That's it. Harry was officially trying to kill him. Or make him spontaneously combust. It was, at least, nice to know he wasn't the only one affected by that dance, but the mental images of what Harry'd done right after he'd left the dancefloor... Oliver swallowed. Hard. Then he had to clear his throat. Twice.
He also hoped that his sudden shift of position on the couch would go unnoticed, as would the pillow now resting on his lap.
"That good, was it?" Blimey, Oliver, could your voice get any more bloody hoarse?