I tip my head to face Lane and in his eye contact, I feel an unexpected surge of security. Like, amidst this craziness, he’s a safe place to land. A refuge. A protector.
“Three!”
“Kiss her!” someone yells from the crowd. I’m pretty sure it’s Pierre, Cara’s husband, from the Nebraska Knights.
Everyone picks up the chant and it melds with the countdown.
“Two!”
I open and close my mouth, prepared to tell Lane that we don’t have to, but just before the big screen behind us goes dark at the end of our wedding video, we’d kissed.
Lucian said to us,You may kiss the bride.
We’d leaned close.
Heads tilted.
Lips melted together.
I kissed this man? It all comes flooding back. The contact, the heat, the surge inside. But before I can slow things down, Lane’s free hand comes up to cup my cheek, his thumb sweeping across my skin in a surprisingly tender gesture.
“One!”
“Happy New Year!”
The ballroom explodes in cheers and noise makers and celebration, but all I can focus on is Lane’s eyes searching mine.
“A New Year’s kiss?” I can’t be sure if he’s asking or … but the softness in his eyes suggests he’s waiting for permission.
My chest flutters.
Everyone in our proximity continues to urge us to “Kiss, kiss, kiss,” as if we’re on the kiss cam at a sports game. But we already kissed and … it was wonderful. That much I am sure of.
I nod, not trusting my voice, and then his lips are touching mine.
Again.
Because I certainly remember how the first kiss felt, even though I wasn’t fully aware of getting married at the time—at least consciously.
The world narrows to this, us, now.
Soft.
Warm.
Perfect.
My eyes flutter closed as everything else fades away. Much like Lucian Little instructed during the hypnosis, all I have are my basic senses.
There’s the distant hum of the theater, the faint music from the sound system, with my heartbeat falling into its rhythm, or is it syncing up with Lane’s pulse?
My focus is entirely on this moment and with that comes both relief and excitement.
Relief because that tells me what I want is true. Him.
Excitement for much the same reasons.
His rough, callused palm trails down my neck and his fingers tap my collarbones before sliding to my waist. My hands explore the caps of his broad shoulders before lowering to the plains of his back, muscular and strong.
