Except he was hard, his cock was still wet with Somerset’s spit, and the chill, delicious lust that made his skin tingle didn’t see the harm. It was a bad time to make good decisions.
Dylan ignored the mistletoe rules as he pushed himself up to brush a quick kiss over Somerset’s mouth.
“I’m yours,” he said, his voice scratchy with cold kisses. “Whatever you want.”
He felt somethingshift, or maybesettlewas the better description,but it was probably fine.
Chapter Twelve
Somersethadnoideawhat he was doing.
It was a new experience. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done something without at leastsomeidea what it would mean. But this? Dylan spread out under him, pale skin flushed pink from Somerset’s kisses, and his mouth bruised from his teeth…
Somerset hadn’t even known this was what he wanted until he’d taken that first—second, he corrected himself, because apparently that mattered—kiss under the mistletoe. It turned out today was the day to break things, like the Unbroken Line of Nick and the Court’s law about not fucking mortals.
Because the watch was gone, and that meant Dylanshouldhave been officially off-limits again. Somerset just didn’t care.
Dylan washis.
Somerset scraped his teeth over the bony jut of Dylan’s collarbone and then kissed down his chest. He caught the flat pink nipple between his teeth and flicked it with his tongue until it plumped up and hardened under his attention.
Mine.He rolled that idea around his mind and decided he liked it.
He pulled Dylan off the bar, turned him around, and bent him back over it. Dylan made a surprised sound at the abrupt change in position and tried to push himself away from the bar. Somerset put a hand on the small of his back and held him in place.
“You said you didn’t want me to stop.”
Dylan took a ragged breath. “I don’t.”
“Then stay still.”
Somerset’s fingers were still sticky with mistletoe pulp. He lifted his hand off Dylan’s back and dipped them into the golden mead left in the shot glass from earlier. The honeyed liquid swirled around the glass as he stirred it until the mistletoe and mead were well mixed and his fingers coated with it.
He traced the line of Dylan’s spine, from the nape of his neck to the small of his back. The mixture was slick and sticky on his skin. Somerset leaned down to taste it, tart with mead and salted with sweat.
Dylan looked over his shoulder. “This isn’t a complicated homicide plan, is it?” he asked dubiously. “Is that stuff safe to—”
Somerset snorted and bit his shoulder blade, scraping his teeth along the sharp line of it.
“If I wanted you dead,” he said. “I’d have let the witch toss you in the pot.”
Dylan went ‘huh’ and then pointed out. “You kind of did.”
“But I did make her lift it off the hearth first,” Somerset said. He ran his hand down over Dylan’s lean ass and slid it between his cheeks. He watched the muscles in Dylan’s back tense in reaction as he pushed a blunt, slippery finger against his hole. “Do you trust me?”
“Yeah,” Dylan said without hesitation. He apparently didn’t even need time to think about it.
Dylan's easy confidence in that answer made Somerset feel briefly awkward. When Dylan had asked that of him, he’d not been able to come down on either side of an answer. Of course, Somerset worked his fingers deeper into Dylan, the reason for that was that Somerset was trustworthy.
Not always kind. Or nice. Not that either of those were considered virtues in Winter.
But he kept his word, and he stuck to his lane.
Meanwhile, Dylan had killed Christmas, so a little bit of uncertainty around his motives was probably justified.
Dylan moaned raggedly and dropped his head forward to hang between his shoulders as Somerset smeared the slick, potent gel inside him. The long line of his back stretched out in front of Somerset was all tense muscles and taut skin streaked with flickers of green and red from the lights. Somerset ran his free hand along Dylan’s spine, counting the nobbles of vertebra until he could scruff the back of his neck.
He was sowarm. His skin felt sun-soaked and sweet even in the dark of a winter night. Somerset wanted to wrap himself around Dylan’s lean, sun-kissed body and warm himself on it.
