Kissing Much was every bit as sweet as Qebhet remembered. The taste of his lips, the brush of his fingertips, the slow slide of his tongue against hers— she sank into it, feeling the warmth spread languid as honey into her chest and through her limbs. "Mine too," she said when they parted, her smile even brighter than before.
Much was still cupping her cheeks, his gaze hadn't left her, the desire in it barely disguised. It would be easy, she thought, so easy to let that kiss turn into a second, and then a third. Oh, but if she did, they might never make it out of the house, and then they would never have their dance, and wouldn't that be a shame?
Qebhet placed her right hand over his left, drawing it away gently and threading her fingers through it. "Shall we go?"