Page 87 of Don't Shoot Me Santa
Kenny did.
And it wasn’t about hunger anymore.
Nor sex.
It was everything else.
Chapter fifteen
Stay With Me
Kenny didn’t want to move.
Not from the bed. Nor from the exact angle where Aaron lay draped over him, boneless and spent, their breaths falling into a shared rhythm. He could have stayed there forever. Splaying his fingers over warm skin, tracing his thumb over the fine line where Aaron’s hip met muscle, and called it doctrine.
He told himself he’d lost count of how many times he’d made Aaron come. But that was a lie. He’d counted each one like a small sacrament, greedy and delighted: one, two, three, four, five, then another sixth. He savoured the tally because it was proof: Aaron trusted him to take and to return, and that trust was sacred and fragile. He’d only had the two himself, but that wasn’t important.
What was, was Aaron. And the sheets smelled of him. His sweat and sex and almond oil; the room hummed with the aftermath. Aaron shifted, breathy andsated, and the tiny, vulgar reminder of a cruel, honest growl from his stomach, ricocheted off the headboard.
Practicality, like a bell: aftercare.
Kenny smiled, soft and a little feral, and pressed a kiss to Aaron’s head. “You hungry?”
Aaron tapped the bedside with a lazy hand until the clock lit up. “It’s late. Can’t really eat at three in the morning, can we?”
“We’re not Gremlins.”
Aaron snorted, then winced, chin digging into Kenny’s chest. “Ow. Don’t make me laugh. Or come. Or move.”
“Stay here, then.” Kenny kissed him again before slipping out from beneath him, Aaron falling to a heap, then he wrapped himself in a dressing gown. “I’ve got everything you could possibly want. What are you after?”
Aaron flopped onto his back, pulling the duvet up to his chin. “I dunno. Something simple. Comforting. Like…spicy truffle macaroni cheese with those little crispy bits on top. Are they bacon? Or pretend bacon? And a slice of that burnt Basque cheesecake from the deli in Soho. Oh, and one of those weird Japanese KitKats. The purple yam ones.”
Kenny arched an eyebrow. “Anything else you’d like flown in from Tokyo while I’m at it?”
Aaron grinned. “You saidanything I want. Don’t make promises to your hungry, emotionally obliterated bottom, doc. I get weird.”
“Duly noted.” Kenny secured his belt and ruffled his hair. “But we’re currently out of Tokyo imports, London deli desserts, and anything involving truffle. Since when do you evenknowabout any of those things?”
“TikTok.”
“Of course.” Kenny sighed. “What would you like that we actually eat on a semiregular basis? That maybe you have atleast once hummed over and told me was the best thing to have entered your mouth.”
Aaron glanced up. “I’ve said that?”
“Many times. Insulting really.”
Aaron chuckled. Evilly. And it was glorious.
“I don’t know, lover. I can barely remember my own name right now, let alone what foods I eat. Surprise me.”
“Brilliant. I’ll bring up what I was already going to make.”
“Then why even ask?”
“To give you the comforting illusion that your opinion matters.”
Aaron snorted, dragging one limp arm from beneath the duvet to flip him off. It took effort. Almost heroic.
