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The Doctor didn't know what to do with his hands. He flapped them awkwardly at his side, not sure where he was suppose to place them. He tested a few spots, her shoulders, her waist, around to caress her back, hoping some internal instinct would kick in and tell him that yes, this was where they were suppose to go. It never did, somehow he would always wind up flailing again.
She was kissing him. Her arms wrapped around him, taking lead, pulling him closer. Her lips moving against his in a way that was so deeply familiar to her, but so unknown to him.
He had been kissed before by other women. Been both the initiator and the receiver. Had women throw themselves at him, quite literally in some cases. The concept of kissing wasn't entirely unknown to him. It was the idea of women that was still so perplexingly foreign.
He was the Lord of Time. A master of all wibbly wobbly, timey whimey. A genius at just about anything... but when it came down to women, he was completely, hopelessly lost. Even after 900 some odd years, he still didn't know what to do with his hands.