An answering color rose on his cheeks—something that hadn't happened in years. Far less but also rare, his smile; as he lowered himself down, once more beside her, this time to free his hands. One slid beneath her, smoothing between her shoulders and down her spine. It came to rest, a supportive pressure, in the small of her back. The other hand started on her cheek, fingers and palm moving down the line of her jaw, the side of her neck, moulding every curve and line of her shoulders, upper arms, sternum. He moved his face close to hers again, tracing with his nose and lips where his hand had been on her face and neck. And where he could feel her heartbeat and keep his eyes on her without overtly staring—as his hand carefully moved to the swell of her breast.