She turns around, turns towards him before he has a chance to say anything else about Donna Isabel (which is for the best, really, considering madonna's hours and habits), and Cesare dives forward, kicking the door shut, falling rather than making the controlled, predatory move he had in mind, which is odd, because he may be hungry but he's not starved, and he blames the girl's glint, that silver-and-gold-glint that would be blinding under a southern sun, and before he knows it his tongue is in her mouth, or hers in his (the distinction gets blurry very fast), and his hands are clasping the tart little round buns of her arse.