Minor plot spoilers, I suppose:
Kiss that doesn't go so well:
When a character has to kiss someone they're attracted to as part of the titular pantomime:
Kiss that doesn't go so well:
Damien chuckled and gave me a considering look. “When did you grow up, Iphigenia?” He was one to talk. He was younger than Cyril, and only a year older than me.
I mock-scowled at him. “Gene. And I don’t know if I would call myself grown.”
“Gene.” I liked the sound of my name on his tongue.
We sat in a tense silence. The hollowed tree smelled of old smoke, damp wood and earth and it muffled sounds from the outside. Water dripped, and animals occasionally rustled leaves. I breathed in deeply and closed my eyes.
“What are you thinking about?” Damien asked, still whispering.
“How much nicer the forest smells compared to the stench of the city.”
“So much better. The air smells so clean. No soot, no coal smoke, no seeping sewage.”
“Mm, can’t wait to smell it all again in a few days!” I shocked him into laughter.
“You are different from other girls.”
“I’m not easily scandalized,” was all I could think to say in return.
Abruptly, he leaned forward and kissed me right on the mouth. I made a muffled squeak behind my closed lips. He broke the kiss, leaned away, and opened his mouth to apologies.
I did not give him a chance, and boldly kissed him. His lips were a little chapped from the sun, the skin on his chin just beginning to prickle.
Damien made a small sound in the back of his throat, almost a growl. He pressed himself closer to me and ran his hands over my torso. I could barely feel his hands through the layers of fabric. My stomach twisted. It felt nice, wonderful even, but I knew with certainty that I was not supposed to be doing this. A kiss or two was acceptable. My mother always spouted the virtues of playing difficult to catch, of stringing men along until they could not bear to be without you. She told me that playing difficult to catch was particularly vital for me.
I’ll give it one more minute, and then push him away, I thought, a little woozy with all of the emotions swirling through my mind and body.
When a character has to kiss someone they're attracted to as part of the titular pantomime:
Drystan came to me, grasping my hands in his. He spoke Leander’s words of love, but in the magic of the stage and the costume, the words seemed charged:
“How is it that I dare to speak to thee?
Some spirit of love has o’er taken me
Oh, strike me, stone me, good Lady and Lord
I am too base to call her my adored.”
All of the other characters faded off the stage, leaving Leander and Iona alone. Drystan kissed me deeply in front of the audience. The tips of his fingers grazed my cheekbone, his stubble scratched my skin. He smelled of greasepaint and a faint but not unpleasant musk. My faithless lips responded, and I glared at him guiltily when we broke away. He only smirked as he bent over my hand and bid me a saccharine, rhymed farewell.