“You think . . . ?” she whispered. Her hand was still on his head. Her other hand was on her head, and it would have been the most ridiculous position if it weren’t so utterly wonderful.

The horses ambled to a stop, clearly confused by his lack of direction.

“I think I might need to kiss you,” Richard said. He touched her cheek, the pad of his thumb stroking softly across her milky skin. She was so beautiful. How was it possible he hadn’t realized just how beautiful until this very moment?

The space between them melted into nothingness, and his lips found hers, soft and willing, breathless with wonder. He kissed her slowly, languorously, giving himself time to discover the shape of her, the taste, the texture. It was not the first time he’d kissed her, but it felt brand-new.

There was something exquisitely innocent in the moment. He did not crush her to his body; he did not even wish to. This was not a kiss of possession, nor one of lust. It was something else entirely, something born of curiosity, of captivation.

Softly, he deepened the kiss, letting his tongue glide along the silken skin of her lower lip. She sighed against him, her body softening as she welcomed his caress.

She was perfect. And sweet. And he had the strangest sense that he could stay there all day, his hand on her cheek, her hand on his head, touching nowhere else but at their lips. It was almost chaste, almost spiritual.

But then a bird cawed loudly in the distance, its sharp call piercing the moment. Something changed. Iris grew still, or maybe she simply breathed again, and with a shaky exhale, Richard managed to pull himself a few inches away. He blinked, then blinked again, trying to bring the world into focus. His universe had shrunk to this one woman, and he could not seem to see anything but her face.

Her eyes were filled with amazement, the same expression, he thought, that must be in his own. Her lips were gently parted, offering him the tiniest peek at her pink tongue. It was the strangest thing, but he felt no urge to kiss her. He wanted just to look at her. He wanted to watch the emotions wash across her face. He wanted to watch her eyes as the pupils adjusted to the light. He wanted to memorize the shape of her lips, to learn how quickly her eyelashes swept up and down when she blinked.

“That was . . .” he finally murmured.

“That was . . .” she echoed.

He smiled. He couldn’t help it. “It definitely was.”

Her face broke into an echoing grin, and the sheer joy of the moment was almost too much. “Your hand is still on my head,” he said, feeling his smile turn lopsided and teasing.

She looked up, as if she needed to actually see it to believe it. “Do you think your hat is safe?” she asked.