Page 232 of Untouchable

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When Parker wakeson Christmas morning, the room is flooded with soft, snow-diffuse light, and he is nestled warm in Harp’s arms. He can tell from Harp’s breathing that Harp is awake, and Parker is tempted to feign sleep, to prolong the lovely, quiet moment for as long as he can.

But, in true Parker form, he’s suddenly too excited to stay still, and his eyes snap open and he sits up, grinning down at his very surprised boyfriend.

“It’s Christmas!” he proclaims, throwing his arms up dramatically.

"You're ridiculous. Merry Christmas," Harp says, gently looping his arms around Parker's waist where he sits in bed. He'd been enjoying holding Parker, fighting off the day and just savoring the last few minutes before things had to start happening.

Parker shifts and lays himself down on top of Harp, making a contented noise as he wriggles his body against Harp’s.

“I like this,” he mumbles into Harp’s neck. “Being naked with you. Let’s never get dressed.”

"There are a few advantages to having your own mountain," Harp says, puffing a laugh through his nose and stroking a hand up Parker's bare back. "Although, as much as I'd love to keep you naked all day, every day, I'm pretty sure you wouldn't be able to get a damned thing done if we tried it."

“What on earth are you implying?” Parker says with mock outrage as he grinds his hips against Harp. He laughs, knowing Harp can feel he’s already getting hard. Parker can’t help it, though. He knows eventually he’ll cool down a bit—probably—but for now he’s content to let his body constantly go into overdrive at the slightest touch or attention from Harp.

* * *

Harp's bodyis already responding to Parker and all he can do it shake his head and pull Parker into a kiss. He knows that 44 isn't an age you could call old in good taste any more but he'll be damned if all of the cliches about the love of your life making you feel young again aren't true.

The love of your life, he thinks again, deepening the kiss with Parker, morning breath be damned. It's true so... why are the words so intimidating?

Harp lets the conversation he's been having with himself all morning lapse, finally, because the reality of Parker snaking a hand up Harp's chest is much too much to ignore.

It is Christmas and they are together and things are good. The last thing he needs to do is ruin this moment with too much thinking.

“I have another present for you,” Parker says, raising his eyebrow suggestively.

Before Harp can respond, Parker disappears under the sheet, nuzzling his face against Harp’s upper thigh and mouthing along his cock as it hardens.

"You're the gift that keeps on giving," Harp says with a groan, pulling the sheet back.

There's no need, anymore, to stop the flow of what happens between them. Harp hadn't let himself think forward this far, to a time when intimacy would be easy and low-pressure because they'd done the things that Harp was afraid of and they'd come out on the other side intact. Better than intact—better than before.

Harp lets himself get off, appreciating Parker's unhurried pace, the almost lazy way he sucks Harp off in the diffuse morning light. Harp is barely through his own orgasm before he's rolling Parker to his back, kissing down his naked belly and groaning into his skin.

* * *

Parker doesn’tlast long by the time Harp’s mouth is on him, but it hardly matters. He loves the way they fall together like this, how reciprocation never feels forced, how they explore one another’s bodies as much for themselves as for the other person. Soon, he’s coming in Harp’s mouth, his hand tangled in Harp’s hair, and Harp’s name on his lips, and when he pulls Harp up to him afterwards to kiss him, he can taste himself on Harp’s tongue.

"You mind bundling up and taking the dogs out while I get breakfast started?" Harp says as he groans and rolls over, stretching like an overgrown cat.

"Of course I don't," Parker says. He leaps out of bed and begins pulling on layers of warm clothing as Harp goes downstairs to start the coffee.

"What are you doooing," Harp asks, the last syllable stretching out as he laughs, when Parker reappears in the kitchen, calling for the dogs. Parker is draped in Harp’s clothing, all of which is far too big for him.

“What?” Parker says, holding out his arms and grinning. He slides his feet into the too-big boots by the door. “I like wearing your clothes. So sue me if all your flannels go missing when you take me back down the mountain.” He laughs as he pulls the door open, letting in a chilly blast of air as the dogs bound out.

The sun is out, and everything is so white and blue and vivid and pristine that it hurts his eyes, and he grins broadly as the dogs race through the snow. He surveys the valley, looking out at the untrammeled blanket of snow, and for what seems like the millionth time, he thinks about how goddamn lucky he is to be here, to have this.

* * *

Harp watchesthrough the kitchen window as Parker bounds out into the snow with the dogs.

The first year Harp had spent Christmas on Storm Mountain, he'd still been in the trailer he'd parked on the property, before the cabin's foundation was even poured. He'd gone to town the night before and bought bloody mary mix, vodka, instant coffee, and refrigerated cinnamon rolls and not much else. The breakfast—along with better coffee—had become his Christmas tradition on Storm Mountain, and he's excited to tell Parker the story of that first holiday, how proud he'd been of his piece of property and the big dreams he'd had for his cabin.

Harp gets the cinnamon rolls in the oven and begins to prep ingredients for homemade bloody mary mix.

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