“Please,” he says again. “I’ve dreamed of this. Of you.”

That’s impossible. It must be the Wildfire talking. All that colour—it must get to your head, leave you eternally dissatisfied with that mere thirty minutes of vision, leave you wanting more, wanting things you wouldn’t otherwise want at all. It’s the Wildfire that makes her believe him anyway, that makes her nod her consent. It’s the Wildfire that makes Jaime kiss his way down her neck, that makes him pull at the ribbon at her chest, that makes him gather up her skirt. It’s the Wildfire that makes her glad, for the only time in her life, that she had been made to wear a dress. It’s the Wildfire that stops her from recoiling when Jaime reaches his fingers between her legs, that permits her to whimper at his touch. It’s the Wildfire that fills her with the courage to sink down onto the grass, to watch as Jaime kneels before her, to keep watching as he pushes down his pants and smallclothes, just far enough.

It’s the Wildfire that makes it feel so good.

A first kiss. And a first time.