Page 103 of The Unlikely Pair
I catch myself watching him sometimes when he’s not aware. Studying the lines of his face, the way his hands move as he works.
It’s like I’m on a quest to unravel the mystery that is Harry Matheson, and with every passing day, I find myself more and more interested in the contrast between what I thought I knew about Harry and who he actually is.
And having sex adds another level of…something to the whole thing.
I mean, you expect sex to change as you get to know your partner and their preferences. And Harry and I have definitely had lots of sex over the past few weeks.
A certain level of intimacy comes from knowing someone’s body so well, knowing the noises they make when you kiss their neck, the exact way their breath hitches when you touch them just right, how the pulse at their throat races under your lips.
I now know all the long, lean lines of Harry’s torso. The indent under his rib cage, where my hand slots naturally. The scruff of his beard when he kisses me.
The thought of Harry back at the cabin speeds up my steps now.
“Hi, honey, I’m home,” I say as I open the door, stamping my feet to remove any excess mud from my ill-fitting snow boots.
I’ve spent the morning fishing and have three lovely perch to show for it. It’s amazing how I can get the same amount of pride for convincing a fish to take a grub on a hook that I used to feel when I scored a political victory.
Harry looks up from the table and smiles, and I have a moment of disconnect so large I almost trip over and send myself and my fish headfirst into the floor.
Because it’s impossible to reconcile the Harry grinning up at me now, dressed in the old grotty woolen jumper we found buried in a drawer, his Savile Row trousers rumpled beyond all recognition, with the pristine, polished man I used to face across the Chamber in Westminster.
It’s impossible to stop myself from closing the distance between us so I can kiss his smile.
“What are you working on?” I ask when I draw back.
“I thought I would make a liner for your boots out of the rabbit skins. It will make them fit better and hopefully keep your feet warmer,” Harry says.
“A well-lined boot is a step in the right direction,” I say.
“An ounce of boot lining is worth a pound of frostbite whining,” Harry replies.
“A stitch in time saves frozen toes in the wintertime,” I counter, and Harry laughs.
How did I ever think of Harry Matheson as cold and emotionless? He seems full of emotion now.
“Do I have something on my face?” Harry asks.
“What?”
“You’re studying me like I’m a rare first-edition book.”
Damn. I usually try harder to conceal my fascination with this man.
“Well, you definitely are a bit moldy and outdated,” I say. “I was actually just thinking how you laugh more now than you did at the beginning of this adventure.”
“I have spent a lot of time around you, so there’s been lots to laugh about,” he replies.
“Um…I think you win the title of the most comedic of us after your recent intimate encounter with stinging nettle and the resulting rash.”
“I thought we agreed never to speak about that again,” Harry says, his eyes crinkling. “And what do you want me to say, Toby? That you’ve rubbed off on me?”
“Well, I have spent a bit of time rubbing against you over the last month,” I say.
He rolls his eyes.
“Well, you know what they say, Toby. A smile a day keeps the grumpiness at bay.”
Fuck. The need to kiss him again wells up so strongly inside me I can’t resist. Harry kisses me back sweetly.
