He smirks. “Diving straight in the deep end, huh?” He offers me a bite of brie and Parma ham on a cracker with a smear of some kind of onion jam stuff that tastes amazing.
“You pounded my prostate until I came over the couchlike a prepubescent teenager, Artemis. I think we’re beyond favorite colors and foods, don’t you agree Sugar Tits?”
He sighs, like he’s losing patience. “Why do you insist on all the nicknames?”
I point at his handsome face. “I like what it does to your face.” I take a bite of cheese. It’s really good fucking cheese. “Your eyes darken like you’re considering killing me, but your lips twitch like you’re amused. Sometimes you get this look on your face like you’re evaluating if you like the nickname or not.” I return the favor and feed him some salami, enjoying the warmth around my fingers as he sucks them into his mouth.
“You really want to talk kinks?” He offers me a white chocolate covered strawberry. What is it about the humble strawberry that is the ultimate decadence? If someone dipped a segment of orange into chocolate it just wouldn’t have the same impact.
I nod. “I don’t think I have any.” I pause, wrapping my lips around the end of the juicy strawberry and taking a bite before quirking a brow. “At least none that I know about.” Unless choking on my own feelings counts as a kink.
He offers me another beer and cracks one for himself like he has all the time in the world, like he’s got nowhere better to be, like he might be choosing me. The idea curls around my chest and gives me a tight squeeze.
“I have kinks. I’m a member of Protocol.”
I nod, taking a sip. “I know that much.” I read it in an article online.
The fire crackles, cutting the silence that simmers between us as we both crunch our way through a couple more crackers and cheese.
“I like being in control.” The admission slides over my skin like warm oil, slow and inevitable.
I gasp, my hand flying to my chest and brows shooting up. “You do? I had no idea. This is brand new information.” Isnicker before dissolving into laughter. He throws a cashew nut at me that I catch in my mouth.
“I like the chase, Martinez.” He doesn’t break eye contact as he speaks.
“Well, considering I did the chasing in this.” I point a finger between us. “Whatever this is, I find that hard to believe.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “No,Duende, I mean a literal chase. Like in a forest. Like predator versus prey.”
So much hits me all in one go, the way his eyes pierce mine, the fact the Ice Prince has a little primal kink going on, and the biggest thing of all, Artemis just gave me a nickname.
Artemis de la Peña gave me a fucking nickname.
I’m. A. Goner. If he ever says it in bed, I might spontaneously combust.
CHAPTER 29
Xavier
My slumbering ice prince lets out an adorable snuffle, throws his forearm over his face, and something stupid and warm thumps behind my ribs.
He’s been asleep for about an hour. I sourced a pillow and a blanket and built him a makeshift bed—I tried to coax him upstairs to bed but that was a pipe dream. This guy’s built, cut from marble and sin, and I am simply not spiritually strong enough to carry 200lbs ofthat…anywhere, never mind up a staircase.
I threw some wood on the fire to keep him warm while I tidied up our picnic leftovers.
He shifts again, burrowing deeper into the pillow, and his mouth goes slack, fully surrendering to sleep. God, he looks young like this. Unarmored. Not the sharp-edged, barbed-wire version of himself he seems convinced he has to be around the rest of the world.
I wipe down the counter, rinse the little container we used for the chocolate covered strawberries and nuts, and stack the plates. Every few seconds my eyes drag back to him, like mybrain and dick staged a coup and are now running the show, like my brain hasn’t caught up on the fact that, yes, Artemis de la Peña is asleep on the floor.
The fire crackles. Shadows flicker up the length of his thighs where the blanket doesn’t quite reach, and—of course—I drift over to fix it, tugging it up another inch. His hand twitches, fingers brushing my wrist as if he’s reaching for something in a dream. Or someone.
My chest does a stupid, traitorous squeeze. I sit beside him, careful and quiet. The kind of quiet stillness I’ve never managed with anyone else. His phone, abandoned on the rug a couple feet away, vibrates and lights up with a notification. He doesn’t stir. I pretend I’m not nosy enough to want to peek. Growth, baby.
I lean back on my palms and watch him. And it hits me, that low, creeping warmth I’ve been trying to outrun for weeks. Want is one thing. But this? This is something gentler, deeper. Something I can’t negotiate with.
My throat tightens. I shift, bracing both elbows on my knees and drag a hand down my face. I should wake him. But he’ll likely panic, try to put space back between us before he says or does something that cracks us both open entirely. But he looks so damn peaceful. Like the world isn’t clawing at him for once. He mumbles something. Soft. Spanish. A name—no, not a name. like a sigh that’s been softened into a plea.
I freeze. “Arte?” I whisper, leaning in.
