Harry doesn’t answer with words. He just spreads his legs.
The side of Iain’s mouth twists into a smile. That’s all the warning Harry has before he feels Iain’s muscles bunch, then Iain rolls them so he’s on his back with Harry lying on him. He reaches for the oil that’s sitting on one of the bed-boards, in the gap between it and the wall, and slicks himself up. ‘Here,’ he says, positioning Harry over him, ‘you have more control this way.’
Harry nods and reaches behind him, lining up on Iain’s cock and lowering himself down slowly, so slowly, as his still half-asleep body sparks alive in erotic bliss. He has to admit, it’s a wonderful way to wake up. He starts rolling his hips, lazily, watching Iain’s face as his lover bites his lip and arches his broad chest, eyes closing in happiness.
Iain reaches between them and grabs Harry’s cock, fisting him in time with the increasingly energetic rolls of Harry’s hips. ‘That’s it, a sheòid,’ he murmurs. ‘Ride me.’ He twists his hand, his thumb rubbing over the slit of Harry’s cock and Harry gasps, pulling up off Iain and then sitting down on him hard. Iain thrusts up to meet him, squeezing his eyes shut and cursing in a mix of Gaelic and French.
‘Good morning,’ Harry grins, and then sits hard on Iain again. Iain curses more in Gaelic, and Harry can feel Iain’s knees draw up behind him, as he braces his feet against the bed to push back against Harry. And Harry begins to ride Iain properly, establishing a rhythm and then speeding it up as he bites his own lip, runs his hands over his own nipples, and Iain is watching him, mouth open, lips wet with desire, moaning ‘Yes, play with yourself,’ when there’s the unmistakeable sound of feet on the stairs.
Iain twists, sending them both onto their side, Harry closer to the door, and then he pulls out, lying on his belly and trying to look inconspicuous. Harry yanks the blankets over both of them.
His face is still flushed and he’s breathless as Annie and Katie tumble cheerily in with breakfast.
Annie spots the two of them in Harry’s bed and smiles. ‘Ah, ’twas a cold one last night, wasn’t it?’
There is nothing abnormal in sharing beds. In fact, it’s abnormal to sleep alone, testimony to how dangerously diminished Harry’s family is. Harry shared the bed with his mother until he left to go to Sir Simon’s, and then whenever he returned to Dartington. The servants sleep in pallets in the hall and kitchen, four or five or six people cuddled together on the same stuffed straw mattress. Hell, he and Kit and Peter had curled up on the same pallet together in their pavilion up at Windsor.
But there is something greatly abnormal about what he and Iain had been doing in the bed, and Harry feels like the mark of his crime is written clearly across his face.
Thankfully, Annie’s concerns rotate more around the sin of gluttony than lust. She clucks in surprise at the full basket of food abandoned by the bed. ‘But you two didn’t touch your supper! Are you feeling unwell?’
‘Harry was tired from the travelling,’ Iain says, leaning his chin on his elbows. ‘He fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. I was going to sneak out and eat, but then his snoring put me to sleep, too.’
‘I do not snore!’ Harry says, indignant.
Iain makes a face, and Harry elbows him. Then Iain’s on him, trying to pin his arms while tickling him, teasing him about how loudly he snores. Harry looks out at Annie and Katie as he tries to shove Iain away, and says, ‘Don’t worry about breakfast, we’ll make do with what’s left over from last night.’
‘We bloody won’t,’ says Iain, trying and failing to get Harry into a headlock. ‘I can smell honey cakes and scones from here and if you let Annie take them away again I will show no pity.’ He switches tactics and pinches Harry’s sides, where he’s really ticklish, and Harry squawks.
‘Leave the honey cakes!’ Harry yells, breathless with laughter, grabbing Iain’s wrists and wrestling them away from his sides. ‘Ow! No kicking!’
Annie rolls her eyes. ‘Boys,’ she chides merrily, dropping off a tray of breakfast cakes on a nearby chest while Katie changes the water in the washing pitcher and grabs the chamber pot.
The two women leave, Katie looking back over her shoulder as the door swings shut to see Harry sitting on Iain, twisting one of his arms behind his back, as Iain tries to dislodge him. Both boys are red-faced with laughter. As Katie descends the stairs, she hears a nearly simultaneous yell and thud, suggesting Iain has managed to throw Harry.
Harry flings himself on Iain again, but their play-wrestling, now that they’re alone, feels dangerous, the veneer of boyish japes stripped away. Now when Harry grabs at Iain’s arms to pin him, he grinds down on him too. Iain grinds back, pressing his mouth to Harry’s and kissing him, long and dirty. When they pause to catch their breath, Iain fingers the shiny pink-and-white scars on Harry’s forearm, the scars he made. Then he kisses the mark, gently, apologetically.
‘No,’ Harry says, pulling his arm away. ‘I love this scar. The first … the first thing I knew about you was this, that you were so fierce, that nothing could break you. I thought, what I would give to be that strong.’
Iain traces a finger over Harry’s lips. ‘The first thing I knew about you is that you were kind, and you did not want to be there. I wanted so desperately to use that softness against you. To win my
