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Summary
It starts, as these things so often do, with a glass of single malt scotch.
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Bookmark Notes:
When Harvey looks over at him, Mike has his teeth buried viciously in the cushion of his lower lip, skin worried red under the pressure. He huffs a breath through his nose and implores, just this side of desperate, “Harvey, please tell me you’re not fucking with me.”
“Well,” Harvey grins, “not yet.”
Mike looks like he might start spontaneously disrobing right there. Harvey angles his head, lifting it in a short, subtle nod toward the doors, and hooks a foot around Mike’s ankle, letting their thighs brush and their knees press together. He’s supremely gratified by the way that Mike shivers, swaying toward Harvey like he can’t help himself. The wary smirk he was sporting just seconds before has blossomed into something sweet and stunned and wanting. Harvey can’t wait to taste it.
For the moment, he settles for plucking the remainder of Mike’s scotch up off the table and knocking it back in one quick, eager swallow. He sighs around the astringent sting and says breathlessly, “Let’s get out of here, kid.”
When they talk about it later, sprawled naked and sated and boneless across Harvey’s thoroughly ruined bedclothes, trading arguments between wet, hazy kisses, Harvey will absolve himself in the court of blame by submitting this to evidence: at his invitation, Mike stands up so fast he knocks the table over.
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Bookmark Notes:
ART ACTUAL FUCKING MASTERPIECE OF ARTISTY
“ In the grand and gluttonous tradition of mortally curious men, he leans in closer and lets his better angels burn.”