It’s euphoric.
And the best I’ve ever had.
Reid lets out a strangled sound, and I pull my dick from his mouth as he spills all over his hand.
“Shit, Harlan, fuck.”
He’s gorgeous, face flushed and vulnerable as he fights to open his eyes.
Perfect.
My knees hit the ground, one at a time as my hands cup his face. I kiss him slowly, reverently, because Reid Sterling is a man who should be treasured, worshipped, and loved. And even though I won’t be here long enough to do the third, I’ll do the others with the time that I have.
11
REID
My heart beats wildly in my chest as Harlan kisses me like I’m the air he needs to breathe. It’s thorough and unhurried, his palms rough against the smooth skin of my face. I love the contrast—the way the feeling ignites little shots of pleasure to zip through my veins.
He’s gentle and it’s almost startling considering the way he commanded me.
The things he said.
And Iliked it.
I can feel my face heat, the color probably somewhere in the fire engine family as Harlan pulls away, his thumb trailing over my bottom lip as the other caresses my cheek.
“You’re an addiction.”
“So, you’re addicted to Christmas now?”
“Addicted to you.”
Holy hell.
Harlan’s gaze drops to my lap where my hand is still wrapped around my softening dick and covered with my release. It’d been spectacular—something I’ll undoubtedly jerk off to long after Harlan is gone.
It’s nothing I can think about now, especially not when he takes a handkerchief from his pocket and starts cleaning me up with such care I have to blink to hold back tears.
“Harlan?” I whisper.
“Hmm?”
“You carry a handkerchief.” It’s not a question and I’m not even sure why I say it, but his answering chuckle is more than my lust-drunk heart can bear.
“I always have,” he says, cryptic and short. But then he adds, “There was this old man who lived where I grew up, and he only ever wore dress clothes and carried one in his pocket.”
“Why?”
Harlan tucks the dirty square into his jeans and then stands, holding out his hand to me so I can do the same. “He said that he wanted to look his best when the good Lord reunited him with his wife.”
“That’s remarkably sweet,” I say, righting my clothes and brushing the dirt from the knees, “and really sad.”
Harlan shrugs. “He’d been married a long time, barely remembered his life without her. Kind of romantic, don’t you think?”
I gape at him because the man might as well have told me that he majored in tap dancing, and it would have been more believable than the words he just uttered.
Dirty talk, secret romantic…
