Once it was secure, Somerset stepped back. He ran a finger down Dylan’s cheek to his jaw, tracing the damp path of his own spit. Ice bloomed under his touch, short-lived fingerlings of frost that just as quickly faded to a blush on the skin.
The new shirt fit Dylan like it had been sewed on him. Somerset adjusted the collar and then ran his finger down to flick one of the little coal buttons. He had never actually watched the brownies work, so that might well be how they did it. It was almost a shame to ruin such nice work.
Or, if you looked at it another way, it was an early Christmas present for the North Pole staff.
He gripped the front of the shirt and ripped it open with a harsh, almost organic sound. The buttons pinged off the floor and the wall as they went flying. Dylan caught his breath and gave Somerset a wry look.
“I hope the brownies made me a spare shirt,” he said. “Otherwise this year Santa will be bare-chested when he comes down the chimney.”
Somerset kissed the sass away with a rough, quick buss that crushed Dylan’s lips under his. Then he dipped his head to lick a shiver over Dylan’s collarbone.
“I’d buy that calendar,” he said.
Dylan laughed and then choked the sound off into a whimper as Somerset, one hand braced against the wall, worked his way down from shoulder to chest. The muscles in Dylan’s chest, pulled long and tight by his upstretched arms, tightened under his skin as Somerset placed a wet openmouthed kiss against one of Dylan’s nipples. He scraped with teeth and tongue until the flat pink bud puckered enough he could wrap his lips around it. The attention made Dylan’s chest hitch, his breath ragged as it caught between his ribs.
His hands tightened around the tangle of straps that cuffed him, and the bells jingled gently.
“God,” he muttered raggedly. “Please?”
Somerset chuckled and slid lower. He bit bruises along Dylan’s lean stomach and across the taut span of skin between his hip bones. The ragged hitch in Dylan’s breathing, the quiver of it his stomach muscles, got more pronounced the lower Somerset went.
“This isn’t going to make it easier,” Somerset said. “You and me. I won’t be kinder or more tolerant or less…who and what I am. If anything, it’ll be harder because I’ll be in all your life, not just the bits I can steal.”
Dylan sucked in a breath, his stomach moving under Somerset’s mouth.
“Is this you giving me an out?” he asked.
Somerset flicked his tongue around the dip of Dylan’s navel, the faint musky, salty taste of skin sweet in his mouth, and then looked up. It was a good view, the sprawl of Dylan’s body splayed out against the wall made Somerset’s cock tighten with aching impatience. The splatter of half-healed bruises, on ribs and curled around his shoulder, made something darker fill in his chest. Close enough to the same, though, connected.
Dark gray-streaked curls cast shadows over Dylan’s face as he looked down, his mouth well-kissed and parted and his eyes dazed. Whatever he saw on Somerset’s face made him twist his hands tighter in the leather straps.
“No. It’s far too late for that,” Somerset said. He slid down onto his knees and flicked the button of Dylan’s jeans open. Goose bumps bloomed on Dylan’s stomach as he squirmed in place. “Just letting you know.”
He pushed the trousers down just enough to free Dylan’s cock, already warm and heavy for Somerset’s touch. It had been…fuck, he couldn’t remember dates…too long. The idea that after tonight Somerset could have Dylan tomorrow as well—in a bed, on a chair, bent over the kitchen table—made everything from Somerset’s balls to his asshole clench almost painfully tight.
“Are you—”
Whatever Dylan had been about to say was strangled by a groan as Somerset wrapped his mouth around the half-hard length of his cock. The heat of it in his mouth spread through his jaw and down his throat, like honey and summer. Somerset swirled his tongue around the shaft as it thickened, the pulse of warm mortal blood almost overwhelming as it filled his head.
Dylan moaned and rolled his hips forward. His fully erect cock slid over Somerset’s tongue and bumped the back of his throat. As he pulled his head back the sticky glaze of pre-come was sharp and salty as it smeared his lips.
“Somerset,” Dylan begged him with the name. The muscles in his arms stood out like wires as he gripped the reins tight enough to lift him up onto his tiptoes. Then again, as if he needed to try them both on for size, “Skellir.”
It didn’t matter.
For once the schism formed by Somerset’s decision to leave Yule didn’t matter. Somerset or Skellir, they both wanted to be here.
Somerset gripped Dylan’s hip with one hand, thumb hooked over his hip bone and fingers spread over the curve of his ass, and pinned him against the wall. He ran his other hand up the back of Dylan’s thigh, waxed cotton rough against his palm and skin smooth.
He worked his mouth around Dylan’s cock, hard and wet and warm as a heart. The pulse of it tangled with the throb of Somerset’s blood. Eventually Dylan’s pleas were worn down to just breathless, wordless need.
Before he came, Somerset pulled back. He gave the head of Dylan’s cock one last lick to savor the taste and then rose to his feet in one easy movement. Dylan pulled enough syllables together to swear, a low, strangled noise, and dropped his head back against the wall. His attention was on the ache dammed up in his balls and not on Somerset.
He could fix that. Somerset slid his hand around the back of Dylan’s neck and lifted his head back up, then kissed him. The taste of his own cock on Somerset’s tongue pulled Dylan’s focus back to where it was supposed to be. As he explored Dylan’s mouth, Somerset reached down and unfastened his jeans. He reached into them and pulled out his cock, already hard and aching.
When Somerset pulled back, Dylan craned after the kiss, until the cuffs pulled tight.
“I’m yours,” Somerset told him, his mouth close to but not touching Dylan’s ear. “Like it or not.”
