Angus Firth had been kissed by women before.

Kissing was something he enjoyed. He also thought that he was pretty good at it.

This, though, wasn’t a kiss like he’d ever experienced.

Misty’s kiss landed on his mouth. She possibly hadn’t intended that. He must have moved his head. Maybe she’d aimed for a brush against his cheek, the sort of kiss a friend might offer in thanks for a gift? He’d just organized a break for her, time out from an impossible situation, so a brief formal kiss was acceptable.

Except this kiss was nothing like that.

Because, with a formal kiss, his hands should have stayed by his sides. The kiss should have been a brush of contact, and then both sides would withdraw. But almost instinctively—it must have been instinct—his hands caught her waist, and then the brush of her lips on his mouth became something else entirely.

Suddenly he was holding her, tugging her body against him and kissing her in return. And in response, almost unbelievably, her hands slid around his neck and the kiss deepened.

And the sensation...

He felt like he’d come home.