Page 30 of The Wrong Rake

“I love you,” Harry whispered.

Simon thought, for a moment, that his hearing had gone along with his wits. Love? Harry Standish, man of action, never spoke of love. He showed it in every touch, in every smile—or, at least, Simon had optimistically interpreted his behavior that way. But the words had never passed his lips, and Simon had rather thought they never would.

Harry opened his eyes, showing only a ring of slate-blue around his dilated pupils. Simon couldn’t doubt the look in those eyes: that was love. It could be nothing else, not when he gazed down at Simon’s face as if it held all the answers to all the mysteries of the universe.

Simon would’ve melted into the bed if he hadn’t already been fucked into it so thoroughly he might never move again.

“And I you. Harry—will you—I can’t touch you—”

Harry cursed and reached for the cuffs, undoing them in a moment and then sinking down into Simon’s embrace with a sigh. “I love the way you touch me,” he said. “As if you do love me.”

“I do. Truly, with all my heart.” Simon had never meant anything more, and when Harry’s mouth captured his, he returned the kiss with interest, nibbling at Harry’s lower lip and licking into his mouth. When Harry lifted his head at last, Simon smiled at him, remembering that he’d also promised Harry never to lie to him—they’d spent a night, some weeks before, exchanging all sorts of absurd, extravagant promises that they would then be forced to keep. They’d been rather foxed. “I’ll love you much more in a better cut of coat, though. Honestly, Harry.”

Harry laughed, as he always did when Simon meant him to, as he had so much and so often since he came to stay for good. He swooped down and devoured Simon’s mouth again, still laughing, and Simon wrapped his arms around his back and held him there where he belonged.

No, he loved Harry best like this, with no coat at all.

But his mouth was busy, and he didn’t need to say so in any case.

Harry already knew.

The End