The touch of his tongue was delicate and careful as it slide against her lips, and then between; her mouth parted, her own tongue dancing shyly forward and then retreating, as if making an invitation into a secret parlour. This, too, was new; once mother had coaxed her to trying a certain shellfish, and it had been like an unpleasant version of this. Where it had been cool, he was warm, and rather than tasting of fish, he tasted of wine and something else she could not identify.<br/><br/>Her body pressed unabashedly to his, now; there was nothing around them but the garden and the night, a blessedly cool breeze washing against them and fluttering the hem of her skirt. Fingers slipping into her hair, the scratch of his nails against the base of her skull, sent a trill of goosebumps racing down her spine, and she inhaled sharply, making a small noise against her mouth.<br/><br/>Soon she realized that it seemed to be the only sounds, and her brow wrinkled behind her feathery mask, gently disengaging to look toward the brightly blazing building. From within, the music had stopped, the crowd had gone quiet, and she heard one bombastic voice making a speech. It made her stiffen, slender fingertips flying to her lips. "Oh! Midnight, the unmasking.... it's time!" She looked at him, making as if to slip from his, lap, though it was the last thing she wished. "Milord, we must return...."