Chapter 8
Harry Arden kissed like holidays. Like a Midwinter morning, anticipation delicious as spruce and fir and mysterious wrapped gifts; like the crisp sweet brightness of apples ready for harvest; like the pale green scent of new leaves and white flowers in spring; and above all like the exuberant vivid heat of a Midsummer afternoon, gold-dusted as bees and sunshine on water and a plunge into a lake.
A lake. A pond. An ocean.
Harry kissed like someone who had done a certain amount of kissing but who nevertheless threw his whole heart into each time: lips parting readily, tongue teasing Kit’s mouth, head tipping naturally and easily to let Kit’s lips explore.
The fire cavorted in showers of sparks. The topmost blanket brushed woolen scratchiness along Kit’s arm.
Kit looped fingers
