The problem with trying to wait and see what he would do was that he was irresistible. The more he kissed her, bit at her mouth, deepened the kiss, the more she had to return the same passion. For someone who had never kissed anyone before, he had very good instincts.
Nervously scooting even closer to her, he slowly pushed her against the sofa and framed her head in his hands, humming and licking at her lips as he shivered against her. He wasn’t sure how he was doing, but she appeared to be enjoying it so far.
When Isaac all but laid her down against the cushions, she had to cling to him, fingertips digging into the fabric of his shirt. She opened her mouth to him, twining their tongues together in a French kiss, and matched his shiver with a shudder of her own. Very carefully she broke the kiss, pressing her mouth to his cheek where she could feel faint stubble. “God, Isaac,” she whispered. She swallowed hard, and went on, “that’s a French kiss, in case you didn’t know, and you can do that again anytime you want.”