There was a second of hesitation, of skin touching skin, a cold nose on a warm cheek, lips almost brushing, so close, and are we really—

   I stood on my tiptoes and pressed my lips to his.

   It was all the encouragement he needed. Sparks shot from my lips through the tingling tips of my toes. His hand was firm on the back of my neck, lifting my face to his, and the rest of the world fell away.

   I’d half expected, after so much buildup, for kissing him to be disappointing.

   I was wrong.

   He pulled away a few inches, eyes wide. “Oh,” I breathed, and it said a million other things that would make me blush to say them out loud. His lips curved into a smile, and then I couldn’t see the smile anymore, just feel it, and then there was nothing else.

   I realized now that I’d thought about this before, even if I’d tried not to. I’d imagined it would be the almost violence of lips and breath and hands that would burn so hot, it’d flame out as quickly as it had started; that we’d just have to do it once and get it out of our systems.

   I hadn’t imagined this: the feeling that, even though he had far more experience than I did, he was just as captivated as I was by how our lips took no time at all to get used to each other, the echo of our muffled breaths, the fact that it was chilly outside, but between our faces, it was nothing but soft and warm. I hadn’t imagined, though maybe I should have, that this would be the physical manifestation of that way he had always looked at me, since the day we met, like he could tell what was going on inside me so well it was almost uncomfortable. I’d never been kissed by someone who knew what I wanted before I did—exactly when to run his hands through my hair, when to cup my face like it was something precious.

   It was deliberate, sweet, frantic at the same time, tinged with vodka and lime and not the taste of cigarettes, and I wondered very briefly whether that was for my benefit and then that thought was lost, too, because everything was lost except for the small, pleading noise I made when his mouth broke away from mine.

   “Kuklachka,” he murmured. “Little doll.”

   Little doll. That’s exactly what I didn’t want, wasn’t it? To be anyone’s plaything in this game.

   I forced myself to push him back, hands on his chest. “Do you just want what I can do for you,” I whispered, “or do you actually want me?”

   I expected him to say whatever it took to keep kissing me, but a look deeper than I would have imagined passed over his face. He licked his lips, and I couldn’t help but glance at them. His eyes darkened. “Both,” he said, like he’d just realized it himself.

   “I thought I wasn’t your type,” I whispered, remembering the conversation he and Jack had on the boat.

   A soft laugh. “You’re not.” His hands were on my waist, fingers spread on my rib cage like piano keys. “Who’s spying now?”

   I shrugged, tired of apologizing, then pulled his face back down to mine and didn’t let go again.

   I didn’t know where we were. Who we were. We were on a street for a few minutes, I think. Against a statue in the middle of the sidewalk. Then pressed into a rough stone wall, my feet dangling a foot off the ground, my back clanging against the metal gate of a storefront, closed for the night.

   And then things started to look familiar, but I didn’t care, and then up a driveway, and I think we went up some stairs, and doors and more doors, and then we very definitely opened the door to a bedroom.

   I pulled away with a gasp. “Are we back at Colette’s?”

   He nodded. His shirt was half untucked, hair everywhere. He must have been staying in a different wing than I was, and thankfully, no one else was around.

   I looked inside the room. One soft bedside lamp. Books on the coffee table. Stellan—oh my God, seriously, really, Stellan, after everything? I flashed briefly to another set of lips on mine, a kiss that felt so different than this did, a clench in my chest just at the thought—but no, it was Stellan now, in the doorway, waiting. I almost expected the look on his face to be triumph, like it was when I’d asked him to teach me to fight. But there was no hint of smugness.

   There was a normal amount of beautiful a person should be allowed to look, then there was him. Was it possible he was actually more attractive all flushed and wild like this, or had I made myself block him out so thoroughly, I’d just forgotten?

   “Yes.” I took his hand. The door shut behind us. “Okay.”

   The next time I opened my eyes, I was sitting on the windowsill, Stellan’s chest pressed between my knees. We’d been kissing for what had to be hours, but could have been minutes, and with a kiss like this, it was no surprise when I found myself, by some instinct rather than any particular decision, groping for the buttons of his shirt. My fingers felt clumsy, strange. The first button popped open. The second.

   He pulled back, breathing hard, watching my hands undress him. His shirt fell off one shoulder, exposing the pattern of his translucent scars, beautiful, glowing in the low light.

   A tiny knot of nerves blossomed in my stomach. I knew exactly where this was going if I didn’t stop. It wasn’t too late to button his shirt back up and keep this as the sweet kind of kiss. The kitten-bliss kind of kiss.

   But did I want to?

   Stellan’s hand closed on my leg, just at the hem of my skirt. He looked up at me, the same hesitation shining in his eyes.

   I must have paused, because just as smoothly, with nothing more than a tender kiss at my jaw, his hand moved back to my waist, wrapped around my back. Safe.

   And we were kissing again, just kissing.

   The nervous butterflies in my stomach flapped, but he had misunderstood. That pause, the irregular pattering of my heart against my ribs—it wasn’t a bad kind of nervous.

   I pulled back, just in inch. Just enough for him to take my face in his hands, for his eyes to wonder what I was doing.

   I pulled the collar of his shirt through my fingers—then undid one more button.