Page 108 of Untouchable

Harp lets more of his weight fall on Parker, lets their legs and groins press closer as he kisses Parker deeply again. Parker lets out a long, low sigh—he hadn’t realized that Harp had still been holding himself up, and Parker welcomes the contact, welcomes the feeling of being safe, caught, kept, underneath him.

The contours of Harp’s cock are muted underneath restrictive layers of clothing, but Parker is profoundly aware once more that he’s wearing only a thin pair of sweatpants. He rocks his hips against Harp, and it gives the perfect amount of friction.

Parker writhes as Harp squeezes his hips, pressing him down for a moment so that he can't rut against Harp. Deprived of the contact, Parker gives him what he hopes is a truly forlorn look and lets out a high whine. His hands flutter at Harp's hips, trying to tug them down again.

"Please, Harp."

Harp laughs. "Jesus, baby. You're gonna kill me and we're only just getting started."

And then the pressure, the friction is back, and Parker lets out a little grunt of relief. He starts moving his hips again, not even trying to hide what he’s doing this time, as Harp turns his focus back to the soft space just behind Parker’s ear.

Only getting started? Parker thinks. He must have a damp patch the size of Lake Michigan on his borrowed sweatpants for as much precum is leaking out from his cock. Every inch of his body feels so alight that anything could set him off, like gunpowder.

And that’s when the rest of Harp’s words really filter through Parker’s syrupy, fucked-out mind.

Parker’s never been called baby like this—in a real way, spoken softly, with such warm affection it makes his heart hurt. He hadn’t even noticed at first because the word had seemed so right in Harp’s mouth.

Parker isn’t used to pet names, isn’t used to such obvious, unabashed affection. Cole had only used them performatively—rehearsed lines he’d used in bed, or in front of other people when he was asserting his claim on Parker.

But this—this is so different. So much better.

Parker’s not doing it intentionally.

Really. He isn’t.

But unless he’s actively trying to hold himself still—and he really doesn’t have enough brain cells free for that right now—his hips start to grind themselves against Harp, the same short, rhythmic thrusts he uses when he’s fucking into his own hand alone in the shower.

It’s different, though, because he’s not alone, and he’s not grinding against his own hand. He’s with Harp, and this does nothing to alleviate the burning need that’s spiraling up through him from the deepest pit of his stomach.

* * *

Harp doesn't noticethat anything is different until Parker's breathing changes. He's licking into the heat of Parker's mouth, enjoying every new sensation and enjoying even more the idea that he's starting to understand exactly how Parker kisses and likes to be kissed.

But then Parker breaks their kiss and takes a shallow breath, thrusting up against him again, and Harp can feel the perfect friction of Parker's cock through the sweatpants, through the soft fabric of his own worn pants—and he understands. There's no real trajectory for Harp other than pleasure, but for Parker it seems that he can barely help it but to seek out an orgasm in any way possible.

The knowledge rolls a base thrill through Harp. If Harp lets him, he bets Parker will keep frotting against him until he comes.

For a moment, Harp gives into it, grinding down to meet Parker's thrusts, urging him to slow down and ease into the friction.

He lifts Parker up lightly by the hips to get a better angle, and when Harp thrusts slowly, his length dragging across Parker's where it's pinned between them, Parker lets out a helpless, high noise.

Watching Parker come apart is beyond erotic. It makes Harp feel powerful and wanted—two things that are almost foreign to him at this point in his life.

* * *

Parker’s eyes flutter shut,and his head lolls to the side, as Harp slowly rolls his hips. Parker thinks he might lose it then and there—maybe not actually coming, but some kind of break from reality from the sheer joy, the unrealness of what’s happening to him right now. He never knew kissing could be like this—though what they’re doing now is more than kissing. He never knew this, though, could be more intimate, more important, than sex.

Or maybe, he realizes, this is sex, what they’re doing now. Even though they’re not naked. Even though Harp’s cock isn’t pushing into his ass. Maybe this is just as real, just as meaningful.

It’s never felt like this before. In his body or in his heart. He’s never had such an attentive partner, someone who was so thoroughly attuned to his body. He’s wanted Harp for weeks now, but he’d never dared to hope that it would be anything like this.

* * *

Parker is moaningwith every exhale by the time Harp lowers him down to the couch. It wasn't fair to grind on him like that, knowing the rules he'd put in place, but Harp couldn't help himself. He wants to give Parker whatever he wants, and trying to deny him right now would be as fruitless as trying to hold his breath indefinitely.

And though Harp isn't ready to admit it to himself, there's something in him that needs to make Parker come now, that needs to hear it, to know that Parker is completely satisfied.

He's going to be so uncomfortable if you stop now. This is cruel. To hell with your rule.

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