“At—”
“But nice to pet, if you can get one to trust you,” Harry finished, and Kit just about dropped his fork.
Visions of that library encounter swirled up again. Contemplations of what precisely might be petted. A hand stroking hair, and a bent head, and kneeling in devotion. Harry’s body, close enough for heat. Kit’s own muffled groans afterward in his room, alone, pumping into his fist, spilling himself at the mere imagining of that cheerful mouth and that firm backside and those spectacular eyes.
Harry Arden, who waved at strangers on his own doorstep and had never been allowed off the family estate, couldn’t know about things like that. That sentence hadn’t had any double meaning. Harry had simply chosen…an unfortunately suggestive metaphor…about getting close enough for trust. Had
