You're as smooth as Tennessee whiskey
You're as sweet as strawberry wine
You're as warm as a glass of brandy
And honey I stay stoned on your love all the time
-"Tennessee Whiskey"/Chris Stapleton
The doghouse system had served Section D well and faithfully for many years, a revolving door of public locations hidden from view of nearby CCTV cameras and safe for brief, clandestine meetings when the Grid itself was compromised. The list was constantly updated, never written down, completely revamped each time a member of the team was lost, but there were always at least four active Doghouses at any given time. It was impressive, really, the amount of time and effort that went into what was essentially a backup plan; in the last eight years, Doghouse protocol had only been invoked a bare two or three times. At the moment, Ruth was hurrying along the riverbank, her head down in deference to the brisk November chill, her feet leading her towards Doghouse Two. Nestled away beneath the Golden Jubilee Bridge on the Southbank side was a small stall that sold beer and cider, a few picnic tables scattered around for customers brave enough to sit outside and sip their drinks on a chilly autumn night, and it was there that Ruth was headed, her thoughts chaotic and scrambled. The constant barrage of foot traffic and rather shocking lack of surveillance made this a fine place for a group of people to meet under the gathering darkness, and she felt a pang for a moment as she wondered how it might feel to rush along this path on her way to share a drink with friends, instead of to conspire with her colleagues. It was a strange life she led, and she knew it.
When she arrived, Dimitri, Callum, and Tariq had already laid claim to a table, each of them nursing a pint glass of something pale and bitter, and Erin was waiting in the queue in front of the stall, stamping her feet to ward off the chill. Ruth didn't feel much like drinking, and so she bypassed Erin, and dropped onto the bench beside Dimitri. Even as she took her seat she scanned her surroundings, clocking the faces of the strangers all around her, looking for signs of undue interest. Nothing caught her eye, but she took no comfort in that fact. After all, absence of evidence was not evidence of absence, as the saying went, and spies could never be too careful.
"How long have we got?" Callum asked as she took her seat.
"For all of us together, I'd say no more than five minutes," Ruth answered, eyeing the three mostly-full glasses on the table in front of her. As one the boys lifted their drinks, each of them taking a long swig. "If one or two of you want to hang around I don't think that will be a problem, but we can't afford to risk all five of us being caught out."
"I'll stay with Erin," Dimitri volunteered, his attempt at sounding casual undermined by the hungry look that flashed across his face as he watched their Section Chief prowling towards them, a steaming cup of tea cradled in her perfectly manicured hands. Ruth fought the urge to roll her eyes in response. Really, he had a lot to learn about discretely navigating office relationships, but then Ruth could be honest enough with herself to admit that she had no business lecturing anyone in that department.
"Has anyone spoken to Harry?" Erin asked as she poured herself onto the bench, smoothly crossing her legs and assuming control of their little conference. If Ruth had been anyone else, she might have been affronted by the way Erin asserted herself in situations such as these, despite Ruth's seniority and her depth of knowledge on the subject at hand, but Ruth had never been ruled by her ego. Let Erin play at being the boss; Ruth had more important things to worry about, at present.
"I used an old dead-drop to smuggle an untraceable phone to him, but he hasn't answered it yet. I don't know if that means he hasn't picked it up, or if he's just trying to protect us," Ruth answered. In point of fact, she had rung Malcolm, who had donned his trilby and walked down to the little shop on the corner of Harry's street where he left the pay-as-you-go mobile with the friendly shopkeeper, to be delivered with Harry's morning paper. That was the day before yesterday, and though Ruth had rung Harry three times - each time from a different phone - he had yet to pick up. The silence at the end of those calls stung her, more than she cared to admit.
"And we're sure he isn't back in hospital?" Erin asked primly, taking a sip of her tea.
"I've called around, but there's no one matching his description," Tariq volunteered.
"Right, well, we need his input on this. Someone is going to have to go over there."
