The text from Gemma comes as Harry’s waiting for the co-pilot/cabin crew, Emily, to do her final checks. “I bet even Mick Jagger never rented a private jet to get a blow job.”
“Has” Harry sends back, then, “And who says I’m the one getting?” Because the only response to Gemma getting snarky is to remind her he has no TMI filter.
She ignores the second part, only replying to the first. “Ew. Please tell me you don’t know this for sure. Lie if you have to.”
Harry can’t help but be pleased that Gemma has enough confidence in his schmoozing skills that she thinks he could know for sure.
“He took a private jet to get a bj from me.” he says, adding an aubergine emoji for good measure.
“I hate you.”
“Love you too.”
Emily comes to tell him they’re going to take off. Harry thanks her, declines her offer of a last-minute drink, and sends a text to Nick: “See you soon.” He is ridiculously excited. Though if he’s honest, he’s thinking more about the hug he’s going to get than a blow job.
Not that he isn’t glad both will be on offer.
Harry gets to the address Nick sent him just before eight. He’s lost track of who all’s going to be there, but he’s surprised to find the only sound when Nick opens the door is some music coming from deeper into the house. “Hi,” Harry says, and before he’s even finished the one syllable, he’s getting that hug.
“Hey, rock star,” Nick answers, more than a minute later, easing out of Harry’s clutch to pull him the rest of the way inside and shut the door.
Nick flicks Harry’s hair where it falls over his shoulder. “Was thinking you might have graduated.”
“I did hire a jet to bring me to Spain for eighteen hours so I could have sex with a world-famous DJ,” Harry agrees.
“Oh, is that what you’re here for? I thought you just missed my face.” He’s leading the way into a large living room with doors that open out onto what Harry knows from instagram is an incredible view, though it’s pretty dark at the moment. Harry stops him so he can tug him round and see the face in question.
“Always, Nick,” he says, letting Nick see how much he means it. “You know that.” He’s really needed time with family on this break, and this tour is long, but that doesn’t make him miss Nick less.
Nick holds his gaze just long enough to let Harry know he does know, then turns away again, saying, “Do hope you miss the rest of me, too.”
“Nope.” Harry huffs a laugh, happiness bubbling up in his chest. “The rest of you is disgusting. Only good thing’s your face.”
Nick flops on one of the large sofas, tugging Harry half on top of him by the hem of his shirt. “That’s because my face isn’t average.”
Harry laughs again, groaning with it. “You are never letting that die, are you?”
“Never,” Nick says, reeling Harry the rest of the way in so he can kiss him.
Harry’s not sure how long they’ve been kissing for when he suddenly remembers the house should really be full of Londoners on holiday. “Hey, where’s everyone else?” he asks, a little mushily, because Nick’s reluctant to let him go.
“Out to supper. Won’t be back for ages. Kissing time now.”
“Also naked time?”
“If you insist.”
Nick shifts Harry’s weight so he can get to Harry’s flies, goes in to undo the button. And he’s got— “What’s this?” Harry asks, pulling Nick’s hand up where he can see it better since he’s blocking the glow from the lamp. “You painted your nails?”
“Daisy got bored,” Nick says. He sounds worried Harry doesn’t like it. Which is not at all the impression Harry meant to give him.
While finishing the job Nick’d started on his flies, Harry threads the fingers of his left hand through Nick’s right, holding them so he can keep looking at the slightly chipped black polish. “Daisy should get bored more often.”
Nick watches Harry look at his hand for a moment. “Should she?”
Harry likes Nick in drag, but mostly because he likes Nick’s legs, and his chest, and his shoulders, and dresses and skirts tend to show off those features. He doesn’t like it particularly more than he likes Nick in nothing but boxer briefs. But the nail polish is stupidly hot, makes Nick’s already sexy fingers look both more languid and more capable at once, and even though it’s goth-rocker black, says more fuck your gender norms than lemme borrow your guitar. Harry’s into it. He wants to look at Nick’s hand forever, but not quite as much as he wants it wrapped around his dick. “She should,” Harry confirms, and takes Nick’s painted fingers with him as he frees his junk from his pants.
A creak from the direction of the deck sounds over the low music, making Harry freeze. “So long as she doesn’t get bored at the restaurant and come home early.” It wouldn’t be the first, or even second, time Daisy’s accidentally interrupted them having sex, but Harry’s not in the mood for an audience tonight.
