“Kiss me.”

“What did ye say?” he asked in a low, masculine rumble.

If I am going to die, she suddenly decided, it will not be absent the kiss of this Irishman.

She took his hand and moved it to her mouth. Shutting her eyes, she parted her lips and closed her teeth gently on his finger, letting the tip of her tongue trail against his warm flesh.

His body rippled slightly, like wind over waves. She felt every muscle in his body shift, very minutely, very definitely. He brushed his thumb over her jaw again, then once over her lips.

“Did ye tell me to kiss ye?”

“I did.” Her whisper trembled.

His eyes searched hers. “Why?”

“Because,” she whispered, “if I’m going to die, it will not be lacking all the things I am lacking at present.”

“Ye’re lacking a kiss, then?”

She nodded.

He bent to her. She felt warm breath on her cheek. Soft, teasing kisses danced across her cheeks, her eyelids. She sighed and he tightened his hold ever so slightly on the back of her head, as if holding her still. He cupped her cheek gently with his other hand and his lips finally settled over her own. He bent lower and nibbled her lower lip until, like he’d uttered a password, she parted her lips…