I sniff and wipe my nose with the back of my hand, which is not glamorous or queenly.
“I’ll try.”
“That’s all I ask.”
He pulls me closer and presses his lips to my forehead. Then my temple. Then my cheekbone. Then the tip of my nose. Then the corner of my mouth. Then the other corner.
Each kiss soft and deliberate and warm and by the fifth one I’m half-laughing and half-crying because he’s covering my entire face in kisses with the systematic thoroughness of a man who intends to leave no square inch unkissed.
“Knox, you’re getting your spit all over me—”
He ignores this completely, pulls me tighter against him, sucks my bottom lip into his mouth and kisses me properly — slow, warm, deep, the kind of kiss that makes the tarmac and the plane and Alaska and Rafael and the vision and eve
