Harry would be hard pushed to say what was his favourite part of sex, but being sheltered against a body larger than his own was quickly moving up the charts. He hummed contentedly and let his mind wander back over the last hour, trying to commit every moment to memory, but what he remembered most was various pictures of Oliver's face.
Now, pressed against his new lover, Harry realised that there was a wealth of communication to be found in how Oliver looked at him. There had been longing and concern, affection and consideration, but the face Harry found himself liking best was Oliver coming, eyes closed in concentration, yet mouth slack with pleasure. Harry had done that to him, and it hadn't taken hours of creative pain and denial, just simple shagging. It was a gift he might never tell the other man that he'd given, but a gift just the same.