If it is an age, it is not an age that anyone would complain of living in. An age of kissing!
Yet it grows sweeter all the same when finally--finally! as if he were impatient, as if kissing her were so terrible a thing, even with her mouth still under his; he is not impatient, he would take this kiss and savor it, but even so--when finally she kisses him back, it is a sweeter thing by far. The table is between them, but that does not matter. Nothing matters, for this moment, and the next. All these distractions, they melt away--and if they melt for Scipio, who has kissed and been kissed a thousand times, a thousand upon a thousand, then surely they must melt for Sabriel as well.
When this kiss ends, for a breath, at least: Scipio smiles against Sabriel's mouth. He does not lean away just yet but remains where he is, leaned in close, and opens his eyes so he might look at her from these close quarters.
"There," he says, low, so their world still stays very small, "an agreement. We must end every agreement between us just like this, I think."
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Yet it grows sweeter all the same when finally--finally! as if he were impatient, as if kissing her were so terrible a thing, even with her mouth still under his; he is not impatient, he would take this kiss and savor it, but even so--when finally she kisses him back, it is a sweeter thing by far. The table is between them, but that does not matter. Nothing matters, for this moment, and the next. All these distractions, they melt away--and if they melt for Scipio, who has kissed and been kissed a thousand times, a thousand upon a thousand, then surely they must melt for Sabriel as well.
When this kiss ends, for a breath, at least: Scipio smiles against Sabriel's mouth. He does not lean away just yet but remains where he is, leaned in close, and opens his eyes so he might look at her from these close quarters.
"There," he says, low, so their world still stays very small, "an agreement. We must end every agreement between us just like this, I think."