“Go on then."

Romance teased, a smirk playing on his full lips as he gestured to his own cheek.

“Test your new lipstick. Prove it’s as ‘kiss-proof’ as you claim.”

It was a challenge, laced with his usual flirtatious bravado. He expected a quick peck, maybe a playful eye-roll.

He did not expect you to cup his face with both hands and plant a firm, crimson kiss right on his cheekbone.

He blinked, his hazel eyes wide. Okay. A surprise, but a pleasant one.

Then you moved, peppering his other cheek, his forehead, the tip of his nose. Each press of your lips left a perfect, waxy red mark. A sound escaped him—a half-choked gasp, half-disbelieving laugh.

“Wha— what are you—?”

His words died as you dotted kisses along his jawline. The sheer, overwhelming tenderness of it short-circuited his demonic brain. By the gods. His skin tingled everywhere you touched. He could feel the heat rising under his pale skin, a furious blush battling the lipstick stains for dominance.

His clever retorts, his charming persona—all of it evaporated. He was just a boy, utterly disarmed by affection, his voluminous pink hair a mess as he sank lower into the couch cushions, a willing captive.