Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Toby
Things To Do Today:
Go fishing
Check snares
Chop firewood
Wash clothes
Harry
A week goes by. Then two weeks.
The days bleed together, and Harry and I continue to stay alive.
Our days settle into a routine. We fish and check snares and cook and clean and chop firewood and have sex.
And yes, I am aware I’m playing house with Harry Matheson.
But Harry is the only person I’ve interacted with for over thirty days. Unless you count being shot at as a human interaction, which I don’t.
It’s understandable he’s become the center of my world. He’s the first thing I think about when I wake up, and he’s what I’m thinking about as I drift to sleep every night, either holding him or in his arms.
It’s understandable I’m constantly cataloging every fact I learn about Harry, that I’m seeking out new topics of conversation with him, that I find his brain and the way he sees the world endlessly fascinating, even if I disagree with him on so many things.
We continue to bicker occasionally, but somehow, our bickering has lost its edge.
It’s almost like we’re now…bantering. Trying to amuse each other rather than truly exchange insults.
I’m continuing to learn the complexity of the man beneath the caricature.
And every little Harry fact I learn slots into place, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle I didn’t even know I was putting together.
The way he meticulously folds his clothes before bed, the fact he hums under his breath when concentrating on a task—always classical music, never anything modern—the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he’s trying not to full-out smile at one of my jokes.
I catch myself watching him sometimes when he’s not aware. Studying the lines of his face, the way his hands move as he works.
It’s like I’m on a quest to unravel the mystery that is Harry Matheson, and with every passing day, I find myself more and more interested in the contrast between what I thought I knew about Harry and who he actually is.
And having sex adds another level of…something to the whole thing.
I mean, you expect sex to change as you get to know your partner and their preferences. And Harry and I have definitely had lots of sex over the past few weeks.
A certain level of intimacy comes from knowing someone’s body so well, knowing the noises they make when you kiss their neck, the exact way their breath hitches when you touch them just right, how the pulse at their throat races under your lips.
I now know all the long, lean lines of Harry’s torso. The indent under his rib cage, where my hand slots naturally. The scruff of his beard when he kisses me.
The thought of Harry back at the cabin speeds up my steps now.
“Hi, honey, I’m home,” I say as I open the door, stamping my feet to remove any excess mud from my ill-fitting snow boots.
I’ve spent the morning fishing and have three lovely perch to show for it. It’s amazing how I can get the same amount of pride for convincing a fish to take a grub on a hook that I used to feel when I scored a political victory.
Harry looks up from the table and smiles, and I have a moment of disconnect so large I almost trip over and send myself and my fish headfirst into the floor.
Because it’s impossible to reconcile the Harry grinning up at me now, dressed in the old grotty woolen jumper we found buried in a drawer, his Savile Row trousers rumpled beyond all recognition, with the pristine, polished man I used to face across the Chamber in Westminster.
It’s impossible to stop myself from closing the distance between us so I can kiss his smile.
“What are you working on?” I ask when I draw back.
“I thought I would make a liner for your boots out of the rabbit skins. It will make them fit better and hopefully keep your feet warmer,” Harry says.
“A well-lined boot is a step in the right direction,” I say.
“An ounce of boot lining is worth a pound of frostbite whining,” Harry replies.
“A stitch in time saves frozen toes in the wintertime,” I counter, and Harry laughs.
How did I ever think of Harry Matheson as cold and emotionless? He seems full of emotion now.
“Do I have something on my face?” Harry asks.
“What?”
“You’re studying me like I’m a rare first-edition book.”
Damn. I usually try harder to conceal my fascination with this man.
“Well, you definitely are a bit moldy and outdated,” I say. “I was actually just thinking how you laugh more now than you did at the beginning of this adventure.”
“I have spent a lot of time around you, so there’s been lots to laugh about,” he replies.
“Um…I think you win the title of the most comedic of us after your recent intimate encounter with stinging nettle and the resulting rash.”
“I thought we agreed never to speak about that again,” Harry says, his eyes crinkling. “And what do you want me to say, Toby? That you’ve rubbed off on me?”
“Well, I have spent a bit of time rubbing against you over the last month,” I say.
He rolls his eyes.
“Well, you know what they say, Toby. A smile a day keeps the grumpiness at bay.”
Fuck. The need to kiss him again wells up so strongly inside me I can’t resist. Harry kisses me back sweetly.
