Page 105 of The Unlikely Pair

Fuck. Why am I so surprised by Harry picking up on the fact I’m hungry? Why is it troubling me he can read my moods so accurately?

After all, I know what Harry looks like when he’s hungry or horny or hurting.

I know him.

“Do you not like the view?” he asks.

“I find the view in the middling range,” I say. “I’d give it a five out of ten on TripAdvisor.”

“I’d say your actions just before do not match your evaluation,” he says mildly. His voice is calm and reasonable.

“So, are we actually going to fuck one of these days?” I ask because I’m aiming to unsettle him.

Shit. He’s right. I am definitely irrationally irritated right now. I’m irritated by these confusing, conflicting feelings inside me that I can’t make sense of.

Harry freezes in his stirring. He looks over at me. “Which way around were you envisioning?”

“Which way around do you want?” I ask. “Or is this going to descend into another spoon argument?”

Harry smiles. “I actually think you are the one who labeled me a salad fork, and forks are the ones with prongs.”

“I have a prong too, don’t forget,” I counter.

Harry snorts as he brings me a bowlful of stew. “Oh, trust me, I’m well acquainted with your prong.”

I take a mouthful. Harry has definitely mastered the art of turning wild hare into something edible.

“This is good,” I say grudgingly.

Harry’s expression lightens, and I look away so I don’t have to see the effect my praise has on this man.

I swallow another mouthful.

“Regarding your earlier question, I don’t actually have a preference as to…ah…which way…as I’ve never actually done that before,” he says.

Harry seems interested in the pattern of the quilt, tracing the edges with his fingers, not looking at me.

Is he expecting me to mock him about that? I feel a flash of shame that he thinks I would ever use something like that against him.

“I suppose you think that’s pathetic,” he continues.

My shame peaks and my words pour out of me before I have a chance to stop and consider them. “I don’t think that’s pathetic at all, Harry. It’s the most ridiculous, heteronormative viewpoint that equates penetration to sex. Lots of gay couples never do anal, and that’s fine. We don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

I suddenly replay my words and realize I’ve mentioned the word couple in a context he could think applies to us, so I stumble on.

“I get so sick of the way the world tries to think there’s only one way of doing something. As long as there’s consent, it’s about what works for the two people—or more than two people if that’s your jam. It’s no one else’s business.”

“If it’s something you want to partake in, then I would like to try,” Harry says, lifting his blue eyes to mine. “With you.”

Fuck. This has gone from me trying to unsettle Harry to being unsettled myself.

Harry frowns at whatever he sees on my face. I feel myself flush.

There’s no place to hide from Harry out here while I struggle to process the complexity of my feelings for him. He’s always here. We spend nearly all day, every day together.

I concentrate on eating my stew, trying to regain control of my emotions.

“So…do you have a preference for which way around?” I ask finally. “Because I’m like our multitool. Ultimately versatile.”