You know, Harold,” John began. His eyelashes brushed Harold’s temple, and the older man shivered.
“My dossier said that I was the Mattress King, right? Want to find out if I live up to that name?”
John’s words were cool and sibilant on Harold’s cheek, and the implication made his eyes widen.
“I suppose we should, Mr. Reese,” Harold said quickly.
“That’s King John,” he retorted, and Harold raised an eyebrow.
“Fine, Your Majesty,” he said with a grin.
Harold nodded in the direction of the bedroom, and then it was John's turn to gape.
"After you, Mattress King."
It was the same force that made Harold flick his tongue across his dry lips as they hovered inches from John’s open mouth.
There was an audible moan, and then Harold pressed his lips to John’s, formality be damned, and he tilted his head back to accommodate the artful twist of John’s tongue around his own.
Everything flashed before his eyes again, and this time, John’s face dominated his thoughts, his dying thoughts, the last thing he ever pictured or thought or felt before the gun went off.
Harold pulled away, and he felt John’s shoulder straighten in surprise.