Page 81 of Love & Heart Braking

Devereaux tucked a curl behind my ear. “Good. Because once your lips touch mine, I’m your man.”

“My man?”

“I want to be introduced as yours,” he murmured. “If you’ll agree to be mine too?”

I blinked back moisture in my eyes. Perhaps exclusivity went without saying at this stage, but his question still warmed my heart. “I’d like that.”

Devereaux’s gray gaze burned. “Then kiss me, sweetheart. I’ll do my best to stay still.”

Three years. “I don’t know if I remember how.”

His tone was dry. “You could lick my face all over, and I’d love every moment. Take your time, and don’t worry.”

“You asked for it.” Shuffling forward, I ignored the way my skirt hiked up—though my berserker certainly didn’t miss a thing.

I knelt next to him on the couch. Minimal touch was probably best. Just until we figured out the limits.

I rested my hand against his jaw, and his eyes shut.

This is it. Taking a breath, I leaned in.

Closer.

Closer, listening for a shattering, crash, or boom.

When nothing happened, I touched my lips to his.

Devereaux sighed into my mouth. Or maybe it had been me. I’d planned a quick peck, but now I was here the words quick and peck had disappeared from my vocabulary. I pressed my lips harder against his, moaning softly as I explored the feel of his mouth, as silken as his voice. Warm. Firmer than I’d expected.

I gripped both sides of his face and slipped my tongue into his mouth to taste him.

We both moaned.

Devereaux tensed. Finding the willpower not to slide my hands down his chest, not to straddle him, and not to loop my arms around his neck took everything in me.

The kiss was torture.

Exquisite torture.

Torture I’d put myself through over and over.

With a frustrated cry, I turned my face to sever the contact, but remained pressed against his side, panting hard from our kiss.

He wasn’t in any better state. His hands found my hips and helped me find balance again.

“Sweetheart?”

“Yeah?”

“That was worth every second of the wait.”

He could say that again.

I touched my lips. I’d just kissed a man. And that man was Devereaux.

My boyfriend—more than that, really.

Mine.

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