Why does kissing Harry cause an ache inside my chest? I lift my hand to rub at it, as if I can physically remove the feeling.
No luck.
Sex. This needs to turn into sex so I can cope with it. I deliberately deepen the kiss, turning it flirty and filthy.
Luckily, Harry seems keen to abandon his sewing and make the very short commute to the bed.
We fall into a heap on top of the quilt, tugging at each other’s clothes because, along with catching fish and trapping small game, Harry and I have become very, very efficient at getting naked together.
Our hands roam, exploring the familiar planes of each other’s bodies. I trail kisses along Harry’s jaw, relishing the scratch of his beard against my lips. His fingers tangle in my hair, tugging gently as he guides my head back so he can claim my mouth in a searing kiss.
“You want me,” I say, grinding my groin against his because that’s one of the things I love most, feeling his hardness, the proof of his desire for me.
“I’ve wanted you from the moment I laid eyes on you, you ridiculous man,” he replies with a gasp.
My grinding stutters, and I pull back to gape at him. “You wanted me the first time you saw me?”
“Well, yes. But then you opened your mouth and spoke, and that feeling waned somewhat,” he says.
I laugh, and he’s smirking up at me, and I have to kiss him.
We kiss and kiss. Why do I never get sick of kissing Harry? It’s always the same starting ingredients—our mouths, lips, tongues—yet despite the familiarity of his taste and the shape of his mouth, it somehow has a fresh and new element every time.
This time, it’s teasing and playful, although eventually, our kisses turn into trading epic orgasms.
Afterward, we lie together, and I gently tug on his beard.
“I have a newfound appreciation of beards. I might insist that all future hookups of mine have a certain length of facial hair. Maybe I should put it on my Grindr profile.”
Harry seizes up.
I know this man now. I know his body language and how to read it. He doesn’t like the idea of me hooking up with anyone else. And that knowledge makes me irrepressibly happy.
It shouldn’t though. I know that. I should have no opinion whatsoever on whether Harry Matheson has a view on my love life.
Shit.
This is fucking with my head. I heave a sigh.
Harry detaches himself from me and rolls out of bed, heading towards the gas cooker.
“What are you doing?
“Heating you up some of the stew.”
“Why?”
“Because you haven’t had any lunch, and you get cranky and despondent when you’re hungry.”
“I do not get cranky and despondent,” I say in a somewhat cranky and despondent voice.
“Apologies, I know that is the usual state of a Labour politician. I’ll correct myself. You get even more cranky and despondent when you’re hungry.”
I swallow down a painful lump in my throat. Because my mother used to say the same thing. She used to claim the term hangry was invented for me.
Harry is standing buck naked by the stove as he stirs the pot.
“Aren’t you going to put on any clothes?” I say because there is something about the easy domesticity of Harry Matheson standing there naked, cooking for me, that suddenly makes me feel like I’m the one who is naked and exposed.
Fuck. Why am I so surprised by Harry picking up on the fact I’m hungry? Why is it troubling me he can read my moods so accurately?
After all, I know what Harry looks like when he’s hungry or horny or hurting.
I know him.
“Do you not like the view?” he asks.
“I find the view in the middling range,” I say. “I’d give it a five out of ten on TripAdvisor.”
“I’d say your actions just before do not match your evaluation,” he says mildly. His voice is calm and reasonable.
“So, are we actually going to fuck one of these days?” I ask because I’m aiming to unsettle him.
Shit. He’s right. I am definitely irrationally irritated right now. I’m irritated by these confusing, conflicting feelings inside me that I can’t make sense of.
Harry freezes in his stirring. He looks over at me. “Which way around were you envisioning?”
“Which way around do you want?” I ask. “Or is this going to descend into another spoon argument?”
Harry smiles. “I actually think you are the one who labeled me a salad fork, and forks are the ones with prongs.”
“I have a prong too, don’t forget,” I counter.
Harry snorts as he brings me a bowlful of stew. “Oh, trust me, I’m well acquainted with your prong.”
I take a mouthful. Harry has definitely mastered the art of turning wild hare into something edible.
“This is good,” I say grudgingly.
Harry’s expression lightens, and I look away so I don’t have to see the effect my praise has on this man.
I swallow another mouthful.
“Regarding your earlier question, I don’t actually have a preference as to…ah…which way…as I’ve never actually done that before,” he says.
Harry seems interested in the pattern of the quilt, tracing the edges with his fingers, not looking at me.