There was a gentleness to that meeting, a hesitancy that dissolved in an instant as his lips covered hers again and again.

A little sigh slipped out, and her knees sagged, and the floor shifted under her bare feet. But he was there to catch her. Gripping her firmly by the hips, he sank his fingertips gently into that skin, wrinkling the fabric, and she didn’t care. She moaned, grateful as he guided her against the wall, anchoring her between the solid surface at her back and the powerful muscles of his chest, as strong and broad as any wall.

He reached a hand between them, and his thumb teased the corner of her mouth, and instinctively she parted her lips and let him inside.

He swept his tongue within that cavern, tasting her with slow, bold strokes, and Myrtle froze.

She had often thought about what her first kiss would be like.

It had been a popular discussion amongst all the young ladies at Mrs. Belden’s when the school was quiet and they’d taken to their rooms for the night.

That was, not Myrtle’s kiss . . . but the “first kiss” in general.

Suzanne Trelawney had been the only one amongst their ranks who’d had one. And she’d delighted in regaling the other young ladies with tales of her first kiss.

To Myrtle, the whole thing had sounded vile: wet and embarrassing and awkward. Some man sticking his tongue in her mouth?

Why, the human tongue on the whole was a rather disgusting bit of flesh.

Or that was what Myrtle had thought.

How wrong she’d been.

Oh, how very wrong.

Held in Val’s broad, strong arms, his mouth on hers, there was nothing gross or distasteful.

His lips were hard and as powerful as the limbs she gripped.

He tasted faintly of apple and mint, and she sighed and conceded that Suzanne had been correct. There was nothing unpleasant about the feel or taste of him.

She touched the tip of her own tongue to his, exploring him and surrendering fully to her first kiss.

His breathing came ragged and raspy as her own as he moved his hands lower; catching her once more by the hips, he drew her close.

So close she felt the length of him, his flesh hard against her lower belly.

His “spear,” as her mother had called it, in the most horrifying, most uncomfortable discussion a daughter could never wish to have with one’s mother. The mention of the male anatomy, a man’s member, had left Myrtle riddled with fear and disgust.

What a fool she’d been.

Val was hopelessly fascinating, and her hips moved in a rhythmic way against him, in a way that she should be embarrassed by.

And even as she broke their kiss and buried her face in the crook of his shoulder, she found herself unable to stop that gyration of her hips.