Her breath quickens as his hands slip beneath her shirt, and she lets her hunger for him slip a little, deepening the kiss. (This is what she wants. This taste, this feel of him against her lips, to wash away the other not-quite-right memory.)

When she pulls away again, there's a tiny smile on her lips and her hands tug at his shirt.

"You were quite the punk. A young bull," she whispers in Portuguese. "Said I could never wear you out."