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He felt her press her tongue lightly against his lips. The general experience was of soft, moist, warmth with only the slightest hint of urgency. He pulled back and looked into her eyes. He nodded.“You are beautiful,” he whispered.“Your turn,” she whispered into his lips.“In a minute,” he replied, pressing toward her. This time it was his tongue pressing against her lips. He could feel her tongue against his. The few seconds they held contact seemed to last for a long time. He pulled back with a sharp intake of breath.“That’s a good kiss,” she whispered, “But you cheated. You have to tell me something about yourself.”“I always dreamed about becoming a respected professor of philosophy and writing long dissertations on the various human interactions in differing cultures,” he said.“Like why the kiss is so important in our culture but not in others?” she asked softly.“Yeah,” he replied. “Something like that.”“Why do you suppose that is?”“I think that we have a mating dance of sexual. The morning light was crisp and bright. Paris had come alive. The long French windows of the apartment let the light flood in. The blueness of the crisp clear sky gave freshness to the day. For Kinghorn this was business. His stiff middle classiness, made it hard for him to relax. He liked the Duchess; they got on very well sexually. They rarely talked. Twice in fact had they talked properly. The one time on the plane between Carcassonne and London, when the co-pilot hadn't arrived, he wasn't essential for the short trip; she asked if she could sit by him. Impressed Kinghorn felt, by his command of her aircraft. She only had the one; it had been in fact her fathers. He noted her elegance then as she sat in the seat, and how she put on the head set. And how she had waved her hair, and lifted her arms to put it on, he smelt her beautiful smell that seemed unique to her, or perhaps he though in retrospect to her perfumer in Grasse. He noted at that time three things seemed to.
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