Molly tends to follow the Vicar of Dibley rule when it comes to dates and kissing: first date, no; second date, maybe; third date, yes…with tongues.
For the time being, however, she makes up for lip-contact with handholding on their second date: a casual beer and burger at a pub on the Southbank after an afternoon walk that goes by too quickly. It's a casual outing and isn't at all what she'd have done with Jim, who would have preferred a nice restaurant to a walk, or Tom, who would have thought of it as tacky, but she reminds herself that this isn't Tom or Jim. This is Greg.
"One day," he says, hugging her shoulders as they marvel at the London view. "None of this will be ours."
It makes her giggle. Looking up at him she takes a moment to admire his boyish grin.
"What?"
"Nothing. You make me laugh, that's all."
"Well, I like making you laugh. I think my favourite bit is the little crinkle on the bridge of your nose right…there."
Teasing her, he pokes playfully at her face, making her squirm and squeak until he places a kiss on her nose. There's a look between them. A shared smile and longing look that assures her that she will most certainly, definitely and absolutely kiss him.
She does. It's warm and lies somewhere between chastity and desire. He's gentle with her and holds her as though he's protecting her from something. She's never been kissed like this and neither has Greg. Molly is almost shy in the way her lips move softly against his own, but there's something of a deep longing that just yearns for something more.
There are tongues.