When he begins to move his mouth elsewhere, she trembles slightly. Not in fear, or nerves, but simply because it’s so new, the way the sensation sends tingles over her skin. She can’t help closing her eyes again, tipping her head back as Percival kisses over her throat, hands clenching on his shoulders.
The hollow of her neck tastes sweet and salty and bitter – bitter, he guesses, from some sort of perfume. He’s kissing her mouth again, more slowly and less feverishly than at first. Tentatively, he lets his arm drop lower, to the small of Summer’s back. His hand travels along the waistline of her skirt to her hip, where he slips his index finger in. He’s hesitant to speak, wanting to hold onto the moment, so places his trust in Summer’s promise that she’d tell him if he did anything wrong.
Muscles under her skin twitch at his touches, half-ticklish and half-pleasant shock. She runs her hands down his arms, abruptly grateful for whatever quirk makes him prefer to be sleeveless, and traces the subtle outlines of muscle with her fingertips. She doesn’t know how to urge him on, except with more kisses, so she presses forward into his kiss. Into the slow sweetness of it, taking the time to explore the way their mouths fit together.