Four sets of eyes fell on Ruth all at once, and despite herself she ducked her gaze, hating the way her cheeks flushed at the obvious implication. Of course they thought Ruth should be the one to go to him, to talk him round, to pander to his pride and bring him back on side. Of course they bloody did; everyone knew that Ruth was the preeminent authority when it came to Harry, to his history and managing his temper and bolstering his confidence. That had been the way of things for years now, no matter how it grieved her. It seemed she could never be rid of him, could never deny the obvious connection between them, and the knowledge that everyone around her assumed they knew the truth of her heart chafed. Still, though, Ruth had stayed, continued to stand behind Harry, because no matter how he frustrated her, no matter how he wounded her, there was nowhere else she'd rather be.
"He's under round-the-clock surveillance," she protested weakly. It was a feeble excuse, even to her own ears, but she made it anyway. It would be no trouble, she knew, to slip through the fence round his back garden and into his home undetected. That fence, and the empty house that abutted it, was one of the main reasons Harry had chosen his home in the first place.
"Ruth, we need him," Erin said patiently, the long-suffering mother carefully explaining the ways of the world to her headstrong child.
If Ruth really wanted to avoid this particular task, she could have pointed out that she was the member of their team most likely to be under surveillance herself, that Section D were not the only ones who knew of the long and storied history between herself and Harry. She could have pointed out that it would not go unnoticed, if she did not come home at her usual time, that likely someone was watching her even now as she sat with them, and that she would be intercepted long before she ever made it to Harry's door. There were all sorts of things she could have said, to foist this duty off onto someone else. The truth was, however, that in her heart she longed to see him, and even before this conference started she had already resolved herself to check in on him at the first possible opportunity.
"I'll go," she sighed in defeat. "I'll tell him what's happened, and I'll have him ring you."
"Thank you, Ruth," Erin demurred, magnanimous in victory.
They spoke a few minutes more, discussing their current disaster and possible plans for getting Harry back on his feet and reinstated forthwith, but time was against them. Callum and Tariq chugged the last of their beers, and then they rose with Ruth to a chorus of goodbyes before the three of them set off into the night, leaving Dimitri to his futile attempts at wooing Erin. Ruth wished him luck; her own love life was a dismal thing, and much as she might have disapproved of Erin, she rather felt that at least one of them deserved the chance to be happy.
All throughout the long, convoluted journey to Harry's house Ruth cursed him for getting her into this mess. He always had to be the bloody hero, always had to have the last word, never trusted anyone. It was so like him, to play his cards close to his chest, to shield his team and fall on his sword, breaking two of his ribs and getting himself suspended in the process. As the bus jostled all around her Ruth couldn't help but recall similar circumstances, so many years before, couldn't help but remember how she had bluffed her way through the hospital, the sight of him lying small and unconscious in a hospital bed, the way the lies had dripped from her tongue. Her heart had raced in her chest, exhilaration and fear and just the smallest spike of arousal at the thought of what it might be like, if she were truly his mistress, carrying his child and smuggling love letters to him through the nurses. And then he had come raging onto the Grid, pale-faced and garrulous, grievously injured but determined to resume his post, and her heart had fluttered in her chest at the sight of him.
How young she had been then, how naive, and yet somewhere deep inside her she felt that same thrill on this night as she wound her way towards him through the city streets, preparing herself to enter his home for the first time. Her heart raced at the thought of what she had to do, at the thought of seeing him again after his most recent implosion, at the thought of being alone with him in his home, a place she had only ever imagined, and never actually seen. It felt rather like a line had been drawn in the sand, long ago; he had come to her home, back before Cotterdam, twice in fact, but Ruth had never been allowed the same liberty, and she had not invited him back since her disastrous return. To cross the threshold seemed to represent a massive step for their relationship, though Ruth could not say in what direction.
At long last she arrived, making her way across the gardens, flitting from shadow to shadow, sure that no one had followed her, and yet uncertain of anything else. The night around her was full of surprises, of doubts, of fears, but she was making her way towards Harry, and she knew that he would set things right. He always did.
