"Heiress."

Jameson's voice was nearly as distracting as his fingers, which were tracing circles on my bare forearms. I could tell, then, why he'd chosen to sit at this table; unlike the remainder of the archive, benches enclosed the rosewood surface and offered plenty of room between us for him to close.

I stiffened, my eyes darting toward my novel, which I'd been reading before he'd found me at lunch. Jameson slipped an arm around my waist, his strong hand pulling me against his side. And when I looked at him in surprise, he simply quirked an eyebrow, as if challenging me to move away.

I didn't. Or in other words, I physically couldn't bring myself to.

"Are you ever going to use my name?" I asked instead, forcing myself to meet his eyes.

Amusement danced in them. "Considering you can't even recall your name after kissing me," he said, "I don't think so."

"I have perfect memory of my name, thank you very much."

Jameson grinned, lowering his green eyes to examine my lips. "Wanna bet?"

"With you? No."

"Good call." He looked at me then, and slipped his hands around my waist in a gentle way that Jameson Hawthorne simply wasn't. "I would have won, anyway."

After he'd closed the space between us, I didn't know where to put my hands. Maybe it was the newness of the relationship — or the fact that I'd never had one previously — but either way, my hands ended up in my lap.

Jameson laughed. "There's no need to be nervous."

"I'm not nervous."

He snatched my left hand. It was shaking. He brought it to his lips. My breathing grew heavy. "What," he murmured, "are you so scared of?"

You, I wanted to say. I'm terrified of you.

But that wasn't true. I no longer was afraid of Jameson Hawthorne — or his eccentric family. After everything I'd been through, I doubted anything could scare me.

Except . . .

"Jameson." I waited for him to meet my eyes — a feat, considering he preferred looking at my lips. "I need you to promise me something."

His expression, so playful a moment before, grew guarded. "What?"

I gestured between us, as if to signify the entirety of our relationship. "Promise me I'm not just another game to you."

A muscle twitched in his jaw. It flexed twice in a row, as if he was biting back the first words that came to his mind. After a moment, he settled on, "I thought we'd been over this, Heiress. I'm not trying to use you —"

"Just promise me," I coaxed. For reasons beyond my understanding, I simply needed the confirmation.

Vocally.

He sighed low in his throat. "Fine. I promise."

Although I trusted his word wholeheartedly, I still held his gaze for several seconds. When he refused to break it, unwilling to lose even a staring contest, I pulled gently at his collar and kissed him.

Jameson reacted faster than I thought humanly possible. I felt his hands slide to either side of my waist, felt him pull me hostage against his chest, felt him breathe in the perfume sprinkled along my neck. I started to smile, but he kissed it away. Kissed me until the shape and taste of his lips were engraved in my mind. Kissed me until I was drunk on him, drunk on his scent, his taste.

And after he'd rendered me breathless, I pushed at his arms, silently begging for air.

Jameson allowed me only one inhale before his lips met mine again.

By the time we finally parted, my heart was drilling a hole in my chest. As I focused on breathing, I wondered if my stomach would bottom out.

True to his nature, Jameson flashed a crooked grin.

I stared. How was he not out of breath?

My flushed cheeks were antonymous to his pale ones.

I reached a hand to his chest, searching for his heart. If he wasn't blushing, his heart surely had to be racing.

Much to my chagrin, his heart rate didn't appear any, if at all, faster than normal.

A slow smirk spread over Jameson's face. "Feeling my abs?"

"Your heartbeat, actually."

"Your loss."

I pushed away from him, needing space — needing air. All this boy seemed to do was steal it from me. Jameson waited, his muscular arms crossed. Breathing deeply through my nose, I reached forward for my novel; it was second nature.

But as my hand brushed over the spine, Jameson's did too.

"I didn't know you liked to read," he murmured.

I hesitated. "My mom . . . she used to read to me when I couldn't sleep at night."

Jameson's face softened. He rubbed a hand lightly up my back, but even without his motive being romantic, I elicited a shiver in response. "Want me to read to you?" he asked.

"You wouldn't like the book."

He picked it up, examining it from all angles before flipping to a random page. A broad smirk spread over his face, accompanied by a waggling of his eyebrows. Confused, I leaned in to see what chapter he'd stumbled on. I uttered a couple colorful words under my breath.

A kissing scene. Of course.

"I'll offer you two options." He looked way too pleased with himself. "Number one," Jameson said, turning to face me, "I can read the scene to you."

When he paused, I held my breath. "And number two?"

"I can reenact it."

I felt my legs go weak.

I didn't remember the exact scene, but I was quite sure it was achingly beautiful. That particular author had a way of making a girl long to be kissed, down to the very bones of the body. I reached for the book to see, but a grinning Jameson held it out of my reach.

He studied me, his eyes anticipating my answer. I figured he already knew.

But before I could voice it, a familiar voice flooded the library. Xander.

Unfortunately, he was followed closely by an entourage of Heights County Day students — which meant Jameson and I were officially deprived of our privacy. It seemed that Jameson's preposition would have to be postponed. But that wasn't going to stop me from choosing the option I wanted.

After all, I dreamed to be kissed as beautifully as the girl in the book had. And soon enough, I would be.

I huddled close to him, my lips lifting to his ear. "Number two."

For me, it was a no-brainer. And I suppose for Jameson, it was too.

Because he smiled crookedly as we both got to our feet, shuffling our school supplies back into our bags. "Good choice, Heiress." He helped me to my feet, ever the gentleman, and added, "You won't be disappointed."

I knew I wouldn't be.

After all, he was Jameson Winchester Hawthorne.