Page 104 of The Unlikely Pair

Why does kissing Harry cause an ache inside my chest? I lift my hand to rub at it, as if I can physically remove the feeling.

No luck.

Sex. This needs to turn into sex so I can cope with it. I deliberately deepen the kiss, turning it flirty and filthy.

Luckily, Harry seems keen to abandon his sewing and make the very short commute to the bed.

We fall into a heap on top of the quilt, tugging at each other’s clothes because, along with catching fish and trapping small game, Harry and I have become very, very efficient at getting naked together.

Our hands roam, exploring the familiar planes of each other’s bodies. I trail kisses along Harry’s jaw, relishing the scratch of his beard against my lips. His fingers tangle in my hair, tugging gently as he guides my head back so he can claim my mouth in a searing kiss.

“You want me,” I say, grinding my groin against his because that’s one of the things I love most, feeling his hardness, the proof of his desire for me.

“I’ve wanted you from the moment I laid eyes on you, you ridiculous man,” he replies with a gasp.

My grinding stutters, and I pull back to gape at him. “You wanted me the first time you saw me?”

“Well, yes. But then you opened your mouth and spoke, and that feeling waned somewhat,” he says.

I laugh, and he’s smirking up at me, and I have to kiss him.

We kiss and kiss. Why do I never get sick of kissing Harry? It’s always the same starting ingredients—our mouths, lips, tongues—yet despite the familiarity of his taste and the shape of his mouth, it somehow has a fresh and new element every time.

This time, it’s teasing and playful, although eventually, our kisses turn into trading epic orgasms.

Afterward, we lie together, and I gently tug on his beard.

“I have a newfound appreciation of beards. I might insist that all future hookups of mine have a certain length of facial hair. Maybe I should put it on my Grindr profile.”

Harry seizes up.

I know this man now. I know his body language and how to read it. He doesn’t like the idea of me hooking up with anyone else. And that knowledge makes me irrepressibly happy.

It shouldn’t though. I know that. I should have no opinion whatsoever on whether Harry Matheson has a view on my love life.

Shit.

This is fucking with my head. I heave a sigh.

Harry detaches himself from me and rolls out of bed, heading towards the gas cooker.

“What are you doing?

“Heating you up some of the stew.”

“Why?”

“Because you haven’t had any lunch, and you get cranky and despondent when you’re hungry.”

“I do not get cranky and despondent,” I say in a somewhat cranky and despondent voice.

“Apologies, I know that is the usual state of a Labour politician. I’ll correct myself. You get even more cranky and despondent when you’re hungry.”

I swallow down a painful lump in my throat. Because my mother used to say the same thing. She used to claim the term hangry was invented for me.

Harry is standing buck naked by the stove as he stirs the pot.

“Aren’t you going to put on any clothes?” I say because there is something about the easy domesticity of Harry Matheson standing there naked, cooking for me, that suddenly makes me feel like I’m the one who is naked and exposed.