Harry sat in his armchair, staring at the mobile, praying it would ring. For two days now he had watched that little phone, waiting for some sign of life, some indication that his friends and colleagues had not forgotten him. Waiting to hear the voice he loved best in all the world, spilling into his ear and filling him with hope the way it always did, when he heard her speak just for him. Despite his hopes and his patience, the phone had not rung, and he was beginning to wonder if perhaps he had misinterpreted the gesture. When he'd received it along with his paper he had assumed it was a gift from Ruth, a lifeline flung out into the darkness, but surely if Ruth wanted him she would have rung him by now.
Wouldn't she?
In the midst of his ponderings on the mobile and the futility of his hopeful heart, the sound of a gentle tap upon his backdoor echoed loud as gunfire. He hauled himself to his feet, wincing at the strain on his still tender ribs, and padded silently to the back of the house. As he neared the door he paused and retrieved the small pistol he kept in case of emergencies, but then he took another step, and the shadow on the other side of the frosted glass resolved itself into a familiar silhouette. He breathed a sigh of relief, disposed of the gun, and swung the door open.
There on the other side stood Ruth, her cheeks pink from the cold, her dark hair blowing around her face in the brisk November breeze.
"Hello, Harry," she said softly.
"Hello, Ruth," he answered. Somehow, he wasn't entirely surprised to see her. He stepped aside to allow her entry, trying to disguise his smile as she ducked her head and entered his home. How many years had he spent wondering what it might be like, to have this woman here with him? How many times had he lost himself in dreams of her at his kitchen table, curled on his settee, warm beneath his arm in his bed? It was duty and not love of him that brought her here, he knew, and yet he was so pleased to see her that he found he did not care why she had come. She was here, and he was determined to enjoy it.
"Can I get you something to drink?" he asked, as if he had invited her round, as if he didn't know she'd come to discuss his most recent failings, to chastise him and beg him to set things to rights before it was too late. She frowned up at him as she slipped out of her coat, that little furrow between her brows calling out to him, begging him to cross the space between them and smooth it away with the brush of his lips, but he resisted. This was a dance he knew well by now, his heart urging him towards her while his mind counseled prudence, and as ever he struggled to allow himself to be ruled by his head where she was concerned, to give her the space she so obviously wanted despite his own desire for her.
"I've been worried about you, Harry," she chided him gently as he led her back to the sitting room. "I've rung you several times, but you haven't answered. Did you not find the dead drop?"
They reached the sitting room as she delivered her last query, and so Harry crossed the room and retrieved the mobile from the little table beside his chair, holding it up so she could see. "I've been waiting for you to call," he said slowly. "It hasn't rung."
That frown was back, taunting him, teasing him. "I don't understand," Ruth said, her eyes flickering from the mobile in his hand to his face and back again.
"Well, at any rate, you're here now. Drink?" He gestured for her to take a seat, which she did at once, but she shook her head in answer to his question.
"I'm fine. Listen, Harry, you need to talk to Erin. We need your help on this."
Despite his efforts to put her at her ease Ruth was obviously anxious; she sat on the very edge of the settee, her legs crossed tightly, her hands twisting round and round in her lap while her eyes roved endlessly around the room. That stung, a bit, that she would be so uncomfortable in his home, but he reminded himself as he turned towards the sideboard that she was likely ill at ease as a result of the surveillance and their current situation, rather than his presence. Surely if she had come to his home under any other circumstances, her mood would have been different. It was scant comfort, but he clung to it nonetheless.
"I'll ring her in the morning," he said as he poured himself a generous measure of whiskey. "I have fewer minders during the day, and whatever we decide it will look more like a conclusion she reached on her own, if it's done while she's on the Grid."
Ruth nodded, apparently satisfied, but her eyes narrowed as he resumed his seat in the armchair, whiskey glass in hand.
"Should you be drinking just now?" she asked, sounding for all the world like a nagging wife.
If only, Harry thought sadly.
