His mouth covered hers. His lips were warm and firm. He kissed her with the patient, unhurried thoroughness of someone who was not trying to go somewhere quickly but was interested in every detail of where they were. His tongue moved against her lower lip. She made a sound — a small, startled, involuntary sound — and her hands pressed against his chest and she did not push.
His mouth moved.
His lips parted hers. His tongue found hers. A French kiss, deep and deliberate, the kind of kiss that communicated intent without words. She felt her knees go soft. She felt her body lean into him without asking her permission. She felt her toes curl inside her boots.
His hand moved.
It found her hip. Her skirt. The fabric bunched slightly under his grip. He kneaded — slow, steady, the fingers pressing into the soft flesh of her hip through the dress. She pulled back from the kiss. She put her hand against his chest.
"Wait—" Her voice was very unsteady. "What— what is this—"
