Dylan only realized he’d backed away when his shoulders hit the door. He might know he could trust Somerset, but the atavistic part of his brain in charge of being scared of things that went bump in the night wasn’t so sure.
“I didn’t—”
Somerset braced his hand on the door. His fingers were long and elegant under the calluses and scars of hard use, and the shadow they cast on the wood twisted as it sank into the grain. Dylan felt the magic against his eardrums, like air pressure. When he took a breath, it tasted like old stone and grease on his tongue.
Somerset’s own power, not the frost and peppermint tang of Yule. Until he broke the seal, the door wouldn’t open. They were not just alone, but in private.
The smart thing to do would be shut up. Of course, if Dylan was prone to making the smart choice, he’d have walked away from all of this a year ago. Back when it wouldn’t have hurt.
“Locked doors,” Dylan said as he tilted his head back to look up at Somerset. “Careful, people are going to get the wrong idea.”
“No,” Somerset said. He put his thumb under Dylan’s chin and tipped his head back. Something shadowy darkened his eyes as his gaze dropped to Dylan’s mouth. “They aren’t.”
He leaned down and claimed Dylan’s mouth in a hard, hungry kiss.
Chapter Six
Give Somerset enough timeand he could probably come up with an explanation for why this—Santa shoved up against a door and Somerset’s hand twisted in his hair—wasn’t stupid.
Probably.
After all, it wasn’t like he’d throw away a year of careful political maneuvers and ruthless self-control a handful of days before Christmas Eve in exchange for immediate, eager gratification. That would be stupid. EvenStúfurwould know better than that.
That explanation would have to wait, though. Right now all Somerset had was Dylan’s mouth under his and the hollow, aching cavity in his chest that had cracked open last night when he’d thought…
He shied away from the raw edges ofthatmemory before he slid back down into the dark, salt-sharp space. His kind weren’t meant to feel like that. It was better to focus on the present, on the lean, willing body pressed against him and the dull ache of hunger that tugged at Somerset’s balls like acold hand.
This was his.
Maybe fuck-all else could be, butthis, here and now, was his.
Dylan groaned around Somerset’s tongue as he returned the kiss. He curled one hand over Somerset’s hip, his thumb warm as it grazed over the tight skin exposed where Somerset’s T-shirt had ridden up, and pulled him closer. Somerset could have ignored the insistent tug, but instead he complied. The nudge of Dylan’s cock, hard under well-worn denim, against his thigh scattered any sensible thoughts about “that’s enough” or “you’ve made your point” to the winds.
After all, the remnants of the rough boy who’d come down from the mountain to bend his knee to the first Nick asked, what the fuck was wrong with taking whatever you wanted? Whenever and wherever you wanted it.
Somerset knew he could answer that, but fuck it. He didn’t want to.
He caught Dylan’s lower lip between his teeth and bit down on it. Not quite hard enough to split the skin, but enough to make Dylan squirm. Somerset laved the spot with his tongue before he broke the kiss and trailed his mouth down. He ran his lips along the sharp, stubbled line of Dylan’s jaw and down to the pale, tight column of his throat. Blood pulsed against his lips.
Dylan’s skin tasted like the hospital, a bitter, antiseptic taste layered over the Yule magic and mortal flavor that Somerset was used to. Like candy dipped in hand sanitizer. Somerset cupped the back of Dylan’s head in his hand as he worked to scrape the taste off him with tongue and teeth.
“Somerset,” Dylan croaked out. His hands tightened on Somerset’s hips, fingers pinched around the bone as he tilted his head to the side. Somerset could feel the heat of the bruise he’d worked into pale skin against his lips as he lingered there. He pressed a wet kiss on the spot and then pursed his lips to breathe on it. Frost sparkled as it turned spit to ice, fractured crystalline fingers spreading out across the flushed red boundaries of the hickey. Dylan sucked in a startled breath as the cold pinched at him and let it out on a ragged, “Skellir.”
The sound of that name on Dylan’s mouth gave Somerset pause.
Until last year he’d not heard that name in decades. He’d heard it often enough in the months since—the Courts weren’t keen on change or kindness—but not from Dylan. It didn’t put Somerset’s back up the same way it did when his brothers mouthed it
Maybe because Dylan wasn’t trying to be an asshole.
Or maybe—Somerset skimmed his lips over the patch of frost, already half melted against warm skin—it was because Dylan sounded on the raw edge of coming. That took the edge off his mood. He chased a drop of water down Dylan’s throat with his mouth. It lingered on the sharp jut of a collarbone before slipping down under the soft cotton of the hoodie.
Somerset caught the metal tag between thumb and forefinger and slowly pulled it down. The zip peeled apart to reveal bare skin, pale where it wasn’t dappled with faded bruises. Somerset’s breath hitched under his rib cage, a tight knot of eager anticipation.
“This is—”
Whatever Dylan was about to say was interrupted by the rattle of the door handle. It jabbed against Dylan’s hip, and he moved away out of instinct. Somerset caught his arm and pulled him into his body, tucked under Somerset’s arm. He then shushed him with the tap of a finger to his mouth.
The door didn’t shift. Somerset could feel his magic flex as it absorbed the force applied against it. It hurt strangely, a dull ache down deep in the gray matter of his brain. He pressed his finger more firmly against Dylan’s mouth.
