Page 19 of Wildfire

And despite his proven ability to protect himself, Hermes followed him home.

He had a gorgeous townhouse—way nicer than Hermes’s own apartment—that looked both historic and modern at once. Hermes couldn’t tell how old the place was. It had obviously been redone, maybe not by Wilder himself, but someone recent. The crown molding looked original; mortals tended to care about things like that. And in the dining room near the front of the house, there was even a goddamn crystal chandelier.

Hermes whistled low as Wilder led the way in and deposited his leather bag on the hall tree. He was still standing tall from their altercation earlier, but as soon as they were alone, some of the tension returned to Wilder’s shoulders. Whatever Athena thought, Pratt might be better off looking after himself. Hermes was likely to push him to a heart attack.

“It’s starting to make more sense,” Hermes mused, kicking his shoes off under the stately piece of furniture meant only to collect shoes, jackets, and the general refuse of the day. Whatever was best for Wilder, he wasn’t going anywhere. “You’re one of those hoity-toity rich types, huh?”

With a thin frown, Pratt rounded on him. “And what are you?” he demanded.

Hermes saw it then—the flicker above his fingertips. It wasn’t even threatening, more a defense mechanism, a comfort. The way some mortals mistakenly believed they were safe if they had a gun tucked away in their jacket.

He stepped forward, and his hands closed around Wilder’s—one above and one below. The flame snuffed out against his skin, a burning sharp pain, but he healed quickly when Wilder let go of the heat and gripped his top hand, turning it over to inspect his palm.

“What are you?” he breathed again. His dark blue eyes were wide and—and worried? Maybe that wasn’t the right word for it, but there was something shifting in Wilder’s worldview. Hermes didn’t make sense to him, and damn if he wasn’t all too used to not making sense to anyone.

Sympathetic, his lips twitched. He shrugged. “Somebody you should get on your knees for.”

Wilder scowled, those incredible eyes lit with fire that seared within his very soul. So yeah, maybe Hermes got it—if he were the kind of god to go around snatching souls and eating them, or whatever, he’d go straight for Wilder Pratt.

“That’s a no go?” Hermes asked when Wilder did nothing more than glare at him. “Well, okay. Guess it’s up to me then.”

He fell to his knees in front of Wilder on the carpet in the entranceway, and the man’s pupils widened. His breath hitched, even when Hermes hadn’t done more than reach for his belt and ease it out of the loop that kept it flat against his trim hips.

He took his time sliding it out of Wilder’s belt loops and dropping it to the floor. That’d bug him; he had to be the kind of man who couldn’t stand a discarded belt in the middle of his entryway. But he didn’t stop Hermes to pick it up. Not when he dropped it, not when he reached for the button of his tailored trousers, not when he pulled down the zipper slow—tooth by tooth, staring up as Wilder’s lips parted, just barely.

When Hermes pulled his boxers down, shimmying his pants aside to get at his cock better, Wilder shivered. Hermes smirked, leaning in to lick a slick and shining line from his base to his very tip.

Then he sank down on him, and the sound Wilder made was fucking music. He stood in the hall, rigid and panting, while Hermes bobbed on his cock, putting his wicked tongue to its best use. And damn, if Hermes couldn’t help but think all that separated them from the world outside was a bit of frosted glass in his door. So close to being seen, and he could undo Wilder entirely.

“This all you want?” Hermes asked when he pulled back off that slick, throbbing cock. He sank back down again, but every time he pulled back, he asked another question. “Me on my knees for you... sucking you off... making you come here in the goddamn foyer?”

Wilder growled, his hand fisting in Hermes’s hair. He dragged him forward, clearly wanting to give his mouth something to do other than spout nonsense. He held him still, thrusting his hips until the blunt head of his cock hit the back of Hermes’s throat. God or no, he almost choked on it, gripping Wilder’s thighs to brace himself.

Then, the man was shoving him back, and Hermes grinned. It wasn’t enough to fuck his mouth. Wilder wanted the whole of him.

“Get in the bedroom. Upstairs. End of the hall. Take off your clothes.” Wilder’s voice was tight, heavy with command, and it sent a thrill right down Hermes’s spine.

“Aye, aye, captain.”

A second later, Hermes had zipped up the stairs, leaving a trail of discarded clothes that he could hear Wilder pause to pick up every few steps. When his shadow filled the frame of his bedroom door, Wilder paused to glare at him, there in the center of his bed, sheets undone and twisted up around his spread legs, stroking himself. As Wilder stared at him, Hermes braced his feet on the mattress and inched his hips off the bed.

“You coming?”

That annoyed muscle in Wilder’s jaw was working, and Hermes didn’t think it wasentirelyabout him this time. After all, he’d done exactly what Wilder had said so far. Pushed him? Yeah. But he’d also obeyed.

Oh no, Wilder was annoyed that he wanted him. And Hermes thrilled that all his better judgment was going to lose the day.

Wilder dropped the bundle of discarded clothes in a chair and stalked toward him, undoing the row of buttons that cut a line straight down his incredible chest. He shrugged the button-up off, removed the shirt under it, even had to undo his pants again. Holy shit, Hermes had been sucking him off moments before, and Wilder had paused to fix his pants before coming up here.

“Get on your knees,” Wilder commanded, and there was absolutely no part of Hermes that wanted to question him.

He rolled over, and, as fastidious as ever, Wilder went to retrieve supplies from his bedside table. There was no hurry in his stride, no speed in his movements as he opened the drawer and looked through it. He was taking too damn long, and Hermes dropped his head against his forearms, his hips up high, and groaned. “Don’t need all that, Pratt. I can take it.”

He was a god. There was absolutely nothing in here—nothing anywhere—that Wilder could do to him that’d last.

Wilder huffed. “I’m not an animal. I don’t just rut like a—”

Hermes missed the rest of what he said. He was definitely still talking, but right then, he slid one of those slick, long, masterful fingers right inside him, and all Hermes could hear was the sound of his own moan, trapped against his forearms.

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