She reminded him of the small birds that made their winter nest in the barn back home. She was all fragile, soft warmth, and the beat of her heart was a thing alive, visible through the skin, pulsing and tremulous. When she pulled away with as gasp, he moved his lips to her brow, and he stilled.
He brushed his lips against the olive-warm skin there, and he slid his hand up her back, to rest between her shoulder blades. He was holding her there, yes, but he was also holding. "You're so different," he whispered, and his words were rich with wonderment. Different, it was obvious, meant good, at least with him. It was an intimate word against her skin. No, these weren't just kisses. Not by any means.