Page 51 of Wildfire

“Nah. This one’s got to eat. Promises were made.” But Hermes wasn’t as worried about looking after Wilder on Athena’s behalf as just... looking after him. And the last thing he wanted was for Wilder to get a hunger pain and snack on some stray pomegranate seeds. The man didn’t belong in the underworld.

He was hazy, still clinging to Wilder’s arm as they made their way from the metro station up to the sidewalk. Wilder’s home was a few blocks away, and Hermes was happy to lean on his arm as long as he’d let him. Even if he could’ve made it on his own, why try, when he could enjoy the warmth of Wilder’s arm against his chest? Why stand on his own, when this silly mortal man was willing to offer his strength?

“How are you feeling?” Wilder asked, his voice temperate and controlled. And still, Hermes couldn’t help smiling at the show of concern.

“I’m fine,” he dismissed. “You’re still fast. Not as fast as cars, but... Well, I don’t feel like I’m going to puke up my lungs anymore, so I’ll take the win.”

Wilder’s lips pursed with distaste—probably to do with the casual reference to vomit—but all Hermes wanted to do was kiss him.

So once they’d climbed the stairs of the stoop and Wilder opened the front door, Hermes tugged on his arm and pulled him inside. The door snapped shut behind them, but Hermes had already wrapped his arms around Wilder’s waist, his fingertips digging into the base of his spine and pulling him close.

“Hermes—” Wilder rasped, but Hermes allowed him no quarter before pressing in to claim his lips.

He slid his tongue into Wilder’s mouth. His teeth were sharp, his lips firm, and his hands settled on Hermes’s hips in a solid grip. Just thinking about the strength in those hands, the way he could call fire with a thought, made Hermes’s skin heat.

“You were worried about me,” Hermes accused, dragging his teeth across Wilder’s bottom lip and sucking it into his mouth.

All Wilder did was groan, but that was as good a sound as any. He pulled the tail of Wilder’s shirt out from his belt.

“You thought I was in danger, and you were worried about me.” He leaned in and kissed his way down Wilder’s neck. His shirt was silk and fine and very much in the way.

“You were in danger,” Wilder insisted.

Hermes hummed, shrugging. That, at this point, was inconsequential. What mattered more than anything else was that Wilder Pratt hadn’t wanted him to die. He’d wanted a world with Hermes in it, and he was one of only a handful of people Hermes was certain felt that way.

He dragged his hand across Wilder’s stomach, dipping his fingers into the band of his belt and dragging him forward. He felt a stirring, the press of Wilder’s cock against his belly when Hermes pressed him into a wall.

“I worried about you too, when you were out there alone with Typhon,” Hermes admitted, whispering across Wilder’s lips. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

He leaned in again, but this time, when he kissed Wilder, he didn’t feel a movement under his mouth. Instead, the man gripped his arms and edged him back. “You almost died.”

“And nothing’s more bracing than that.” He unhooked Wilder’s belt and reached for the button of his trousers, but Wilder gripped his hands.

Finally, Hermes froze, his hands hovering uneasily between them. He was offering Wilder everything, and Wilder was pushing him away.

With a frown, his mouth suddenly dry and tasting nothing like the sweetness of ambrosia or Wilder’s lips beneath his, Hermes dropped back on his heels. “Do you not want—?”

He felt the wrinkle between his brows, the downward tug at the corners of his lips, and the faintest tremble of the bottom one. All that, the danger they’d faced and the genuine concern and care Wilder had shown him, and he still didn’t really understand what Wilder wanted.

He simply knew that it wasn’t him.

Get Some... Chocolate

As much as Wilder wanted to fall into bed with Hermes, forget all about the man dismissing his own value and just dive in headfirst, he couldn’t. He would give literally anything to be able to forget the whole world and lose himself in Hermes’s lithe body.

But that very body was still moving slower than usual, occasionally clumsy where it had always been nimble before, from Hermes’s brush with death. He was thousands of years old. Had knowledge and experience beyond anything Wilder could ever hope to gather for himself.

And he’d almost been lost.

Those mischievous, sparkling eyes, almost gone forever.

Wilder reached out and clutched Hermes’s face in both hands, holding it in place, staring into his eyes. “I do,” he confirmed, because he thought he needed to. A man whose father didn’t even show up when he might be dying needed all the affirmation he could get, and he needed it to be real and serious and not at all perfunctory. Well, Wilder could do that. He was very good at being thorough and clear. “I want you. I want you on your knees, and in my bed, and in that damned club bathroom, and in my office, bent over my desk. With the damned brownies and... maybe even after you eat them all.”

Hermes sucked in a breath at that, and for a moment, his gaze danced away from Wilder. But a moment later, drawn like a lodestone to iron, he stared into Wilder’s eyes, searching. “I can eat a lot of brownies,” he finally said. “People complain about it. You make ’em, then I eat ’em all and don’t even leave you any.”

If he was talking about brownies, Wilder would eat one of his own fireballs. But if that was how Hermes needed to have the conversation, Wilder could do that.

“I can always buy more mix. The store doesn’t run out.” He didn’t blink, or flinch, or look away—he needed to be sure Hermes understood. Maybe neither of them was ready for an adult conversation, but this could work.

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