The thing was, Romilda didn't know what he was saying. She was terrible with languages, only knew random phrases, could understand some things, but past a certain point she was lost.
It didn't really matter what he was saying, though. He could have been saying anything in that soft whisper and in the prettiest language in the world, and Romilda would have found it amazing. She made a soft sound, somewhere between a moan and a whimper, muffled against his lips.
She wanted to know what he wanted, though. She was used to her movements where boys were concerned to be met with either disinterest or much more interest than this, but he was so gentle, so much slower to react than she was used to.
But he was also talking to her in French, and touching her in a way that made shivers run down her spine. What was a girl supposed to do?
She didn't know, though. He made her want him, badly, and yet made her uncertain of it, all the same. Was it because she was a student?
She kissed his mouth, gently, tenderly, and then broke it to brush her lips over his throat, kissing the point where she could feel his heartbeat beneath his skin. Then she simply rested her head against his collarbone, near the clavicle. Her forearms rested on his shoulders, fingertips running gently over the skin of his neck and twining occasionally in his hair.
"Am I being too forward?" she murmured, head tilting, her lips brushing against his ear. "I don't mean to be."
For once. That was a real change, for her. She could walk away from this without giving in to her impulses, if she had to; she only wanted him if it was going to be real, if he wanted her back.