It was so weird, how something that simple could feel that good. Just for a second, Olive forgot to be self-conscious, or nervous, or worried that her freckles looked stupid or that she was too skinny or anything, because Victor was touching her and that was roughly four thousand times more important than anything else. She arched up to kiss him, pressing her breasts (whose size she really could not care less about at the moment) up into his hands eagerly.

Working off the principle of, "This feels good, so I should do it," she slid her hand from his back to press lightly against his abdomen. One fingertip idly played with his waistband -- in the back of her mind, she sort of hoped he'd brought condoms, because she was an idiot who hadn't thought of a freaking cruise where they were sharing a room as being the ideal place to maybe need one. Stupid Olive.

(Though now she was sort of marveling at how fast that had started to seem like the best idea ever. Whatever. Olive wasn't arguing -- she'd seen way too many Molly Ringwald movies to not realize that when it felt right, you should probably just go for it.)