Page 62 of Hero of Havoc

“Why is my door open?” I murmur as Archer quickly hurries to close it.

“Because I didn’t want you to wake up starving after all of your fun last night,” he explains, lifting an insane tray of food in the air.

As he places it on the bed, I recall last night.

Meadow was relentless, and I was a bad influence, but as blotchy as my memory is now, everything I do remember is filled with laughter, and that’s all that matters.

“How did I get back here?” I ask, reaching for a glass of orange juice and one of the pastries, and he grins at me, amusement brightening his eyes for a split second.

“Loudly,” he states, popping a grape in his mouth as I fight the grin threatening to take over my face.

“Sorry about that,” I mumble before taking another bite of my pastry, and he shakes his head.

“It was cute. You were cute.”

“I don’t think cute is what I was going for,” I say with a sigh, and he winks.

“Oh, I know.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing.”

“What aren’t you telling me?” I press, and he shakes his head, but when I narrow my eyes, he concedes.

“You weren’t wearing any clothes before you set yourself on fire,” he states, and I gulp.

“What did I do?”

“Nothing bad, you just… had needs. Needs that we refused to cater to while you were that drunk.”

My cheeks burn at his confession, but it only makes his smile grow.

Dammit.

Refusing to admit it, I shake my head. “You’re lying.”

“Am I? Why don’t you come feel my hand and find out for yourself? Better yet, there are messages you sent that prove⁠—”

“Stop! Stop!” I shriek, clapping my hands over my ears, and he chuckles. “I hope you’re proud of yourself,” I mumble, shoving the rest of my pastry into my mouth to shut myself up.

He watches me intently, and the second I swallow the last remnants, he invades my space, pressing his lips against mine. His hands cup my cheeks, holding me in place as he delves deeper, consuming me until a groan erupts from my throat; only then does he lean back with a grin.

“Fuck. I’ve wanted to do that since last night,” he mutters, his pupils dilated as he stares at my lips, all while my blush deepens, but there’s no embarrassment there this time. Only the need that he was referring to.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask for more, beg maybe, when he launches to his feet, dragging a hand through his hair as he nods at me. “Get ready, Hot Stuff.”

My nose crinkles as my head rears back. “You are not calling me that,” I scoff, and he shrugs.

“Everyone else has a nickname for you.”

“Not that,” I mumble, and he smirks.

“Get ready.”

“Why?”

“Because you may have eaten, but I promised the others, Meadow included, that you would make an appearance this morning.”