"Aren't you on rather a lot of painkillers?" Ruth added, trying to smooth over what she saw as a rather grave misstep. She hadn't intended to chide him, hadn't intended to assert herself into his affairs. It was his house and his whiskey and his liver, after all. It was too late, though; she had seen him about to hurt himself, and she had stepped in, the way she always did. Ruth couldn't help herself where Harry was concerned. She needed him alive and well and whole and fighting, and each time he reached for his own self-destruct button, she was there to pull him back from the brink with a gentle hand. It had not escaped her notice, the way she looked after him almost without thinking, making sure he'd eaten his lunch and he wasn't drinking too much and telling him to go home when he'd been too long on the Grid. It was no wonder, really, that everyone thought they were together; Ruth carried out all the duties that would have been expected of Harry's wife without complaint. All save one.
Her cheeks colored as her eyes followed his crystal glass down to the sidetable. Eight years now they'd been dancing around one another. Eight years she'd been telling him not to drink so much and trying not to stare at his mouth when he spoke, wondering what it might feel like to brush her lips against his own. Eight years and it was only now she was entering his home, not breathless and red-cheeked from another beautiful dinner date but anxious and furious after his having gotten himself suspended for the second time in the last six months. So much had happened between them, so much had changed, and yet she still felt that pull deep in her belly when he looked at her the way he was now, his eyes warm and unguarded. Eight years, and no matter the losses they had suffered, no matter the grief they had delivered one to the other, she still wanted him with a fierceness that shocked her.
She shouldn't want him, she knew. Shouldn't want to run her fingertips over the hard muscles of his forearms, visible now beneath his rolled-back sleeves. Shouldn't want to press her lips to the dip in his collarbone just above his buttons and draw comfort from the familiar smell of his cologne. She shouldn't want this man, this man whose love had damned them both, whose pride had ripped them apart, yet again, whose position meant that they would never be safe, from gossip or from bullets. She shouldn't want him, but she did, and in eight years she had never found a way to stop.
"It seems a shame to waste it," Harry mused, thick fingertips running around the edge of the glass and sending a chill coursing down Ruth's spine as against her better judgment she imagined those fingers ghosting over her skin instead. She should leave, should clear her throat and dislodged the lump her yearning for Harry had placed there, should make her excuses and disappear into the night before she said or did something she couldn't take back. In the stillness between them her heart was pounding; for reasons she could not entirely understand she felt as if she had come to a crossroads, as if quite without her permission events had forced them together, into this place, not to talk about work or argue about their failings but to make a choice, for once and for all, about what they would be to one another. Ruth had been running away from that choice for eight years, and she was terrified of making it now.
"You should have it," he continued, rising from his armchair with a wince of pain. He lifted his glass once more and crossed the room to stand in front of her, holding out the whiskey as if it were an olive branch.
Ruth didn't ordinarily drink whiskey; she didn't care for the taste, and she spent so little time at home there seemed to be no reason to stock up on her own spirits, when Harry kept enough for both of them on the Grid and she spent most of her waking hours there anyway. The proper thing to do, she knew, would have been to refuse the drink, and leave him at once, but before she could she found she was raising her hand, reaching out to take the glass from him, her cheeks reddening still further when he smiled softly at her.
"Thank you," she said, ducking her head as her eyes dropped to the whiskey, unwilling and unable to meet his gaze, terrified of the fire she saw burning in the depths of his honey-dark eyes.
"I ought to be thanking you," Harry said. To her surprise, and her great concern, he did not return to his arm chair, but joined her on the sofa, a bare foot of space between them. "Really, you're doing me a favor. Someone ought to enjoy it."
