"The point," he says finally, "is that you're mine. And what's mine, I take care of."
My heart does a slow roll in my chest.
"That's very possessive of you."
"Yes."
"You don't even sound sorry about it."
"I'm not."
He's still touching my face. Still looking at me like I'm something precious and infuriating and entirely his. And I should probably say something intelligent, something that addresses the fact that we barely know each other and he still doesn't trust me and there's a question hanging between us that neither of us wants to answer.
Instead I say: "You could kiss it better."
His eyes darken.
"I mean—that wasn't—I was joking—"
"Were you."
"Yes? No? I don't—"
He leans in.
His lips brush my forehead, exactly where it hurts.
Soft. Gentle.
And then he pulls back just enough to look at me, his face inches from mine, and the way he's watching me—intent, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world and plans to use it—makes my breath catch.
"But I want," he says quietly, "to give my wife more."
I swallow. "More?"
"Being the perfect husband that your mother says I am."
Oh. Oh no.The callback to my mom—the way his eyes are gleaming—the slow smile that's spreading across his face—
I start to back away. "I just asked for a forehead kiss—"
His hand slides from my chin to the back of my neck.
"And I'm giving you one."
"That's—I don't think—"
He kisses me, and I forget all about walls and bruises and magical bookshops. I forget about everything except the warmth of his hands and the way my whole body melts into his like this is exactly where I'm supposed to be.
When he finally breaks the kiss, I'm breathless.
"That was more than a forehead kiss," I manage.
"I'm an overachiever."
"You're—you can't just—"
"I can." He pulls back enough to look at me, something warm flickering in those golden eyes. "I did. And now—"
