Page 175 of Untouchable

Harp realizes that Parker is coming as he breathlessly fucks himself back onto Harp's fingers. Harp reaches to stroke his pulsing cock through the fabric of his jock strap, groaning and suddenly breathless himself.

* * *

The orgasm sneaksup on him and he’s coming before he even realizes it, leaning into the pressure of Harp’s hand on his throat, as he rides the last pulses of pleasure before collapsing down on top of Harp. His heart is pounding and he tucks his face into Harp’s neck as his body goes pleasantly weak in the afterglow. Harp’s fingers are still inside him, and he reaches back, holding Harp’s hand there—he’s over-sensitive, yes, but he’s not quite ready to let go of the comfort of that fullness.

“Fuck, Harp,” he says, his voice still uneven and breathless. “That was—that was so fucking hot.”

* * *

Harp nearly growlsas Parker holds his hand steady, Parker’s body still pulsing through the last waves of pleasure. The edge of his own need is still there because it was so hot, it is so hot, holding Parker like this as he comes down, as he sits with the warm, wet fabric clinging to his spent cock.

But then Parker is looking down in Harp's eyes, his expression ruined and sated and Harp knows that this is all he needs, in the end. There's nothing more that he needs from Parker than to know that Harp makes him happy. Not now, at least.

Harp sighs and smiles and kisses Parker's throat. Slowly, he pulls his hand away and Parker lets out a soft, disappointed noise.

"We did this in the wrong order. How about you get cleaned up and I'll actually pop this champagne," Harp offers, knowing that he'd be content to just sit here forever but that he's resolved not to spend the whole 24 hours in the hotel room.

Parker staggers off Harp’s lap and into the bathroom. Harp hears running water and a moment later, Parker comes back into the suite naked, throwing himself down on the other chair, one leg kicked over the armrest.

Harp laughs fondly, passing a glass of champagne over to him.

"I could get used to this," he admits. There's something jocular and friendly about the way Parker moves around with confidence—something about him that makes Harp feel more confident somehow.

He holds his glass up for a toast with Parker but comes up with no words, simply smiling shaking his head.

“To, um... uh...” Parker says, attempting to toast before laughing. “No fair. You’re the fancy one. I’m not good with words.”

"Mhm," Harp says. "Exactly."

He clicks their glasses together, dips to kiss Parker, and then takes a sip of the nice champagne. He tries to capture the moment in his mind, Parker smiling and draped nude in the chair, the fire beginning to die nearby, the tickle of champagne in his nose.

This has been worth it. Every misstep along the way to him. I wouldn't change a thing.

He longs to say something, to make Parker understand what a wonder he is, but he's already frightening himself with this thinking and he pushes himself back from the impulse.

* * *

Parker is usedto filling the silence with chatter, but for once he doesn’t mind the quiet. There’s nothing he needs to say, nothing about the moment or his feelings that Harp doesn’t already know. The champagne is fizzy and golden in the firelight, and everything is...

He keeps coming up with the word perfect to describe how he feels, but it’s not nearly enough. “Perfect” doesn’t hold the luxurious feeling of the warmth of the fire on his bare skin. Perfect can’t describe the safety of Harp’s gaze on him from the other chair, as if he’s keeping watch over Parker. Perfect won’t remind him of the champagne that somehow tastes of sunlight, the glow from the prospect of the rest of their evening together.

He looks back at Harp, and they smile at each other for a moment.

“This is good,” he says, taking another sip of champagne. “I mean, not that I would really know one way or the other. But I like it. I feel very... elegant.” He kicks out his foot dramatically, as if sprawling naked in armchairs is somehow the height of poise.

"You are elegant," Harp says. "I feel like I'm sitting in some Renaissance oil painting."

Parker is watching the firelight through his champagne glass, a little world of golden bubbles and flickering light and the delicate frost of condensation, when he has a thought. He curls up a little more, tucking his feet underneath him.

“Hey, Harp?” he asks.

“Hm?”

“Can I ask you a weird question? If you’re okay answering it?”

Harp looks slightly concerned, but Parker soldiers on.

“You said you hadn’t done much with guys, right? How are you so good at sex? Are you just, like, a natural talent or something?”

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