Blair Davenport had kissed exactly zero people in her entire eighteen years of existence.
She had read about it. Two hundred and fourteen romance novels hidden in a false-bottom drawer beneath her desk at home, each one consumed in secret during hours her father assumed she spent studying combat theory or reviewing quarterly earnings reports from Davenport Industries. She had memorized the mechanics through fiction, catalogued the vocabulary of desire through other people's prose, constructed an entire theoretical framework for what intimacy should feel like based on the experiences of characters who did not actually exist.
None of it prepared her for Jace Monroe's mouth.
