“I guess,” he said. “So… was that enough of a kiss? For luck?”
Somerset glanced up. The lights wrapped around the mistletoe reflected on his face, reds, greens, and yellows casting shadows over broad cheekbones and stubble-covered jaw.
“I don’t know,” Somerset said. “There’s still berries on it. So…”
Dylan licked dry lips and swallowed the nervous lump in his throat. He should say no. Or tell Somerset about the watch and let him make his own decision about what to do next. The problem was he had no idea how to explain his hunch about the watch, and he’d already crawled onto the bar so he could kiss Somerset again.
He knelt on the scarred wood and dangled his fingers in Somerset’s blond hair. Later, he promised himself as he pulled Somerset’s head back. The position drew the long muscles in Somerset’s throat tight, tendons corded under pale skin.
The flickering Christmas lights made it hard to read Somerset’s blue eyes. When Dylan pressed his mouth against Somerset’s throat, though, he could feel the eager throb of blood against his tongue. Somerset’s skin was cooler than he was used to, like someone who’d just come in from the cold, but not enough to shock him. When he scraped his teeth along the taut line of muscle and skin, he heard Somerset swallow hard.
That was easier to understand.
“Does that count?” he asked as he lifted his head.
Somerset set his half-full glass of whatever liquor he’d poured out of the unmarked bottle on the bar and grabbed Dylan’s chin in one hand. This time, it was his turn to search Dylan’s eyes for… something.
“This won’t make us OK,” he said, his voice rough and reluctant as he made the admission. “What you did… It was big. There will be consequences.”
“For you?” Dylan asked. The answer was obvious, he supposed. Obvious enough that Somerset only answered with a brief tilt of his chin, the corners of his mouth grimly tightened. “That’s not what I wanted. I didn’t know the Wolves were going to destroy the watch and—“
“That doesn’t matter now,” Somerset cut him off. “It’s done; there’s no undoing it. Just paying for it. And your ass isn’t going to cover that bill.”
Dylan bit his lower lip. “What will?”
Somerset pulled Dylan forward and kissed him. There was nothing gentle about this one; it was hard enough to bruise, his fingers clenching roughly against Dylan’s jaw. It still made Dylan’s balls tighten, the chill of it sharp enough to take his breath away.
“I’ll let you know,” Somerset said.
That kiss counted. Somerset plucked another berry from the branch. It popped between his fingers. Dylan tried to look up to see how many were left; he’d not thought it mattered when he looked the first time. Somerset didn’t let him.
“I’ll tell you when—“ he grazed a kiss against the corner of Dylan’s mouth, ”—we’re done.”
That one didn’t count. Dylan supposed it didn’t matter. There couldn’t be that many berries on the sprig. Not enough for Dylan to get bored with the kisses anyhow. The sharp shock of snow-chill lips against his, like ice cream, and the way Somerset drank the warmth from his mouth like something he could taste. Rough fingers on his jaw or the nape of his neck, and sharp teeth against his pulse point. That would definitely outlast the mistletoe.
Somerset’s T-shirt went first. It was already pushed halfway up his chest as Dylan ran curious, appreciative hands over the hard muscles of his stomach and sides. Somerset got fed up with it and dragged it over his head, one-handed, to toss it onto the floor.
“Your turn,” he said.
Dylan sat back on his heels and dragged his shirt off. He would have teased Somerset with it, but peeling the stained fabric off his skin made him decide against that. Instead, he balled it up and tossed it behind the bar. Then he reached out and touched a finger to Somerset’s chest.
The tattoo covered one pectoral muscle, from just under his collarbone to just below his nipple. Antlers—that Dylan could authoritatively identify as reindeer after today—in a broken triangle. Dylan traced the dark lines of it slowly, until he very casually grazed his fingers over the dusky pink bud of Somerset’s nipple. It puckered tighter under Dylan’s touch, and the muscle underneath twitched in reaction.
“I didn’t know you had ink,” he said.
“We all do,” Somerset said, his voice gone flat.
That was obviously a raw spot. Dylan moved his hand and leaned back, arms braced behind him and legs slung over the edge, as he looked at Somerset.
“I’m—“
Somerset covered his mouth with a mistletoe-sticky hand. “That was an old wrong,” he said. “Not one of yours.”
“That’s something.”
Somerset grabbed Dylan behind the knees and pulled him forward. He yelped in surprise and slid backward onto his elbows. Somerset’s hands under his thighs held him up, his ass hung off the curved wooden edge of the counter.
“Last one,” Somerset said. His hands flexed against Dylan’s thigh muscles, and his smile was dark. Eager. “We should make it count.”
