However, I happened to know that Lydia had taken advantage of the storm to trap Josh in her room for the evening. Bless her. The miserable weather and Josh’s efforts would keep everyone else away as well.

But clearly, I’d underestimated a certain man’s persistence.

The chandelier flickered to life above my head and I looked to the door to see Puck with his hand on the switch. “Ah, you are here after all.” I hadn’t even heard the front door open.

The sudden pounding of my pulse signaled: This is it. But I could play it cool. “Did Lydia tell you where to find me?”

“Not exactly.” He smiled and crossed to me. “Lydia said she thought you’d gone to the library. Her boyfriend said he was sure you were having a grand old time.”

“And then, no doubt, he sent you over here to conduct an investigation.”

“Precisely. I think there was something about strip-searching anyone I found inside.” He sat beside me and tapped the book in my lap. “What are you doing here so very late at night? No life?”

I checked my watch. It had gotten late, hadn’t it? I was surprised that even Lydia and Josh were still awake. They’d usually “gone to bed” long before this hour. And let’s not question why it took so long for George to come looking for me. “Studying. I take classes, you know. Or you would, but you opted out of Branch’s Shakespeare.”

“I decided the Nabokov seminar was more my style.” He tilted his head. “Bugaboo, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul, Bugaboo. The tip of the tongue taking a trip down the palate to—well, burst, actually—at last, through the lips. Bug. A. Boo.” He leaned in to kiss me.

“Gross,” I said. “Humbert was a pedophile.”

“A damn eloquent one. Besides,” he said, and nibbled on my lower lip, “you’re legal.”

Can’t really argue with that. I smiled and kissed him in earnest. “What are we doing?”

“What we should have done a damn long time ago, ’boo.”

“What, and lay our private doings open to the society during my C.B.?” I teased, scooting down on the seat so he had an easier time reaching me. Man, this boy could kiss.

“Mine or yours,” he mumbled, kissing down my jawline to my neck. “It’s all going to come out eventually. And I don’t care. Spend the night with me.”

“Okay.”

Simple as that. Because when a guy like George Harrison Prescott is this determined to hook up with you, when he walks through the rain and quotes ecstatic literature and kisses you like he hasn’t seen a girl in years—well, there’s only one acceptable answer. And that’s to accept. Not to overthink it, not to weigh the options, not to determine where this fit into the scope of your orderly C.V., and definitely not to start figuring out exactly where you would fall on his lengthy C.B. This wasn’t about my friends, or my future, or anything else but what I wanted…now. Within these walls, he was neither the reluctant legacy nor the school’s most infamous heartbreaker, but rather, an infinitely charming fellow Digger, fellow Prescotteer, and the guy I’d wanted to tap ever since I laid eyes on him.

George Harrison Prescott: accept or reject? No contest.

I stretched my legs out and tangled them with his as he fought for leverage on the slim window seat. Beyond the lead-veined window there was nothing but private courtyard and wintry dying garden and moonlight, and we were alone in the tomb of Rose & Grave, which is as good as being alone in the world. Here we were, set off five minutes from the rest of the population, separated from the students of Eli by our society names and the secrets we shared.

“It’s not as cold out as I thought,” I said.

“Huh?”

I bopped him on the nose. “Your skin. It’s not cold.”

“I bundled.” And then he began to unbundle me, starting with the scarf around my throat.

I loved this moment of hooking up with a boy, when you haven’t yet relinquished all sense of rationality, but you’re not by any means acting like you would in front of your parents. Our clothes were on, but we were horizontal; we weren’t completely mussed from making out, but my skin was flushed and he was removing his glasses and laying them on the table to my left. I’d seen George without his trademark glasses before, of course, but never from an inch or two away. I thought his copper-colored eyes were gorgeous before, behind the matching copper frames. Without them, and staring into mine, those eyes would have taken my breath away if I’d been able to breathe in the first place. Men should not get the kind of genetic advantages bestowed upon this boy. Or at least not without a big warning sign tattooed on their foreheads.

He shifted his leg slightly, and suddenly, I forgot all about his eyes. “George,” I murmured.

“Open your wallet, ’boo,” he said into the tender skin of my throat. “Because I have a feeling you’re going to owe these fine Diggers a lot of money pretty soon.” His hands slid up under my sweater and I arched beneath him.

“Then we should probably adjourn to someplace more comfortable.”

He lifted his head. “I have the perfect place.”

And then, before I had a chance to gather my books or slip my shoes back on, he was pulling me out of the Grand Library and up a flight of stairs.

“Um, I can assure you this is not the way out,” I said.

“And I can assure you all I’m looking for tonight is a way in.” He reached our destination and held open the door with a flourish. “Milady.”

The Inner Temple. I hesitated. “You’re serious? What if someone comes into the tomb?”

He grabbed me around the waist and drew me inside. “I guarantee everyone’s gone home for the night. Besides, you think we’re the first to think of it? The first to do it?” He pushed my hair to the side and began kissing the nape of my neck. “I bet a ton of guys used to bring their dates in here to show off. Nothing so sexy as knowing what kind of power the guy you’re with is wielding. Knowing you’re with a Digger…”

“Yeah,” I replied. “But I’m a Digger, too. How do you plan to impress me?”

“Oh, I’ll think of something.” And then he kissed me. And I know I’ve gone on about George’s kisses in the past, but indulge me one more time. He’s phenomenal. I’ve never ever been kissed this way. Not to get too technical about it, but the man kisses as if he’s doing way more to you than just kissing you.

My body got that impression as well.

WAYS IN WHICH “PUCK’S” REPUTATION IS WELL DESERVED

1) The aforementioned kisses.

2) The tremendous skill he possesses in removing a girl’s clothes in a manner so subtle that, addled as she is by the kisses, she isn’t even aware of what he’s doing until she’s standing, half-naked, underneath the star-studded dome of the Inner Temple and he’s moved his kisses south.

3) The things he does south, mainly to breasts. Quite astonishing, actually. Wow. Wow.

4) The way—

That’s about as far as I got with my list before my knees buckled beneath me.

“Whoa there, ’boo.” He chuckled against my bare skin and steadied me as I sucked in a breath and tried to make my stomach look like I’d ever taken advantage of the free Pilates sessions at the Eli gym. But it was tough to maintain the proper concentration when George Harrison Prescott dropped to his knees before me, anchored his hands on my butt, and began to nuzzle my belly button.

“Take your pants off,” he said.

“Okay.”

“Look at you,” he said, and rocked back on his heels, watching me. “So agreeable all of a sudden. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“The pleasure.” I slipped my jeans down over my hips and received another jolt of happiness when his eyes widened. The load of laundry I’d done yesterday was totally worth it. “Fuchsia. Just for you.”

“Very nice.” His face expressed something far greater than approval, however. I kicked off my socks and pants and hooked my fingers beneath the straps of the thong.