Man vs. Socialite. Charlotte Phillips

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       She turned slowly in her sleeping bag to face him, her face inches from his own.

      ‘Goodnight, Jack,’ she whispered.

      Before he realised what she was doing she’d leaned in towards him and touched his lips softly with hers. She smelled sweetly of the baby wipes she’d smuggled in, and she tasted of toothpaste—and the moment her lips were against his he had absolutely no chance.

      Before she could move away he raised a hand and slid his fingers into her hair, tugging it from its loose tie and relishing its silkiness, his thumbs stroking along the softness of her jaw. The silk of her skin beneath his hands was delicious, the closeness tantalisingly unfamiliar in the outdoor situation. He tilted her face gently. Another kiss, his own kiss this time, deeper, a chance to savour her.

      The fire spat and popped behind her. Evie was vaguely aware of it warming her back as his tongue slipped softly against her own. One of her hands crept up and around his neck, and with the other she felt her way slowly over the padded sleeping bag to curl it around his back.

      Delicious heat coursed through her as she pushed her reservations aside. Jack Trent was not some wannabe partygoer, desperate for the kudos of bedding Miss Knightsbridge. He had his own life, his own agenda, and he wasn’t remotely seduced by shallow motivations. This was not a repeat of her same old mistake, made again and again in her desperation for love and approval. He was different. With him she could be herself, and for once that was good enough.