“Just a swing,” Nick says, glancing out the French doors, petting soothingly at Harry’s prick. Harry doesn’t feel soothed precisely, but he does stop worrying and relaxes back so he can watch Nick stroke him. It looks good.
“You look good,” Harry tells him. “Holiday agrees with you.”
Without pausing in his efforts to get Harry fully hard, Nick gives him an obvious and lingering once over. “You too.” The smile he gives Harry at the inevitable hitch in Harry’s hips, and breathing, with the compliment makes Harry pout and dig his elbow into Nick’s ribs—he hates being predictable almost as much as he loves how well Nick knows him—but he can’t help smiling back.
“You agree with me,” he says, half because Nick does, and half to be contradictory. Then, as Nick thumbs over his slit, “Shit, you feel good.”
“Not that good, obviously, if you’re still talking.”
Harry laughs, because that’s usually his line; Nick can—and often does—talk right up to the point of orgasm, which Harry’d found disconcerting when they first started shagging. “Trust me.” Harry leans in and pecks a kiss on the corner of Nick’s mouth. “You feel good.”
Nick’s right, though, Harry wants to enjoy this. They can talk on the phone. Harry far too seldom gets to feel Nick’s hands. Nick’s hands decorated with sexy black polish. “Make me come.”
With a glance, Nick says, well, aren’t you demanding, popstar, and don’t think I don’t know you know I like it, and I’ll make you come, but then I’m taking you to bed where you’re gonna suck me until you’re hard enough again to fuck me through the mattress and make me come on your dick. The look Harry gives him back means yes, yes and YES. Christ, Harry’s missed this.
They’re both smiling as Nick brings his hand up to his mouth and licks it wet before jerking Harry with intent.
The angle he’s at, Harry has a good view of Nick’s fingers, and he loses himself in watching. The lamp’s soft glow emphasizes the red of his prick and the black of Nick’s nails, making his fingers look pale in comparison, even with his holiday tan. It emphasizes how very not Harry’s own hands they are, and Harry wishes he could take a picture, something to look at when his own hands are all he’s got.
Next thing he knows, Nick’s free hand is slapping Harry’s away from his pocket. “You’re not taking a picture of me wanking you, Harold. This manicure’s been all over instagram this week, and you’re bound to get one of those stupid laurels in the shot, and never trust—”
The thought of the picture leaking, of people knowing Nick’s been jerking Harry off, is apparently too hot for Harry to handle, because he jizzes all over his own lap, surprising both of them, and cutting Nick off mid sentence.
“Oh my god,” Harry says. He’s laughing and breathless, and a little disturbed that that got him off.
“Do you wank to horror films?” Nick asks, incredulous. “Oh my god indeed.” Then they’re both laughing, flushed and giddy, one trailing off only to start up again when the other just laughs harder. Finally they both peter out, Nick with come drying on his hand, Harry with more drying on his jeans, his throat positively parched.
“Need a drink,” he croaks. Nick hands him the last quarter of a bottle of beer that might have been cold at some point before Harry’s arrival but definitely isn’t now. Harry doesn’t care. He drinks it.
“I’ll get you some water. And a proper drink if you want one. Then we should maybe take this to the bedroom. Not sure the others will be thrilled about jizz on the sofa, and I’m not done with you yet.”
“Water’s fine.” Harry says, taking his leg off Nick’s lap so he can get up. “And you’d better not be done with me.”
Harry was right about Nick’s plans for once they got back to the bedroom, and they’re still shagging when the others get back from a very late—and from the sounds of it, very boozy—supper, still shagging when they bang around in various bathrooms and disperse to their own beds, and still sleeping the next morning when the others get up and go out for breakfast. Harry wouldn’t have minded seeing them, especially Daisy and Pixie, but he can’t say he’s all that disappointed that he gets Nick to himself the whole of the little time they have. He doesn’t want to leave, but he wants to get back, say a proper goodbye to his mum and Robin before he has to be back on a plane to the states.
Last thing as his taxi arrives, he kisses Nick’s fingertips. “Do really like this,” he says. “You should do it again sometime.”
Nick laughs, and gives him a little shove out the door. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
Harry’s all buckled into his seat on the plane when he gets a text from Nick. It’s a picture of his hand curled around the neck of a beer bottle, black-tipped thumb resting on the lip. “Sweet Dreams” says the caption. Harry hits the save button as his jet starts taxiing down the runway.