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“No, but I want to,” Harry said, and flicked the button on Jack’s jeans undone. He buried his face against the curve of Jack’s neck to hide the blush he could feel rising on his face and slid the zipper down. The sound was loud in his own ears, competing with the rapid beating of his heart as he cupped Jack’s erection through the satin of his boxers, the fabric smooth and slippery under his touch. For a moment he was seized by indecision—could he really do this?—but then he almost laughed at the absurdity of the thought. It was a dick. He had one of his own and was familiar enough with it to know it didn’t bite. And the idea of touching Jack’s dick, of getting him off, was hot.
Jack let out a low groan, and that was all the encouragement Harry needed. He worked his hand inside the elastic waistband of Jack’s underwear and ran his fingers down the length of his dick, making Jack pull in a sharp breath. Harry braved a look at his face, and found Jack with his eyes closed, mouth hanging open, and that was sexier than it had any right to be. He wondered if this was how Jack felt when he got Harry off, if this was what he was talking about when he said that it was satisfying even if he didn’t come. Because if that was the case, Harry totally got it now.
He formed his fingers into a loose circle and wrapped it around Jack’s shaft, marvelling at the silkiness of the skin, the heat of flesh against his palm. He eased his hand up and down once, experimenting, then tightened his grip slightly. Jack’s hips bucked up hard enough that the table legs scraped against the floor with the force of his movements, so Harry did it again.
“Fuck,” Jack panted. “Harry, I’m not gonna last!”
Something like pride swelled in Harry’s chest at making Jack fall apart so easily. He pulled Jack in for another kiss and stroked his dick some more, trying to remember what felt good when he did this to himself. He dragged a thumb across the head through the precum leaking there, and Jack whined against his mouth, high and needy. Encouraged, Harry set a steady rhythm, and despite the awkwardness of the angle and working around the tight confines of Jack’s jeans, it took less than thirty seconds before Jack’s dick throbbed and pulsed and he let out a choked off cry as he came all over Harry’s hand.
Harry definitely felt like a minor sex god right now.
Jack pressed his face against Harry’s collarbone, panting lightly, and Harry let him, doing his best to ignore the warm wetness of his handful of cum. Like, what was he supposed to do with that? Just…let it drip on the floor? He definitely didn’t want to wipe it on his shirt.
Jack laughed softly against his collarbone. “Go and wash your hands.”
Harry fled gratefully to the sink. When he turned back again, Jack was already right behind him, folding him easily into an embrace and pressing a soft kiss to his mouth.
“There,” he said. “You might be a Bad Boyfriend to everyone else, but I reckon you’re the best boyfriend to me.”
They kissed again, and Harry had never been happier.
Later that night, curled up in Jack’s bed with Jack curled around him, Harry suddenly remembered the potentially earth-shattering text he’d sent his parents, and reached down to grab his phone off the floor. He angled it away from Jack as he turned it on, so the light didn’t wake him.
He had about twelve different messages from Mum in the chat—clearly this was more exciting than the escaping chooks or Marge coming for dinner—and each one was dotted with hearts and smiley faces and rainbows. Dad’s message was as brief as they always were, but Harry’s heart swelled when he read it.
Good onya, mate. Love you.
He drifted off to sleep with a smile on his face.
Chapter Twelve
Jack looked Harry up and down. “You look atrocious. I’m not sure they’ll even let you in.”
Harry beamed. “Thanks! This dude specified over the top, and I think it hits the mark.” He spread his arms wide and twirled, making the tasselled purple paisley shawl he was wearing flare out dramatically. Jack didn’t know where it had come from—possibly some alternate horror dimension where tassels were acceptable—but it clashed beautifully with the bright red shirt Harry was wearing underneath.
“The fact someone’s paying you to turn up looking like that still blows my mind,” Jack said. “Here I am, buried in engine oil and brake pads trying to make a living, and you get to swan off to dinner, be a wanker and get two hundred bucks. It’s genius, honestly.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Harry, because he was an adorable little stress monkey, had been worried that Jack might find him continuing to date other people for money upsetting, but they were past that now, and Jack was glad. He didn’t like to think of Harry worrying about whether Jack was jealous. He didn’t like to think of Harry worrying over anything, actually. The very idea of it made him want to wrap Harry in a blanket and never let him go.
And sure, they’d only been dating a month, but a month was a long time in dating-Harry years, because everything with Harry was so fresh and new and intense in a way Jack hadn’t ever felt before. It was like this was his first time dating as well. In a lot of ways, he guessed it was. He’d never been with anyone who affected him like Harry did. Jack was falling for him. He was falling for him hard.
It was kind of great.
“Do you want me to wait up?”
Harry ran a hand through his hair. “Please? I don’t think it’ll be late. This is one of those occasions where just turning up will be enough, I think. I’m the flamboyant gay sacrificial lamb. Even the threat of me dating their son will do the trick.” He picked up a pair of rose-tinted, heart-shaped sunglasses off the dresser and slid them on as a finishing touch.
He looked ridiculous, and Jack adored him anyway.
Harry stopped long enough to give him a kiss on the way out the door, shawl swishing dramatically, and Jack settled in to watch a movie and fold his laundry and wait for him to get back.
Tris and his latest conquest trailed in at some point, and Jack turned up the volume on the TV because nobody needed to hear that. But good for Tris, honestly.
He was halfway through his second movie when he heard the front door squeak open, then scrape against the floor when it hit the mysterious swelling lump in the entryway floorboards. This place was such a tip. It was probably only the termites holding it together. Jack turned the TV off and stood up.
“How was your—?” He stopped as Harry stepped into the room. His hair was spiked up and looked gross and sticky, and his bright red shirt was covered in what appeared to be fruit pieces, meringue dust and cream. “How was the pavlova?”
Harry flashed him a grin. “Dunno. Maybe next time I should try eating it instead of wearing it.”
