Taking a sip of tea, I listen on like a good little girl as the adults have their conversation.

“I just knew we should have planted geraniums instead of tulips in the back gardens, but Fernando would not listen to me.” The wife of some Lord rambles on, boring us all to death about her gardener and his apparently “insane” tactics.

My mother, ever the social butterfly, can feel the conversation lacking. “I know I’m just the American, but have any of you watched that new show on Netflix? The Great British Bake Off?”

One of the other women holds her hand to her heart. “Oh, my dear, that isn’t new! It’s been on for years, but I must say I absolutely adore it.”

“Ah, silly me, but I adore it as well! I just wish I could make all of those things, they look delicious.” My mom takes a sip of her tea, setting it down in just the fashion that the etiquette coach brought in to help us taught her how to do.

“I’m always fascinated by how they make their custard just the right consistency, it looks so tasty.”

I tune out as the women go on about the show, but at least it’s better than gardening and plants.

A tap on my shoulder has me snapping back, my hat hitting something as I turn.

“Oh, sorry about that, love.” A familiar voice fills my ears as my hat is put back the right way.

“Asher Frederick, what a pleasant surprise. You performed wonderfully today, bravo.” One of the women fawns over him, and he puts on that chauvinistic grin that makes me want to slap him.

“Well, thank you, madam. It was my pleasure, a real rouser today.”

“Nora, is this your friend?” Mom raises an eyebrow at me, and I know she’s trying to telepathically let me know he’s cute.

I try to telepathically tell her he’s an asshole. “Mom, this is Asher Frederick, we go to Winston together.”

He sticks out a hand, and then on second thought, bows a little. “Your highness, it’s an honor.”

Mom laughs, a real bellow. The other women look a little affronted, but they’ve become a little accustomed to her and they don’t mind her.

“Oh, honey, you do not have to say that to me … I’m not even really in the family yet. Mrs. Randolph, or better Rachel, will do just fine. That was a great race today.”

“Thank you. Nora, would you like to take a walk with me?”

Mom gives me another look, and I swear if no one else could hear or see us, she would give me a fist bump and tell me to “go girl.” I don’t want to go anywhere with him, much less for a walk. That’s some kind of innocent euphemism, and I don’t feel like dealing with the devil today. Especially after what he did to me at school, exposing me like that.

But it would be rude to rebuff him here, and I don’t want to give these busybodies any reason to discuss me further than they probably already do.

“Sure, I would like that.”

I can practically hear the pants being charmed off of the women sitting around the table. I have to physically bite my tongue to keep from rolling my eyes.

Once we’re far enough away from the group, I round on him. “What’s this all about, Asher?”

Those green eyes grin, and I swear if he ever fully turned his efforts on, I’d be a goner. I was half-gone as it was.

“I want to show you something. And you look absolutely smashing today, might I add.” His biceps flex in that rowing uniform, and instead of being gross, the smell of his sweat is so enticing my tongue actually darts out.

But I don’t feel like playing his games. “No, you can’t add that. What is it?”

Asher smiles again, and I hate, but also love, this teasing. “I like you when you’re cheeky. Just follow me, alright?”

I shouldn’t, because of all of the reasons he’s given me not to thus far, but I can’t help it. There is something so magnetizing about Asher; he has that perfect mix of English gentleman and British bad boy. In that rowing uniform, the tight shorts and shirt plastered to his body, I can see every muscle, every bulge. It has unwanted heat licking at my neck, and I want to yell at my traitorous body.

Asher leads me up a flight of stairs in the dockyard’s big glass event space, where the after-regatta celebrations are being held. The space is all old wood and floor-to-ceiling windows, the glass sprayed with the mist from the Thames so close by. It smells like the river, and all of the furniture is comfortable and antique. To be honest, I’d like to come back here with a book and curl up beneath one of the windows overlooking the beautiful view.

Asher pushes open a door, and we walk into a room where pictures, plaques and trophies adorn every wall.

“This is one of my favorite places.” He almost whispers it, and I’m kind of shocked that he would tell me something that seems so personal.

“Because it’s filled with medals and trophies?” There is an edge to my voice, a mocking sarcasm. I feel like a bitch, but I can’t trust myself around him. Especially when he seems to be letting me in.

