Page 95 of Untouchable

Harp breaks their kiss and Parker whines. The sound makes Harp throb. He remembers vaguely that they were coming to the kitchen to slow things down, but it's brighter in here and goddamn does he ever want to seeParker.

Parker's skin is sweet and tan and smooth under Harp's kisses as he trails from jaw to throat to collarbone. Harp's fingers drift, big and clumsy, to Parker's top shirt button.

"Can I?" he says, his voice gruff and foreign to his own ears.

“Oh my god, of course—” Parker gasps. “You can literally do whatever you want to me—”

"Fuck," Harp growls. Has he ever been this turned on? He's throbbing against the front of his pants, and the statement from Parker is like something out of one of his dirtiest dreams. "You can't just say shit like that."

“Or what?” Parker says, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. “You’re gonna punish me?” Harp chuckles and sucks against the skin where shoulder meets throat while he fumbles Parker's top button open. And then the next. And the next. When he pulls away, the skin is bright red.

"Sorry," Harp says, even though he's anything but.

* * *

Parker’s handflies up to the skin on his neck, and he brushes his fingertips over the now tender area.

“It’s gonna bruise,” he says, and when Harp open his mouth to apologize, Parker cuts him off. “I like it. You marking me.”

"I just said you can't say shit like that," Harp says, bracing himself against the countertop and hanging his head on Parker's shoulder in protest. "You're gonna fucking kill me."

Parker can’t help grinning, and he hooks his legs around Harp so he can grind himself against Harp’s waist. He doesn’t know what depraved part of his mind this kind of shit originates in—he just knows that once he starts talking dirty, it… doesn’t stop.

“You could shut me up, you know,” Parker says, his voice so hoarse with want that he barely recognizes it. “With your cock in my mouth.”

Harp’s head snaps up so quickly he nearly hits Parker in the nose, and Parker freezes, his eyes wide.

“Sorry—I—uh—I don’t know where that came from,” he stammers, flushing once more. Harp kisses up into the sensitive hollow under Parker's jaw, interrupting him, and squeezes big hands around his waist again. Parker shivers happily.

"I cannot... wrap my mind around... the idea you could want me," Harp says between kisses.

Something occurs to Parker, and suddenly it’s the most important thing in the world, even more important than the hot flush of need building in his groin. He puts his hand on Harp’s chest and pushes Harp back gently.

At the slightest pressure, Harp practically leaps back, and Parker sees something like panic flash in his eyes.

“Then we should stop,” Parker says, and he can’t quite believe what he’s saying. “At least for a moment. I—I don’t want you to think this is all... alcohol or hormones or whatever, at least on my part. Here.”

It’s almost physically painful for Parker to halt their momentum, but he knows what he needs to do. For Harp. For both of them.

He hops down off the counter and grabs Harp’s hand, lacing their fingers together. Harp’s hand is dry and warm and calloused against his.

Parker tows Harp to the back door and pulls it open. It’s freezing outside and he’s still in bare feet, his flannel shirt hanging open, but he tugs Harp outside so Harp is standing behind Parker.

Parker pulls Harp’s arms around him and leans his back into the heat of the other man’s body. The chill is bracing, almost unpleasant, but it’s working—Parker’s heart rate is slowing, his painful, insistent erection fading ever so slightly.

“I want you to know,” Parker says, “that this isn’t just because I’m bored, or horny, or drunk or something. I want you to know that even if we stop, I’ll want us to start again.”

* * *

Harp is developingwhiplash from all this. He'd forced them to take a break because he didn't want Parker to do something he'd regret—but a big, drunk part of Harp was completely willing to move forward, to take whatever Parker said in the heat of the moment at face value.

Bad plan, Harp realizes. Thinking with his cock has only ever gotten him into trouble. Harp thanks his lucky stars for how smart Parker is and wraps his arms tighter. Parker drops his hands to lean back.

The cold is so sharp that it's near-painful. Harp is forced to slow down, to suck in deep breaths.

He knows it's not going to matter to him whether they move forward now or later or never at all—Harp will never be able to believe that this is anything but a mistake on Parker's part, and he's glad that Parker stopped them.

Harp rubs the back of his neck. Insecurity has crept into him like the warmth of the cabin. He's trying to imagine what Parker must see when he looks at Harp, awkward and out of place in the too-bright lights of his own kitchen, and he isn't pleased with the frumpy, geriatric vision of himself his brain decides to supply.

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