He watches Harper's hands, breath caught in his chest.
The blade flashes up and down the strop, and he tears them away, stares at the pale expanse of Sharpe's skin, bare beneath the open neck of his shirt.
That tantalizing v of skin ought not excite him so, but it does, and his eyes helplessly track Harper's hands, and the silvery blade they carry.
Sharpe bears his neck with absolute trust, eyes closed, dark golden hair falling back from the crown of his bare head.
There is something unbearably erotic in that display, and he swallows hurriedly.
The blade angles down Sharpe's jaw, sweeping white foam before it and leaving clean skin behind. Harper is careful, and skilled, his hands moving quickly but cautiously over Sharpe's face.
He can't help but think that this task is one that ought to be performed by a lover, in private, not by an aide de camp in full view.
Sharpe is simply too magnetic, his trust in Harper too obvious.
No man walking by does so without taking a second look, pausing for a moment to watch Harper guide the blade carefully along Sharpe's chin.
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