He could just kiss her because he wanted to. He could kiss her. His skin went hot, and he knew it was going to happen. He was going to kiss Esme. It was inevitable now. He brushed the backs of his fingers across her cheek, and a shaky breath sighed between her lips. He had to taste them, had to know them. Now. Cradling her jaw in his hand, he leaned toward her. “Esmeralda, it is you,” a loud voice interrupted in a thick Russian accent.
