Chapter 18Back at the inn, Henry watched Theo. He could not not watch Theo; he wanted to keep looking, touching, being touched.
He watched Theo while they acquired a late luncheon, cold pies and ale; he watched Theo taking bites, small and quick and fastidious. He watched the way Theo’s hands moved, the motion of Theo’s throat when swallowing, a glide.
He wanted Theo to touch him. He wanted Theo to put him back on his knees, or in bed, or, hell, anywhere, right there on the table in the inn’s common room if Theo said so. He wanted to feel that beautiful capable clever control taking over, taking him and claiming him, wanting him.
He shifted position on the bench. Hoped Theo couldn’t tell. Wondered whether Theo could. The thought sent a shiver down his spine, a brightness.
Theo glanced
