Closing his eyes, he dropped his forehead to hers, his large hands smoothing her hair. Then, he kissed her, not with passion or heat or need, but with tenderness. Feather-light, he brushed his lips across hers before he opened and, as if having all the time in existence, stroked her tongue. A caress. An unhurried narrative of patience and acceptance and some kind of deeper meaning she couldn't quite grasp.

Unsure whether to weep or sigh, she cupped his cheeks and held him ...