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As their lips meet, memories start coming back to her. Memories of previous kisses, of the way his hands ran up and down her arms as he taught her to spin straw into gold. She remembers the first time he had her rip out a heart and how he had kissed the side of her neck, murmuring, "Well done, dearie," against her skin, making it tingle.
His mouth is warmer than she remembers, perhaps because his skin isn't as scaly as it once was. It's a pleasant change, and although he returns the kiss with a hint of reluctance, that doesn't take the enjoyment out of it for her. It has been forty years since they last shared any semblance of intimacy, but it feels like yesterday.
She doesn't love him, of course, no more than he loves her. He has his Belle, after all, even if all her memories of their time together have vanished. What they had was never true love, but he is still her teacher, her master, her first lover. That kind of bond can never be truly broken, even by the mutual betrayal they have inflicted upon one another. For in the end, they are each other's only equals, and because of that, they will always have need of each other.
Once the kiss is broken, she responds to his stone-faced expression with a smile. "Good luck with finding your son," is all she says before vanishing as quickly as she came.