Something had changed between them, Harry realized as he took his seat on the sofa. Ordinarily, he would have expected Ruth to bolt the moment she delivered her message, all awkward professionalism and barely disguised longing. That she had chosen to stay, to sit on his sofa and sip his whiskey while he watched in awe and desperate need seemed to him to be a good sign, an indication that perhaps Ruth was at last prepared to face this thing between them head on. A more prudent man would have abandoned his attempts to woo her the moment she rejected his marriage proposal, but Harry had always been a stubborn sod, and he could not shake the sense that there was something more Ruth wanted from him. She had turned him down, but she still lingered, always there in his peripherals, catching him when he stumbled, reaching out to him, comforting him in her own way. Surely, he told himself for the thousandth time, if Ruth had no feelings for him she would left him long ago. Whatever this thing was between them, they weren't done, and he was determined to see it through.
"Happy birthday, Harry," Ruth said quietly, raising the glass to him as if in toast before she took a sip. She promptly choked on it, scrunching up her nose in a familiar gesture of distaste that had Harry laughing despite himself.
Yes, it was his birthday, and he could think of no gift better than this, than to have Ruth in his home, sitting on his sofa, drinking his whiskey - even if she was making a hash of it.
"I don't know how you drink this stuff," she gasped, her face scarlet and her eyes faintly accusing. "That's appalling."
"It's a gift from an American friend of mine," Harry explained, wondering not for the first time what Jim Coaver was playing at, sending him a birthday present. "It's hardly Glenlivet, but I thought it wasn't too bad."
"I didn't think you had any American friends," Ruth commented dryly.
"Just the one, I think."
She flashed him a timid smile, squared her shoulders, and took another sip. This time she grimaced, but managed to swallow it without any great production. There was something frighteningly erotic about this, about watching the delicate way her fingertips caressed the glass, the muscles in her throat working as she swallowed, the way the whiskey left her lips dark and glistening. There was something intimate about sitting with her in the late-night stillness, his eyes riveted on her as she drank his whiskey, her legs neatly crossed and close enough for him to touch if he chose.
"I was beginning to think you'd given up on me," Harry said quietly as the seconds ticked by unheeded. He'd chosen his words carefully, allowing Ruth room to interpret them however she chose, to determine what direction their evening might take. She could stick to the professional, assure him that his team would always be there for him, or she could join him on the ledge, could confess to him all the secrets she carried within her heart. Whatever she chose he would hear her, and count himself lucky for the chance to be alone with her.
There was a shattering sort of silence following his words that told him all too plainly how Ruth had chosen to interpret them. She would not meet his gaze, her eyes focused with laser-like intensity upon her drink, but her shoulders had stiffened, and he longed to reach out to her, to calm her with his hands gentle on her skin. This was how it always went between them; he would push too hard, and she would back away, skittish as a deer, and they would each of them nurse their battered hearts in lonely isolation. Not tonight, he begged her silently as he waited for her answer. Don't run from me now.
"I'm worried, Harry," Ruth breathed into the stillness. "There's talk that they won't have you back, that this is one strike too many. I don't know what I'd do, if I lost you."
Though his heart gave a great leap of joy at her words he took a moment to mull them over, to ponder what exactly it was she was telling him. That his job was in peril was nothing new to Harry; the last time he'd spoken to Towers, the HS had intimated that forced retirement was likely inevitable, now that he'd gotten himself suspended again. It was a heavy blow, knowing that his time with Five was nearly done, and his grief had doubled at the thought that in losing his job he might well lose Ruth, too. And here she sat, skin pale as moonlight and eyes brighter than the stars, telling him that she feared the same. I don't know what I'd do, if I lost you, she said; not we, not the team, but I. It was a little thing, but it was enough for Harry.
"I'm right here, Ruth," he told her gently. He watched as she lifted the glass with a shaking hand, took another long sip. She didn't flinch this time; she was getting better at it already.
Mustering all his courage, Harry reached out and took the glass from her, sitting it on the little table next to the sofa before returning his attentions to the beautiful woman beside him. He reached out and cradled her cheek in his palm, feeling her trembling beneath his touch, a frightened little bird. Why do I scare you so? He wanted to ask her, and yet he did not, for in his heart he knew the answer. Ruth had always been afraid of him, of them, of what might become of them should they consign themselves to the flames of their passion for one another, and he could understand it, given all they'd been through. What would they be, if they embraced one another at long last, and put aside this never-ending dance? He didn't know, but he desperately wanted to find out, and he prayed that Ruth felt the same.
