Page 30 of My Family

"I missed you. I was lonely. You're always working."

"Aww, poor thing," he says, kissing my neck. I have goosebumps now. Then he looks at me and studies my face. I can never hide anything from him. "Something on your mind?"

I laugh. "Isn't there always?"

“Even though you aren’t allowed to have thoughts? I do the thinking for you,” he jokes. I laugh too. How I wish this were true.

He kisses my neck again, I feel his tongue grazing my skin. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"It's just…" I start, then stop. I can't figure out how to say it, not without sounding like a child. "Everything is falling apart, and I don't know how to stop it."

He nods, like he already knew. "Harry?"

I shake my head. "Not just him. Mason. You. Jack. The whole place feels off. Like we're all just waiting for the next thing to blow up."

He doesn't say anything for a long time. Then, still holding me close, he says, "I know, sweetheart. It's scary. But I'm here. You're the only thing in my life that makes sense," he says. I look into his eyes, and he looks calm, serene, and not like he's faking it. It definitely looks like he actually feels it, which fills me with so much fucking happiness I could explode like a piñata.

I catch his mouth. He doesn't bite or press or grab, just lets our lips fit together, open and unhurried. The heat builds in my chest, a low flame. When I pull back, he's looking at me with so much love.

"Is this okay?" I whisper. I don't know why I ask. We've never been shy about what we want, not even in the beginning. Maybe it's the difference in the air tonight. The way he's holding me.

"It's perfect, baby," he says, and his voice is gentle.

I try to look away because it's too much for this poor little heart of mine.

But he won't let me. His hand comes up, fingers under my chin, tilting my face toward him. His thumb runs over my jaw, slow and deliberate, tracing the line. "You're beautiful," he says.

My ears are burning, and I can feel the color climb my neck. He smiles, but there's no mockery in it. He looks older than he is at this moment, and he looks tranquil. Like a rock in my jelly world.

He gets to my collarbone and bites gently, tongue tracing the edges of my tattoo, and I gasp. The sound makes him pause.

"Sorry," I say, but he shakes his head.

"I love your sounds."

He kisses my throat, my shoulder, then down my arm to my wrist.

I want him naked. I tug at the hem of his shirt, impatient, and he lifts his arms so I can strip it over his head. I love it. He doesn’t usually let me strip him. His body is all muscle, but it's the scatter of freckles that undo me. I kiss each one, like he did to me, and I feel his chest stutter under my lips. He laughs. "Worshipping me, pet?"

"You know it, Daddy," I say, already kissing down his chest, mapping the territory with my mouth. He lets me, his hand in my hair, barely guiding, just enough to make me feel him there.

We get out of our pants, fast, messy. He's hard already, leaking at the tip, but there's no rush. He pulls me into his lap, so I'm straddling him. His cock presses against my stomach, and I grind down, slow, loving the way his jaw goes slack.

I grip him in my hand, stroke once.

He's hot and slick in my palm, and I can feel every shiver, every subtle throb as I pump my hand up and down. His breath goes ragged, this tiny little catch and release. He throws his head back, closing his eyes, grunting, and I love it. I love it when he's vocal, when he shows me everything he likes to hide. I start slow, squeezing at the head and then dragging my thumb over the slit, smearing the bead of pre-cum. He's so sensitive it makes his hips jerk up, his fingers tightening in my hair. I keep stroking, a little faster, loving how easily I can make him lose that perfect composure.

I want him to see how much he does to me. I palm myself, and he's immediately there, moving my hand away so he can do it for me. The first touch is blinding, he knows exactly how hard to squeeze, how to twist his wrist just so at the top. I'm almost embarrassed by how close I automatically get, but he wants that.

He lets go, and I whine, but only for a second.

"Show me how you please yourself," he says, and his voice is a command, not a request.

I let his cock go, reluctantly, to stroke myself, and I get slicker with every pull, and he matches my rhythm on his own cock. We're face to face now, both working ourselves, both watching, breathing harder, panting in sync. His eyes are locked on mine, and I don't look away. Every sound he makes goes straight to my gut.

The way his hand works over his shaft is effortless, but every time his thumb rolls over the head he shivers. He meets my eyes, watching me watch him, and grins, open, hungry, confident.

He takes my wrist, moves my hand away from myself, and then wraps his big, warm hand around both of us at once. The stretch is obscene. Skin on skin, we're so close it's like we're trying to merge into a single body. His fist is tight and slow, drawing a moan out of me I can't suppress. He matches my rhythm to his, rocking us together, the slide of our cocks against each other slick and perfect. I grab his waist, digging my fingers into the muscle there, and hold on.