mysterious that was purely Yasmin.

She made a sound in the back of her throat and threw an arm around his neck.

“Like that,” he murmured. “Make that sound again. I adore that sound.”

Yasmin’s eyes were shining. Their next kiss was so deep and long that it broke his composure into pieces, leaving him shaken.

She shook her head. “Not yet.” She pulled him toward her and caught his bottom lip in her teeth, sending a violent pulse of desire down his limbs.

Giles’s voice was a low growl. “You want me. And God, I want you. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted a woman. You smell better than any woman I know.”

That made her blink.

He leaned closer. “I’m going to kiss you again.”

Sometime later, they drew back. “You took your prize before you won the wager,” Yasmin said, her breath coming hard.

Giles had no idea what she was talking about. Then he remembered the desserts and the wager of a kiss. Yasmin was smiling at him: He felt as if he were a frozen person and she a fire. She was a warm haven, and he had been wandering in an icy field for most of his life.

He traced her lip with his finger. “I have dreamed of kissing you.” He had dreamed of seeing that desirous, joyous look in her eye.

Bloody hell, he was losing his mind. Giles cleared his throat and pulled himself together. “I fully intend to eat the rest of the delicacies and win the wager. I love cakes.”

“No, you don’t,” Yasmin said, shaking her head. “You hate them, don’t you?”

He stilled, torn between denial and the truth. “How did you know?”

“You have perfected the art of avoiding expression.” Her fingers plucked his sleeve, and she started pleating the fabric without noticing.

Giles stayed utterly still, as if he had coaxed a sparrow to land on his arm. She never touched him casually, the way she did Silvester. As if he were a friend.