"Harry," her voice was soft and sad and lost, and it wrenched something deep inside him, loosed a veritable flood of emotion he had tried for so long to keep at bay. Her skin was warm and smooth against his hand, the pulse of her blood thrumming through her veins reminding him that she was here, real and mercifully alive and not pulling away from him, not yet. "We can't."
"Why not?" he asked. With each passing heartbeat he was closing the space between them, working himself up to the point of throwing caution to the wind and dragging her into his lap, and his brain was rapidly shutting down as his heart took over, as all thought was drowned out by the sound of his body crying out for her.
For a long moment she simply stared at him, tears sparkling in her diamond-bright eyes, and Harry could feel the weight of all his hopes hanging in the balance. Please, he begged her silently, still holding her face gently in his hand. Please.
"I don't remember, any more," she confessed.
It would seem her quiet declaration was enough for Harry; she had no sooner finished speaking than his lips descended on hers, and her heart burst into song. Those words were the truth, though it had taken her so very long to find them. Once there had been a reason, a logical explanation for Ruth to keep her distance, but she could no longer recall what that reason was. Harry was here, now, Harry whom she loved, Harry who had traded his career for her life, who had protected her, sheltered her, loved her at every turn. Harry was looking at her as if she contained the whole universe within her flesh, his eyes hungry and burning her alive, and she could think of no reason to deny herself the pleasure of his touch another moment longer. Later they could discuss it, could make a plan; later she could explain why she had denied his proposal, what it was she needed from him. Right now, in this moment, the only thing that mattered to Ruth was Harry, the strength in his arms as he crushed her to him, the taste of him, the sound of him groaning in delight as she returned his kiss with equal ardor, welcoming his tongue into her mouth with her own sigh of bliss.
His hands traveled over her, learning the lines and curves of her body as she arched into his touch, hungry for more. It had been so long, so bloody long, since last she'd kissed this man, since last she'd been this close to him, since last she'd admitted to herself just how much she wanted him, just how much she needed him, and now that the floodgates had been loosed she was determined to enjoy him in earnest, to savor every piece of this experience. She wasn't supposed to be here, in his home, in his arms, but she found in that moment she could not have cared less about the surveillance and the professional consequences. This was Harry with his hands on her hips, dragging her ever closer to him, and she wanted Harry.
Her hands began a quiet exploration of their own, tracing the thick chords of the veins in his neck, feathering out across his shoulders, feeling his muscles bunching and flexing as he deftly moved her to straddle him. She went with him willingly, felt her body flowing smooth as water to cover him as her knees came to rest on either side of his hips, her skirt billowing around them and her thighs pressed tight to his own. With her fingertips on his jawline she held his head in place beneath her, kissed him as if the world was ending, and without a thought for how wanton, how desperate she must seem she thrust down against him, eager to feel him, all of him, now, before it was too late.
Harry groaned aloud in delight when he felt Ruth's hips pressing down against his own, his slowly hardening cock coming to life beneath the heat and the glory of her. This was not something he had ever imagined was possible, when he'd opened the door to greet her what seemed like a lifetime ago, but now that he had her, moaning and transcendent on his lap, he found himself incredibly grateful. Jim Coaver's whiskey tasted so much better like this, as Harry's tongue swirled through her mouth in search of the last remnants of that bitter taste, and the thought that he was drinking his whiskey from Ruth's lips caused his cock to twitch in anticipation.
With tender hands he traced the slope of her back, felt her curving into him, her body warm and soft and perfect to the touch. Her dark hair fell all around them like a curtain, shielding them both from the harshness of the world beyond this room, and in the rolling of her hips he heard a whisper, a promise of what could be if he was bold and she was brave and they were both of them honest about what they wanted, what they needed, one from the other.
