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He wasn’t complaining.
Chapter Thirteen
Harry woke up to Jack’s naked back in front of him, which was new. Jack normally wore a T-shirt and boxers to bed, and so did Harry.
But not last night.
Last night, after shower sex that had left Harry breathless and tingling, they’d gone to bed naked. It had been both thrilling and intimidating. A part of Harry had wanted to duck out of bed and get dressed, but Jack’s touch on his bare skin had been gentle, and his tattoos had been right there, and by the time Harry had traced his fingertips over them half a dozen times in a hypnotic motion, he’d forgotten that this was new and scary.
And waking up like this, it made being with Jack seem real, in a way it hadn’t quite before. Harry slid a palm down the knobs on Jack’s spine. Jack snuffled and huffed in his sleep and burrowed into his pillow, but he didn’t wake up. Harry watched him sleep while he thought about last night. He’d never gotten naked in front of anyone else before, and he’d never had a mouth on his dick—had never really wanted to. But it turned out he wanted those things if Jack was involved, and he hoped they did them again—preferably without Tristan in a walk-on role.
Harry debated lying here and touching his naked boyfriend for a bit longer, but Jack looked so peaceful that Harry didn’t want to wake him. Instead, he slid out of bed and dragged on a pair of boardies that were lying on the floor and made his way to the kitchen. Harry wasn’t anywhere near as good a cook as Jack, and his scrambled eggs always turned out like crumbly bits of rubber, so he decided to play it safe and set about making ham, cheese and tomato toasties for them both. Then he got the coffee started and spent the next few minutes dithering over whether it would be cliche to nick one of the flowers from next door’s front garden to put on the tray. There weren’t any flowers in their garden, unless they counted dandelions.
Once breakfast was done, he piled everything onto their slightly dented tea tray and made his way up the stairs and nudged the bedroom door open with his elbow. He’d half-expected Jack to be asleep, but he was laying half-awake on his back with the sheets pooled around his waist, wearing a lazy smile. His eyebrows raised when he saw the tray, and Harry flushed and ducked his head. “I thought I’d cook for you for a change.”
“Thanks. Hang on.” Jack clambered out of bed, and it was only slightly weird seeing his naked arse. He pulled on a pair of boxers before heading out the door to the bathroom. When he came back a minute later, he got back in bed and propped himself against the headboard. Harry put the tray down and sat on the bed next to him. Jack took a sip of coffee and his eyes fluttered closed, and had anyone ever had eyelashes so long, or a smile so enticing? Harry didn’t think so—but then again, Harry wasn’t sure he could be counted on as impartial where Jack was concerned. He smiled to himself, and Jack caught it. “What’s that look?”
Harry bit his lip. “You’re really attractive, that’s all.”
Jack grinned around a mouthful of toastie, melted butter making his bottom lip glisten temptingly. “You’re pretty hot yourself.”
Harry knew, without a doubt, that if he chose right now to move the tray, straddle Jack’s lap and kiss him, Jack would be into it. But he also knew that Jack wouldn’t care if the only thing that happened in bed was breakfast. Just because they’d done more last night didn’t mean there were any expectations this morning. Harry appreciated it more than he could say that Jack was okay with him setting the pace.
They ate their breakfast in comfortable silence, then Jack carried the tray downstairs. Harry followed him to the kitchen to find Tristan making coffee for a lean, dark-haired guy who was gazing at Tris like he’d hung the moon. Harry had a new understanding of what might have caused that look—he suspected he’d been wearing it himself last night after Jack had rocked his world.
“This is Callan,” Tris said. “He’s a pole dancer. Super flexible.”
“Cohen,” the dark-haired beauty corrected.
“Cohen,” Tris corrected himself, and pointed finger guns at Cohen.
Cohen laughed.
Harry had thought for a long time that he didn’t understand sex and relationships, but maybe he just didn’t understand Tristan. He wasn’t sure how he would have felt if Jack forgot his name, or just never called after they’d been together for a night, but somehow Tristan seemed to get away with doing that to the guys he picked up, and they didn’t even seem to mind. It was weird—or maybe it was a case of birds of a feather fucking together, or something. Wanting sex was only new for Harry, and he couldn’t imagine being so casual about it, but Tris always seemed happy, so he guessed it was one of those things that was different for everyone. As far as Harry could tell, for Tris, sex was about as significant as going out for coffee, whereas for Harry, it was an intimate degustation menu at one of the fancy restaurants he was always getting thrown out of—something that he only shared with someone special.
“So, what do you two adorable bunnies have planned for today?” Tris asked, sweeping his golden hair back and securing it with one of the elastics he wore around his wrist. “Because there’s a trivia night tonight at the pub, and the drag queens want me to find someone who knows something about sports. I’ve seen you watching cricket, Harry.”
“We can’t, sorry,” Jack said, washing up their breakfast things in the sink. “We’ve got Tate’s bachelor party today, at the Powerhouse.”
Tristan blinked. “Unless that’s some club I’m not aware of…”
“No, it’s the museum,” Jack said.
Tristan and Cohen exchanged a dubious look.
Jack grinned when he caught it. “I know, right? But at least there won’t be strippers. Lady strippers.”
Cohen shuddered.
“Is it more or less awkward if it’s guy strippers?” Harry asked suddenly, wondering where attraction fitted into the whole stripper thing. Would he want to look at guy strippers now he had a thing for a guy? He didn’t think he would, and he certainly couldn’t imagine finding it arousing. He’d once been backstage with Ambrose at some theatre thing, and there had been nothing exciting at all about seeing a bunch of different people stripping down to get into a bunch of different costumes. He’d even had to help a girl pour baby powder into her leather catsuit, which had been the closest he’d ever gotten to that particular part of a girl, and all he’d felt was sympathy because it was super hot under those theatre lights.
“More,” Jack said.
“Less,” Tristan said.
“If you want to find out, I can do a demo,” Cohen said.
Jack put an arm around Harry and drew him close. “We’re good, thanks, mate.”
