The head of Somerset’s cock slid in first, slick and tidy, and then the shaft finally followed. Dylan’s asshole was stretched wide around it, pink and shiny. He pushed himself down until his ass pressed against Somerset’s thighs.
Somerset gave in to the temptation to touch and pulled Dylan back against his chest. He chewed kisses down his throat and stroked his hand in a tease of caress from Dylan’s nipple, pinched and tweaked until it was hard between Somerset’s finger and thumb, to his thigh.
“Bastard,” Dylan gritted out through clenched teeth. He reached back and cupped Somerset’s head in one hand, fingers tangled through unruly blond hair. “Please.”
“My parents were wed,” Somerset corrected him. “None of us were bastards. Sometimes our ma married her new man before she killed the old just to make sure of that.”
Dylan leaned his head back against Somerset’s neck. “Good for her.”
He lifted himself off Somerset’s cock, the muscles in his thighs hawser-tight as they took the strain, and then thrust down again. His body gripped Somerset like a warm, sticky hand, and pleasure twisted like warm caramel through Somerset’s balls. It prickled under his skin and ached in his thighs.
Licking kisses along Dylan’s neck, Somerset found the hot, red smudges that hadn’t time to bruise yet and soothed them with his tongue. Winter didn’t have much truck with healing magic, but it could numb. Dylan groaned and tilted his head to the side to give Somerset better access to his throat.
The plan—or whim—had been to make him do all the work. Somerset’s resolve wasn’tquiteup to the job. He gripped Dylan’s hips in his hands and held him in place, thrusting up into him with quick, hard jerks of his hips.
Heat eddied through Somerset, dry as a summer’s day in his throat and the pinprick itch of the first bite of summer under the tightest parts of his skin. It was heady, distracting. Somerset buried his face in Dylan’s shoulder, mouth open to inhale the light, saltytastethat was distinctly Dylan’s.
The soft caramel heat in his balls had hardened into toffee. It was still hot, but it felt sticky and brittle. He could feel it crack with each jerky stroke of his cock into Dylan. Sweat slicked Dylan’s skin and smeared between their bodies.
Somerset hooked an arm over Dylan’s lower stomach to keep him in place and wrapped his free hand around Dylan’s cock. He cuffed the thick shaft at the base and squeezed roughly, dragging a whine from Dylan as he arched back against Somerset’s shoulder. He breathed out raggedly, his chest hitching as he tried to catch another lungful of hair before Somerset could fuck it out of him.
Precum glazed Dylan’s cock as Somerset worked his hand along it in steady, twisting strokes from the base of the shaft up to the head. He dragged his thumb against the head roughly as he thrust his cock up into Dylan, buried as deep as he could get inside the other man. Then he did it again. Each time, it dragged the same bitten-back moan from Dylan as he squirmed under Somerset’s attentions.
Dylan came first, spilling himself over Somerset’s scarred knuckles with a ‘fuck’ he ground out through clenched teeth. Once he did, Somerset cut the last threads of control and thrust up hard into Dylan, balls crushed against Dylan’s ass and pleasure misfiring along his nerves in fractured bursts of hot-cold-now.
He grabbed a handful of Dylan’s hair in come-sticky fingers and pulled his head back to admire flushed cheeks, bitten-red lips, and clever, dark eyes. Then he kissed Dylan with rough possession, their teeth scraping against each other and Somerset claiming Dylan’s mouth and tongue with his own.
He came with a groan he muffled in Dylan’s warm mouth, come spilled inside the warmth of the other man’s body, and then slumped back in the chair, legs stretched out in front of him and the starch temporarily taken out of him as he let himself slouch. Dylan lay back on top of him, head still on Somerset’s shoulder, and their feet tangled together. Somerset could feel Dylan’s breathing as it calmed, slowing down gradually, and the heat of the other man’s body slowly seeping into him.
It dawned on him, in lingering, post-come clarity, that in any scenario where Santa lived, Somerset would have come back here alone. Only a dead Santa put a mostly naked Dylan on his lap.
Somerset wasn’t sure what to make of that.
After a long, still moment, Dylan stirred. “What now?” he asked
“Now?” Somerset placed a soft kiss on Dylan’s bare shoulder. His voice was grim as he said, “We wait for the consequences to catch up to us… and until they do, we can get some sleep.”
The smell of burnt bacon woke Somerset up.
It was Christmas Eve… probably the last one ever.
He started to roll out of bed and realized someone was in there with him. Dylan was sprawled on top of him, legs tangled with Somerset’s and his head on Somerset’s chest.
The bed felt like someone had made it up with fresh from the dryer sheets, warm and crisp under Somerset’s body.
He ran a finger down Dylan’s side, along the sharp line of ribs and over a bony hip. Then he pinched Dylan’s thigh hard enough to startle him awake as he reached down to rub his leg.
“Consequences are here,” Somerset told him. “And they made breakfast.”
Dylan scrubbed his hand over his face and stifled a yawn against his wrist. He’d dragged himself into the shower before bed, so he didn’t smell like sex or reindeer anymore. Dark hair stuck up in an unruly halo around his face, and his cheek was sleep-creased and pink from the way he’d lain. “That’s considerate.”
Somerset stared at him long enough that Dylan self-consciously rubbed his face again. “What?”
Somerset kissed him—because why not—and then tossed the blankets off the bed.
“The same rules apply here as at the witch’s house,” he said as he got up. “Don’t eat anything you’re offered.”
“I’m hungry,” Dylan groused as he untangled himself from the sheets knotted around his legs. “What am I supposed to do?”
