There was something about Trenton that captured Anne; his presence, imagined and otherwise, was hypnotic, and she continually felt an intense pull of purpose when she thought about it. Until just now, she assumed that was the need to work. There was no question that the striking features demanded immortality in image, and she had done her best to infuse her work with a lifelike, immediate joie de vivre that she sensed was hidden deep. Being with him was both the same, and wildly different. His ridiculous attire cast him in a boyish, amusing light, which made her want to make him a cup of tea and something rib-sticking to eat.
The kiss changed that.
Anne had not one fraction of Trenton's experience kissing people. It was an intimacy that continually surprised her, and she was such a warm, collected being, that sexuality was an effort, a distinct course of action she felt she must need to pursue before anyone might bother. Surprised to be proven wrong, she could hardly respond, but before she quite comprehended what was happening, her soft lips moved against his, once more the flower to the sun.