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They run into Zoe again, this time at a black tie event. She’s wearing a shimmering, backless dress with spaghetti straps and tasteful slit that opens half an inch above her knee. Her hair is up, for once, and the line of her back and neck catch John’s attention throughout the entire operation.
“Last time we were alone,” she murmurs as they dance a waltz closer than required, “we played cards all night.”
“I didn’t hear you complaining at the time,” John says. She hadn’t, simply dealt and taken all of the toothpicks that counted as his chips and pecked him on the cheek before exiting the penthouse suite the next morning.
“It was a perfectly lovely time,” she says, and then she shifts her head so she’s speaking into his right ear, the ear that Harold is in, and she says, low and throaty, “I don’t like to play with what’s not mine.” She leans in and bites John’s ear when his hand tightens on her waist. “Don’t make me bruise the merchandise, John. We both know I’m only renting you.”
Harold says nothing through the whole exchange and stays silent until there are gunshots. Then, he’s in John’s ear, shouting, “John!” and John wonders, as he breaks a man’s nose and shoves another down a flight of stairs, if maybe Zoe is onto something.
The number is saved, and John goes to the library without thinking. Harold is at his computer, Bear at his feet. John crouches to scratch Bear behind the ears, and when he looks up, Harold’s face is open like a flower to the sun. John sees, for what feels like the first time, the naked want that shapes Harold’s whole body.
But it’s not the first time he’s seen it, John thinks as he stands. Not even close. Seeing the expression on Harold’s face—the wide eyes, the slightly open mouth, the death grip on the arm of his chair—John realizes he’s seen it before. He’s seen it a lot. He’s seen it, now that he recognizes it, more regularly than he’s seen the New York Times crossword puzzle he and Harold always silently challenge each other to finish, one of them leaving it half-completed where the other will find it.
“Finch,” John says, and it doesn’t feel right with that look on him when he knows what it is. He clears his throat and straightens his cuffs and says, “Harold.”
“John,” Harold replies, and he sounds absolutely normal. “John,” he says again, and it sounds broken this time, Harold’s voice catching halfway through. “What Ms. Morgan said—”
“What about it?” John asks. It’s meant to be a brush-off, a way for the two of them to laugh and carry on.
“If you want it, John, there are rules to observe.”
And John is nearly knocked off his damn feet from the insinuation. He grabs the doorframe for a moment, hit in the gut from the tone of Harold’s voice. Bland, imperial, but somehow full of promise. “Harold…” he murmurs. “I don’t—”
Harold waits for more, and when none is forthcoming, says, “Don’t what, John? Don’t want it?”
“No,” John answers, stumbling forward a step and then another. He keeps going until he’s inches from Harold’s knees. And then Harold opens his legs, and John is tempted to drop down and press his face against Harold’s stomach and promise everything. If only Harold will agree. “Harold…”
Harold watches him, head cocked as much as it will go with his neck being how it is. He reaches up and touches John’s cuff, and John turns his wrist outward, exposes the vulnerable vein. Harold runs his thumb over it without looking away from John’s face. “You need this,” he says.
“Yes,” John admits, because what’s so bad in admitting?
“But do you want it?” Harold asks.
John’s breath catches. He twists his wrist so it’s more securely in Harold’s grip, but Harold doesn’t squeeze or grab or tug him closer. Harold watches him. Harold waits for an answer. “I need it from you,” John says because it’s true. He’s wanted it before, certainly, but not from the people who were giving it. But. Harold. He’s noble and determined and intelligent and he’s just asked to be certain, and John feels like he’d do anything for Harold in this moment.
“You have to understand, John,” Harold says without removing his hand from John’s wrist, “that I expect a certain level of commitment.”
“Like what?”
“If you agree to this, you are mine, and I am yours. I will allow some leeway for necessary flirtations and even the occasional…” Harold grimaces and rolls his eyes, but his hand is still on John’s wrist, “honeypot…but other than those instances, I would say Ms. Morgan’s instincts are correct. If you want what I am willing to offer, you will be merely rented out as necessitated by the number.”
John thinks about it for a moment. “What will you give me?” he asks.
Harold smiles, the smug little grin he gets when he knows he’s got the absolute best offer in the room. John feels his heartbeat pick up. Harold looks away from his moment to look at his wrist, and John realizes he’s felt it. “Everything you already have,” Harold says, looking back up to meet John’s eyes. “The work, my companionship, Bear, the apartment, the suits—”
“Harold,” John interrupts, a thought striking him. “Have you been personally tailoring my suits with an ulterior motive?”
“I have been personally tailoring your suits because your taste off the rack is abysmal,” Harold says. “And because you clearly appreciated the effort.”
John is absolutely certain he’s never gotten an erection when Harold’s measured his inseam. “What gave me away?” he asks.
“Your breathing shifts,” Harold says. “Your stance changes. Your hands uncurl. I thought, perhaps, you wanted something more, but you never mentioned it, so I kept it to myself.”
“And what made you admit to it now?” John asks.
“Ms. Morgan provided me a very convenient opening. I saw no reason to waste it.”
John smiles and steps forward another inch, just barely outside the vee of Harold’s legs. “I suppose I owe her a thank you.”
“You can thank her later,” Harold says. His whole face changes, curious and contemplative and aroused all at once. “John,” he says so quietly it barely carries, “would you get on your knees for me?”
He should say yes and stay standing, John thinks, but he kneels instead because it feels right. His hands come to rest on Harold’s legs, just above his knees. He doesn’t look away from Harold’s face.
“Oh,” Harold breathes. “I didn’t expect…” He trails off and touches John’s jaw. John turns into it without shame. Closes his eyes to concentrate on the touch. “It really was meant to be a question, not an order.”
“I want to take orders from you,” John says. “I trust you to take care of me, Harold.”
“You need someone to take care of you,” Harold says, wry. “You need a mission,” He continues, serious again. “You need orders. But you also need to trust that both of those are coming from a place of trust and respect. I will always give you those.”
“I know,” John murmurs, opening his eyes and looking at Harold before kissing Harold’s palm.
“John,” Harold’s voice is shaky, “if you say yes right now, I will never allow you to get away from me.”
“You’d have allowed it before?” John asks, leaning forward just enough to bite lightly at the tendons in Harold’s wrist.
“No,” Harold admits. “But this is different. You are not just an asset for me to lose. You are…” Harold’s breath is shuddery when he breathes in. “John, if you decide to leave after this, I will let you. I will. But you won’t recognize what’s left of me.”
“Harold,” John says, tipping back his head so he can see Harold’s eyes. “Just tell me what to do.”