Chapter 10Theo, being honorable—and aware that Henry needed to rest—had ordered himself, resolutely, to sleep on the sofa downstairs. He was regretting that self-directed order now.
He shifted position. His body, his hands, held the memory of Henry’s. Henry felt splendid, tall and strong and lean and masculine against Theo’s shorter softer frame; Henry had trembled and sighed and melted for him, giving way, yielding. Power and weariness and honed muscles, battlefield and secret mission experience; and yet Henry would, Theo knew, have knelt for him, would’ve gone to both knees and gazed up at him, if asked.
The fantasy of it spilled across his mind. Made his breath catch.
Henry shirtless, all whipcord and scars and sweetness. Henry choosing to kneel, with Theo’s hand caressing his hair.
