He risked a look at Asher, his face pressed against Harry’s shoulder. His olive skin, his dark lashes, his pink lips... God, Asher’s mouth was nothing but trouble. Beautiful, talented trouble.
As he watched Asher sleep, Harry could feel something under his ribs, something he’d never felt before. A need, an ember to begin with but beginning to burn a little warmer.
The need to protect him.
Which was ridiculous, given their professions and the life Harry lived. Never saw the same person twice, no friends, no dating, no family.
And now this guy, who had intended to kill him, who infuriated him like no one else ever had, was under his skin.
Like a fucking tick.
Harry rolled over onto his side, pissed at himself for allowing this to happen. Only the dip in the bed made Asher roll inward and burrow against his back.
Goddammit.
But then Asher slid an arm around Harry’s waist, and it felt so good. So amazing, like everything he’d been missing in his life.
And it also felt a little bit wrong.
Grumbling to himself, a string of curses because, goddammit all to fucking hell, Harry wiggled and turned himself over so he now faced Asher. Stirring from sleep, Asher pulled back, alarmed. “What the...?”
It was a good opportunity for Harry to lay his arm out, then he pulled Asher against him so Asher could use his arm as a pillow. “There’s more room this way,” Harry grumbled.
Asher sleepily chuckled into Harry’s chest.
“Shut the fuck up.”