She'd kissed before. Viktor, naturally; an Irish girl named Emily in the eighties; and Adrian Pucey, once. This one was different. Not better, by any means- she wasn't sure if anything would ever surpass Emily's- but this was a production. It was a kiss borne not of attraction, but impishness. It was good, and somehow exactly what she needed. She couldn't remember grinning having ruined the efficiency quite as much as just then, and something about that made her happy.