There is, even for the most stubbornly noble, no mistaking her intentions; there is also no mistaking the way his body answers to her touch, to the probing promise of her tongue. Something deep inside him tightens and coils, animal in its intensity, poetic in its joy. He smiles against her when she kisses him, his lips parting willingly, his own tongue darting against the heat of her mouth; and when she pulls away long enough to speak, he finds himself once again breathless and flushed, his heart stuttering against his ribs.
And still, there is hesitation; there is doubt; there is the creeping fear that this is ignoble, that all her enthusiasm and all his desire do not justify moving so fast, when they barely know one another. They do, he must remember, barely know one another.
He nods dazedly, his eyes drifting between her startlingly green eyes and her kiss- and wine-darkened lips, and his hand comes up without thinking to trace the backs of his fingers lightly against her cheek. He is drunk, he thinks. He must be drunk, to feel so entirely beyond himself; but whether he is drunk on wine or on her company, he could not begin to guess. "Politeness," he says, after a moment's consideration, "suggests I ought to demur. But I would like little more."
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And still, there is hesitation; there is doubt; there is the creeping fear that this is ignoble, that all her enthusiasm and all his desire do not justify moving so fast, when they barely know one another. They do, he must remember, barely know one another.
He nods dazedly, his eyes drifting between her startlingly green eyes and her kiss- and wine-darkened lips, and his hand comes up without thinking to trace the backs of his fingers lightly against her cheek. He is drunk, he thinks. He must be drunk, to feel so entirely beyond himself; but whether he is drunk on wine or on her company, he could not begin to guess. "Politeness," he says, after a moment's consideration, "suggests I ought to demur. But I would like little more."