Page 97 of The Unlikely Pair
I shiver.
My survival chances would be reduced if something happened to Harry. That’s the reason the thought fills me with such dread.
Harry leans down and kisses me softly, teasingly, just enough for my cock to start plumping up.
Oh yeah, and I can’t deny I’d miss this aspect of Harry.
“Have you lifted the embargo on us doing this?” he asks against my lips.
“Yes, I feel that regulation was overturned during the night,” I whisper breathlessly, and he huffs out a laugh.
I stretch up to kiss him again, and it quickly dissolves into our hands wandering ceaselessly over each other’s skin.
I’m aware I’m touching Harry differently than I did the last time we got off together.
That was driven by pure lust and appreciation for an attractive man and a desire to make him lose control because I love nothing more than seeing Harry Matheson come undone under my touch.
But now, I have a new appreciation for every part of Harry.
I feel the need to kiss his fingers because the fact they’re still all in working order is some kind of miracle. I need to trace the contours of his face, the gentle ridges of his laugh lines, lingering on the smooth skin where his cheekbone meets his jaw, across his bristling beard to the softness of his lips.
I need to kiss his neck, then work my way down, stopping again to appreciate his heartbeat, then teasing his nipple gently with my mouth until it peaks.
Harry’s body has always been the opposite of Harry. So responsive and easy to understand.
I venture further south to his cock, which is definitely the easiest part of him to tell exactly what it wants.
“Toby,” he gasps, and I take mercy on him.
Afterward, I lie with my head back on his chest, listening to the faster rhythm of his heart with deep-seated satisfaction. I stroke his arms, feeling his skin goosepimple under my touch.
“I can’t believe we survived yesterday.” The words fall out of me.
He tenses slightly beneath me, his arms tightening around my waist as if seeking reassurance.
After a moment, he speaks, his voice low. “There’s this book my godmother gave me when I was eight, when I thought I was too old for picture books. You might know it because it’s quite famous. It’s calledWe’re Going on a Bear Hunt.”
“You’re not going to suggest we start hunting bears, are you?” I ask with mock horror, sliding my hand through his hair, which now looks like he’s auditioning for the lead role in a mad scientist film.
He chuckles, and it’s a sound that shoots happiness through me.
I like hearing Harry laugh. It must be because he doesn’t do it frequently, so it’s satisfying when he does.
“In the book, the characters come to all these obstacles, and they basically say, ‘Well, we can’t go over or under or around them, so we’ve just got to go through them.’”
I watch Harry’s face, seeing the way his jaw clenches slightly as he speaks, a telltale sign of the emotions he’s trying to keep in check.
“And I used to recite that as my mantra at Dentworth. No matter what was happening to me, I used to say to myself, ‘I’ve just got to get through this.’”
My heart pangs at the thought of a smaller version of Harry using a children’s picture book to fortify himself against the brutality thrown his way.
“I was applying that mantra yesterday while we were walking through the snow,” he says quietly. “We just had to get through it. And we did.”
“You almost died,” I whisper.
“But I didn’t,” he counters. “You saved me.”
Somehow, the way he says those words sends a flush through me.
