She'd thought it was going to be quick. After all, she couldn't exactly stay up on her toes that long and Oliver (along with the most of the world) seemed miles taller than she was. But then his arm was at her waist, supporting her so she could lean into it, her fingers clinging to his shirt for support. And it didn't stop.
She'd kissed blokes before. She'd done more than kiss, even though she'd held herself back since that one bloke had gotten on so well with her mum. But she suddenly realized that kissing an older bloke was different. He knew what he was doing, and it wasn't wet or sloppy or like he wanted to swallow her whole. His hands weren't suddenly multiplied by eight and wandering everywhere. No, it was nice and solid and sweet and soft, and it was that thumb against her skin that undid her, petting her like a cat until a soft sound slipped loose because she liked that.
She flushed then, pulling back slightly and wobbling on her toes before she went down to flat feet and peered up at him, her lower lip caught in her teeth. And for once, Emma had absolutely no idea what to say.