As he walked me up to my room, nerves danced and wreaked havoc in my stomach. My hands were clammy, so I wiped them on my dress. “You never told me what you do,” I said absently to distract myself, because that tepid bit of bravery grew colder with each step closer to my door. He was saying something from one step behind, but I couldn’t hear a word. My heart pounded in my throat, blood rushed to the surface of my skin, and then, I did it. I turned around and kissed him, mid-sentence. It was slightly off-center. Unpracticed. Our teeth clinked. I pulled back to see his eyes sparkling with dry amusement as he wiped the side of his mouth with a thumb. But I was too hot, too high on the small contact of our lips to be embarrassed about what an utter failure that was. “Kotyonok.” He drew the word out in a low warning. “Do you know what you’re doing?” Nope. Not at all. I shook my head. He watched me. “Do you usually kiss your dates like that?” So, it was a date? I shook my head again and said breathlessly, “You’re the first.” The amusement in his eyes faded to pleasure. Heat. Something soaked in intensity and satisfaction. He stepped forward, forced my back to the door, and rested his hands on the frame above my head. My pulse was a distant whoosh in my ears, overwhelmed by the tremor that rolled across my skin and the closeness of his body. I couldn’t find enough air to breathe. His voice resonated warmth, a thoughtful rumble so close to my mouth I could taste it. “I have always loved coming in first.” Then his lips touched mine, softly, only a whisper. Like I was too young, too innocent to handle anything else. A rage of heat dropped to my core at the lightest brush of his mouth on mine. I needed more. So much more. I touched his face, ran a hand across his cheek and into his hair, and pulled his lips harder against mine. He didn’t like that, and he told me so by nipping my bottom lip. The graze of his teeth moved a desperate noise up my throat. I thought he might step away, conflict and my heavy breath