With that in mind he pulled his lips away from her mouth, dragging them down the column of her throat instead. He breathed his own promise in a whisper against her skin as he went. "I love you, Ruth," he told her, punctuating his words with gentle kisses. "I love you, and I am yours, as long as you'll have me."
At his declaration Ruth let loose a short, breathless sort of gasp, her head thrown back in pleasure as he kissed her, her fingers digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders as he cradled her there on his lap. If he had possessed an ounce of self-awareness in that moment he might have well have felt a bit foolish, to find himself snogging Ruth on his sofa as if they were a pair of randy teenagers. It was hardly dignified behavior for a knight of the realm on his fifty-eighth birthday, but Harry had stopped caring about his dignity the moment his lips touched Ruth's. For the last five years he had been sustained by the memory of a single terrible, beautiful kiss on banks of the Thames, and now, after hundreds of cold nights spent alone and dreaming of her she was here, in his arms, as eager and as willing and as hungry as he. He could not stop to wonder at this change in her, could not spare a thought to ponder what might have caused such a titanic shift between them, but even in his current state of delighted stupor he could admit that likely it all took, all it would ever have taken, for Ruth to find her way to him was this, this meeting one another in his home in the dark of the night, not as colleagues or as spies but as two people who had loved one another for far longer than either of them would care to admit.
Still his lips traversed the smooth column of her throat, learning the taste of her, the way her body sang for him as his hands kneaded her bum and she rocked in time to his gentle urging. For a moment he cursed her usual modest state of dress; the neckline of her blouse did not allow him as much room to maneuver across the pale skin of her chest as he would have liked, and her skirt billowed around them both, hiding her glorious legs from view. As delicious as it was, to hold her like this, to feel her grinding down against him, to have such unfettered access to her body, he wanted more; he wanted her skin and her heat and her cries of bliss, and he could not have them here, like this. If he were to achieve his goal, however, he would have to be far bolder than he had been so far, and for a moment he prevaricated, uncertain how the suggestion that had formed in the back of his mind might be received.
He needn't have worried; as ever, Ruth read his mind, anticipated his wishes, and it was she who moved them along.
"Harry," she breathed, catching his face in her hands, tilting his head back so that he was staring directly into those brilliant blue eyes he longed to drown in. Her thumbs caressed his cheek bones, as she had done so many years before, and he smiled softly at the recollection, watching the same joy, the same fear he felt dancing in the eyes of this woman he loved so well. She was remembering, too, he knew, remembering all that had come before, all that might have been, and hoping, just as he was, that they could move forward, together. "Not here," she told him softly, the pads of her fingers still tracing the grooves of his face with a touch so tender it nearly brought tears to his eyes.
"No," he agreed, following the gentle insistence of her hands as she drew him to her for one more kiss, unable to stop the groan that rumbled from the back of his throat as her tongue danced against his own. Before he became too lost in the taste of her she rose to her feet, sinuous and graceful for once, no trace of the hesitation, the fear that so often dogged her steps. Something had changed, some force he could not comprehend had freed her from the fetters that so often constrained her passion in his presence and she stood before him red-cheeked and smiling, more beautiful than any dream, holding out her hand to him, offering him all of her. It was a gift he accepted willingly; he threaded his fingers through her own, marveling at the way their hands fit together, his broad, gnarled knuckles and her own delicate fingers looking somehow right, twined together like that.
He led her through the house, giving no thought to the surveillance team outside his door or to the protestations of his still-tender ribs. Though most days he felt his age, felt the aches and pains of a long life hard-lived he would not be deterred this evening, would not forgo a single pleasure in deference to his battered body. He would gladly break each of his ribs himself, if only he could love her first.
