“What’s that saying? You catch more moths with flame?”
The tiniest twitch at the corner of his lips gives me hope. “You’re deranged.”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
“You crazy idiot.”
The match flickers out, and we stand there for a second, staring at each other through the whirling, feathery flakes, the streetlamp casting a glaze over the fresh white blanket of snow. I take the first step toward him, then another. By the time I take my third step, he moves too, coming toward me fast, making up the distance, as if he can make up for the time we lost. My steps increase too. There’s not enough time to spend it standing around staring at one another.
We crash into each other, and my arms go around him, and his around me, and for a long minute, we just stand there, under the falling snow, in the icy New York night.
He pulls back first, cupping my face between his hands. “You came back.”
“I did.” I can’t help but smile.
He searches my eyes. “Why?”
“For you, Duke. I came back for you.”
“I went looking for you.”
“What did you find?”
“I found… You,” he says. “You were right here where you belong.”
I raise my hand to his neck, gripping his throat and pulling him in. Our lips meet, and I’m suddenly hot all over,filled with the fire he lights inside me, despite the freezing night air, the snowflakes drifting down like ashes all around us.
When I think I’m going to combust, I draw back with reluctance.
“Let’s go inside,” I say, my voice rough with emotion, or lust, or both. “We’ve got five years of lost time to make up for.”
The corner of his mouth tilts up. “Or ten.”
“Do you always have to argue?”
“Do you really have to ask?”
ten
Duke Dolce
I wake up slow on Christmas morning. It takes me a minute to orient myself, to know where I am and who I’m with, that I’m not at Ma’s brownstone in my childhood room with Baron. That I’m in my own home, in my bed, with Colt Darling curled up in my arms.
“Hey, you,” I mutter, still groggy from lack of sleep. “Merry Christmas.”
Giddy from our reunion, we stayed up half the night, teasing each other about missing Santa Claus and whether we could get ourselves on the naughty list before morning. It all felt like such a ridiculous dream that I halfway expected to wake up alone.
“Coffee,” Colt groans.
“Espresso okay?” I ask, sweeping the hair off the back of his neck and planting my lips there. It feels like a miracle that I can do that, that I’m allowed to. But then, Christmas is the time for that kind of thing, so I’m not questioning it.
“Mm,” he mumbles, pushing his ass back into my lap.
“Did you say coffee?” I ask. “Or cock?”
“Both,” he says. “Preferably in that order.”
“Okay, damn.” I swing my legs off the bed and grab a robe. “You could have just started with that.” I pad into the kitchen, calling back over my shoulder to tell him to use my toothbrush if he wants.
