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Harry picked up the duffle bag, surprised at the weight of it. “Christ. What have you got in this?”
Asher lifted himself into the ceiling cavity, a space Harry could never squeeze through. Then he poked his head back down so he could see Harry. “I carry my friends with me. Barret and MacMillan.”
Harry sighed and handed the bags up to him. A second later, two feet appeared, then two legs. “Catch me.”
“I’m not going to fucking catch you.”
“If I sprain my ankle, we’ll both be useless.”
“I’m not useless,” Harry grumbled.
“So help me get down.”
Harry knew damn well that Asher could manage just fine. But, resisting the urge to sigh again or to fucking scream, Harry moved the chair and grabbed Asher’s legs. Asher lowered himself through the manhole just enough to put his crotch right at Harry’s face height.
Deliberately.
On purpose.
Asher refixed the panel in the ceiling into place, then pretended to slip, gripping Harry’s shoulders. Harry caught him, his arms around Asher’s ass. He looked down at Harry and grinned. “You’re so strong,” he said.
Harry dumped him onto the bed, upending him with as much care as he’d treat a bag of rocks, and walked into the other room.
It had been far too long since he’d touched a man in a way that wasn’t violent, and this was too much of a mindfuck right now.
“Being rough is my favourite kind of foreplay,” Asher called out with a laugh. He appeared with that stupid fucking grin.
Harry glared at him. “Is everything a joke to you?”
“Not everything. I take food very seriously.” He clapped Harry’s shoulder. “Let’s go get some lunch.”
