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Milk and Honey

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Henrik heard the roar of John’s V12 engine as he powered his red Ferrari Berlinetta up the hill towards the parking lot under their apartment building. It was a ridiculous car, as Henrik’s knees were practically by his ears whenever he sat in it.

He was glad John was finally home. It had been a long day for both of them, but an emergency brain injury had kept John at the hospital for another three hours.

Henrik was in bed, reading a battered paperback copy of Gore Vidal’s A Search For The King, which he had picked up in a secondhand book store. He looked up and smiled when John entered the room.

“I’m taking a shower. Won’t be long.” John dropped a kiss on his forehead.

Ten minutes later, he slipped under the sheets and rested his head close to Henrik’s. He was still wound up from work, yet he looked totally exhausted.

“I need to relax. Would you read to me?”

“You want my voice to bore you to sleep?” Henrik turned the page, but he was no longer concentrating. John’s presence had made him lose the plot.

"Your voice is like milk and honey." John rested his hand on Henrik's bare stomach, just above the elastic of his pyjama bottoms, and kissed his shoulder. “Or we could find some other way of relaxing.”

“That’s tempting, but tonight literature is preferable.”

“Unless you’re speaking Swedish or Latin. You know that makes me horny.”

“You’re always horny,” Henrik murmured.

“Because I’m with you. Now read.”

Henrik stretched out his arm so John could curl round his body, then encircled him in his embrace. He opened the book and began to read aloud.

“’It was snowing in Vienna…’”

Within minutes John’s breathing was deep and steady. He had fallen asleep.