“Cecy,” he said, and closed the distance between them, though it was not much, and then he was kissing her- his hands awkward around her shoulders at first, slipping on the stiff taffeta of her gown before his fingers slid behind her hand, tangling in her soft, warm hair. She stiffened in surprise before softening against him, the seam of her lips parting as he tasted the sweetness of her mouth. When she drew away at last, he felt light-headed. “Cecy?” he said again, his voice hoarse.
“Five,” she said. Her lips and cheeks were flushed, but her gaze was steady.
“Five?” he echoed blankly.
“My rating,” she said, and smiled at him. “Your skill and technique may, perhaps, require work, but the native talent is certainly there. What you require is practice.”