I want to kiss you. I want to so badly I can barely think of anything else. When you enter a room it’s my only thought, and it torments me night and day.

He kisses me until my mouth is sore from his stubble, and most likely cherry red. Then, when he sees its ripe colour, he kisses me more to make up for it. He kisses me between courses and in the middle of them too, licking chocolate from my lips when I accidentally make a mess – so uncaring of whatever anyone in here might think.

Kiss him back? That seemed like a ridiculously unobtainable goal. She’d only just remembered that the word was kiss, for God’s sake. Her eyes were wide and her body had turned to stone and his mouth was so, so soft. Unbearably soft, really. He didn’t push, and he didn’t pressurize her into anything further, and his lips just molded against hers as though they’d always meant to get around to it.

Certainly seems it when she half-turns in his arms and he just leans right down into her and kisses and kisses. Oh, how syrupy-slow his kisses are. She could live in those warm, wet pulls.