Tossing out the big words again, Finch?” he smirked.
Harold’s face fell. “I’m not being facetious, Mr. Reese! Your life is not expendable. Please,” he implored, and John gave him a gentle pat on the arm.
“I’ll try to be more careful,” he grinned.
John dropped his head to Harold’s eye level, and the air between them was alive with an odd organic magnetism that pulled them closer and closer together.
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.