Page 45 of The Last Kiss

“Best wait for them to finish,” Ash said, setting his cane aside to shrug out of his coat.

It was a fair point. “I’ll take the bags upstairs,” Harry decided. Better keep as far as possible from Ash; they’d had a narrow escape and he didn’t want to push his luck.

When he reached the first-floor landing, he spotted the other maid — Betty, presumably — leaving one of the bedrooms. A gangly girl with light brown skin and a couple of curly dark strands escaping her cap, she stopped in surprise when she saw him. Sarah was on her heels.

“That’s Mr Ashleigh’s room, is it?” Harry said. “I’ve got his bag.”

“That’s right,” Betty said. “I’ve laid the fire, but it’s not lit being as it’s so warm.”

“Alright. I’ll see to it later if he wants it.”

“Boiler’s lit in the kitchen, though,” Betty went on with a huff of annoyance. “A right so-and-so it is, an’ all, but Mrs P said to light it, so we did. There’ll be hot water if his nibs wants a bath.”

Harry swallowed a smile. “Much obliged,” he said, and tried not to think about Ash taking a bath. Or taking a bath with Ash…

“Back stairs are through the kitchen,” Sarah said as she and Betty moved past him. “And you’re to make sure the doors are locked at night. There’s all sorts round here these days.”

‘All sorts’ being demobbed soldiers, Harry supposed. Down on their luck and looking for work, just as he’d been a few weeks ago. He forced a smile — “Will do, ma’am” — and gave them a mock salute, which made Betty laugh and Sarah roll her eyes.

While they clattered down stairs, whispering together, Harry pushed open the door to the guest room. It smelled of lavender, the sash window lowered to let in the sun-warmed afternoon air, and it was dominated by a large bed made up with crisp white linen.

Harry couldn’t take his eyes off that bed as he set Ash’s bag on the floor. He was going to take Ash to bed today. He was going to take him to bed in that bed.

It might be the only time they ever had the luxury of a bed and a house to themselves. It was a taste of a life they could never have and, standing there amid the scent of fresh linen and lavender, Harry didn’t know whether the feeling that suffused him was delight or despair.

Not that it mattered. Things were what they were and nothing on God’s green earth was going to change that. But if they had to live on memories, then he’d make damned sure their memories lasted a lifetime.

For appearance sake he found the cramped servants’ rooms at the top of the house and left his own bag there. He’d retrieve it later. Then he went back down — using the back stairs, this time — and found himself in a compact but functional kitchen, from where he navigated his way back to the entrance hall. He paused at the bottom of the main stairs, looking around cautiously, ears pricked for any sound of the maids. All was quiet, save the clink of a bottle on glass from the front parlour. Stepping inside, he saw Ash standing at a sideboard pouring whiskey into two glasses. He turned at the sound of Harry’s footsteps and gave a weary smile, weary but warm. “They’ve gone,” he said, before Harry could ask. “And I’ve locked the bloody door behind them.Allthe doors.”

Harry laughed, crossing the room to claim his drink. It was an elegant parlour with dark floral wallpaper, a large fireplace, and an elaborate wooden overmantle. It drew his eye, not least because he could see Ash reflected in the dozen small mirrors it contained, his pensive expression clear when he turned back to the sideboard and topped up his glass.

“You’ve had a rough day.” Harry sipped his whisky slowly. It was a good one, smooth and smoky.

Ash hummed his agreement and knocked back his drink like it wasn’t his first. Definitely a rough day. Setting down his glass, Harry put his hand on Ash’s shoulder. “Come here,” he said when he felt him tense. “Ash, come here.”

With a sigh, Ash turned, his duff foot scuffing over the rug, and Harry pulled him into his arms. It felt so good to hold him, so natural to feel Ash leaning into him, his forehead coming to rest heavy on Harry’s shoulder. Rubbing a hand over his back, Harry said, “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

Ash shook his head. “Maybe later.”

A huff of warm breath caressed Harry’s neck as Ash closed his arms around him. Cradling the back of his head, Harry pulled him closer still, until there was no space left between them. They stayed like that for a long time, the silence of the room disturbed by not so much as the ticking of a clock. The one on the mantle hadn’t been wound, Harry supposed. This room — this house — was a place outside time. From the street came the noise of passing traffic, chattering voices, and clacking footsteps, but inside was only Ash’s steady breathing and the warmth blooming between them.

Eventually, Ash lifted his head, just enough that Harry could see his face. Lovely dark eyes watched him from beneath thick lashes, but they were shadowed with anxiety and weariness. He’d bet good money Ash hadn’t slept last night. He looked pale, sallow with exhaustion, his features fine and handsome but too thin. He’d look healthier if he gained a stone. But, even so, to Harry, Ash’s face was the dearest in the world. It always would be, whatever the future had in store for them. “Do you want to rest? Catch forty winks?” He smiled, rubbed his thumb over Ash’s cheek. “There’s plenty of time. It’s not even four o’clock.”

But Ash shook his head. “I don’t want to sleep.” And then he smiled too, a flush putting some colour into his face. “But I wouldn’t mind going to bed.”

“Is that so?” Harry pulled him a little closer, a subtle rocking of his hips making Ash’s eyelids flutter. “I wouldn’t mind that either.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Ash squeezed his hand. “Take me to bed, Harry West.”

Although the house was empty, Harry shut the bedroom door behind them and drew the curtains against the afternoon sun. Filtered through the drapery, the light became thick and golden, dancing across the bed in shifting patterns made by the breeze-stirred curtains.

All Harry’s past encounters with men had been, by necessity, fast and fumbled, so this premeditation was something new — sweet and tender and exposing. His heart pounded high in his chest as he watched Ash watch him. They’d discarded jackets, ties and waistcoats and laid down on the bed together, throwing back sheets and blankets to sprawl half-clothed on the pristine linen. Harry had never slept on sheets so fine.

Ash lay on his back, Harry propped up on one elbow at his side as one by one he undid the buttons on Ash’s undershirt. When he slipped his hand onto the warm skin of his chest, Ash caught his breath and bit his lip. Despite his thick dark hair, his chest was smooth under Harry’s touch. Bloody gorgeous. Harry bent his head and kissed him there, over his heart, pushing his clothes aside.

“Harry,” Ash whispered, running light fingers through Harry’s hair, down his neck and over his shoulders. Harry wished he had his own shirt off, he wanted to feel Ash’s touch skin-to-skin.

Kissing up his chest, back to his throat and jaw, Harry said, “Let’s get undressed. I want to touch you all over.”

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