Looking at me, he shakes his head slightly and gives me a small smile. “No, although I do love winning. That’s not why though. See, this room is steeped in history. We in England love our history, and the history of my sport is my favorite kind.”

He walks slowly around the room, pointing out what are likely his favorite articles or memorabilia in here. Then to the window, which overlooks the Thames from an almost aerial view. The room is circular, almost as if we’re at the top of a lighthouse.

"You can also see every facet of the water from up here, study it."

I'm looking at one of the photos, getting lost in his voice, when I feel a sizzling warmth at my back.

"I couldn't help but see you admiring my stroke out there."

Velvet, hot electricity fills me from head to toe, and I'm scared to turn around. To see the expression those eyes hold. He was this close to me once before, in the club in Paris. I'd stopped it then, blaming it on the music and alcohol.

But here, I have nowhere to hide. Asher is so close I can practically taste the mist on his body, smell the autumn water in his ink black hair.

“That’s my position, you know. The stroke. I command the motion of the boat, make sure everyone falls in line and picks up on my rhythm.”

I flush a hot pink under the collar, his conversation so dirty and thinly veiled that I think I hear myself start to pant.

“I saw that challenge in your eyes, by the way. And I’m here to collect my prize.”

Hands, rough and weathered from the wood of the oars, gently circle my waist. I can’t help the tremble that starts from the balls of my feet and sweeps over my skin, an audible groan escaping my lips. I know what is coming, what he’s going to do. I don’t want it.

But I do. I want it so badly that I’ve never wanted anything so desperately before. This is a feeling I’ve read about in books, the moment when the need to connect physically with another person is so strong that your brain snaps off and nothing but your heart fuels every decision. I never believed in the theory, feeling with your heart instead of thinking with your brain. It’s too emotional, and science was a proven fact, something tangible that I could memorize and repeat over and over again in the same way.

Slowly I turn, Asher coming into view. He’s bristling with arousal, the electricity of it buzzing all over his skin. Those green eyes are so dark, like the forest after a thunder storm. They’re filled with a mixture of desire and hatred, and I know that they mirror my own. His jaw tics, like he’s been holding back the urge to kiss me ever since we met.

Backing me up against the wall, his eyes never leave mine and his fingers dig into the material of my dress.

And then he does.

Tilts his head, drags his tongue across his bottom lip, smirks the slightest bit, and covers my mouth with his.

The shock hits me first, coursing through my bones while they seize up and my heart gallops at a champion filly’s pace. I’ve never had another person’s lips touch my own, aside from my mothers. Never a boy, one with a man’s build.

Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined that the boy who torments and entices me would be the one to grant me my first kiss.

Asher’s mouth pries at my unmoving lips, his warm, wet taste sending fireballs of lust rocketing between my thighs. When I don’t respond, he increases the pressure, trapping my head between his rough hands and delving deeper into the kiss.

That sets me off, the hunger he’s feeding me from his own body. My lips move, tentatively at first. But then my whole body gets involved, the storm of fire picking up like brush catching the wind. His skill gives me the education I need, his body meeting every curve of my own and pressing in all of the right places.

A moan rumbles through my throat and past his lips, and an answering growl vibrates past my tongue, lighting me up from the inside out. He’s stealing my breath, making it hard to breath between his deep and exploring taste of my mouth. He keeps his hands on my hips, even though I want them to move up and down my body. Besides his hands and lips keeping my locked into place, no other points of connection are being made between us. In a deep part of my brain, the part that isn’t dazing out on the drug of his kiss, I find it odd that he isn’t pressing this further.

Had I challenged him to this? Had I known that all along we would end up here? I would be lying to myself if I said that I hadn’t.

“Stroke. That’s why I’m so good at it.” His accent is dark and stormy as he pulls away.

I’m not sure what he looks like at this moment, because I can’t seem to open my eyes. I just feel for the wall, hoping it will hold me up as my knees knock together.

Asher’s breath hits my ear. “I’ll see you around, princess.”

And then his hands are gone, the raw scent of male leaves the room. After several seconds of focusing on nothing but gulping air in and blowing it out, I open my eyes.

I run on facts and logic. Theories and conclusions.

But what just happened in this room defies all of that, leaving me feeling as if I’ve never truly known anything in my entire life.