They slipped through his house quiet as a pair of shadows, coming to a stop just inside his bedroom door where he slipped his arm around Ruth's waist and drew her to him, his mouth slanting down over hers and claiming her lips once more in a heated, desperate kiss. He sucked her lip between his teeth, held it there until she was mewling and arching into his touch, and then released her, soothing over the sting with a gentle tongue, rejoicing in each sound and movement he coaxed from her. Her arms wound themselves around his neck, her breasts pressed hard to the plane of his chest, and so great was his joy that the pain in his ribs did not even permeate the fog that swirled through his brain. Carefully his hands traced down her sides, taking the opportunity to brush against the swell of her breasts with his thumbs as he went, exulting in the little gasp of pleasure that escaped her at even that gentle touch. He hesitated for a moment as his hands reclaimed the curve of her hips, debating with himself what course he ought to take, and in the end he chose the fastest one.
Nimble fingers sought out the zip of her skirt, pulled it down with a gentle rasp loud as thunder in the silence of his bedroom. The dark fabric swirled down her legs, gathering in a pool on the floor, and at once his hands sought out skin, tracing across her belly, catching the hem of her blouse and dragging it up so that in a single moment she was suddenly bare before him, clad in nothing but her underwear and shining like the sun.
"Hardly seems fair," she murmured, blushing as his gaze burned over her, her fingertips rising to attack his shirt buttons even as she ducked her head, hiding her face from view. Harry splayed his hands across her back, felt the heat of her skin, the softness of it, felt her body trembling beneath his touch, fragile as a bird, tense as if she were about to take flight. She didn't though; his Ruth, his glorious, beautiful Ruth, stayed right there with him, unbuttoning his shirt with her bottom lip caught between her teeth, applying all of her usual focus to her task with a dedication that Harry found rather erotic. His hands traced down her back, watching in fascination as she curved in response, her breasts thrust forward and her breaths coming in pants while her fingers fumbled with his buttons, momentarily distracted.
It was a wondrous thing, to be touching her, watching her, mesmerized by her half-naked beauty in the dim light of the street lamps filtering in the through the curtains.
"Ruth," he spoke her name, a prayer in the darkness, and in his arms she smiled, half in recognition and half in triumph as she finished mucking about with his buttons. With gentle hands she peeled his shirt from his body, coming back at once to remove his vest, and for a moment Harry felt a pang of dread; his chest was bruised and scarred, his belly bigger than he would have liked, and she was young and lovely and perfect. What could someone like her, someone as bright and brilliant and beautiful as Ruth, want with someone like him?
"I'm here, Harry," she answered, her fingertips tracing the mottled bruising of his most recent wound, her eyes riveted to the sight of his body bare beneath her hands. Whatever doubts he might have harbored, as regarded the depth of her attraction to him, were vanquished by the look in her eye, the way she licked her lips all unthinking, leaning closer to his touch. Her hands fell to his waistband even as her lips descended upon his collarbone, and Harry let loose a groan of bone-deep satisfaction, drawing her closer to him still with two hands clenched hard to the soft swell of her bottom. He rocked her against him, his hardness pressed fast to the smoothness of her belly, and he felt her answering moan vibrating against his skin as she kissed him.
She was here, and though it was in his mind to wonder if perhaps this was too much too fast, all conscious thought left him as her hands set to work on his belt. Though propriety might have suggested that it was foolish in the extreme, to take his senior analyst to bed when he was on suspension and she had rejected his proposal and they were neither of them whole, he knew that what they shared, what they were, was so far beyond the scope of a normal relationship that those parameters had long since ceased to apply. For eight long years he had been waiting for her, longing for her, and her arrival in his bedroom had come not a moment too soon.
His belt hit the floor with a clatter, and when she slipped his trousers down off his hips he took a moment to toe out of his socks before kicking the lot of it to the side, standing before her in just his trunks, each of them mostly naked and breathing like a bellows. But then his hands were on her again, unable to stay away from the glorious, rapturous heat of her, drawing her to him for another fierce, blinding kiss as his fingertips scrabbled across her back in search of the clasp of her bra. In a moment he had it unfastened and was tossing it away, and before Ruth could so much as take a step his mouth was on her, tracing the soft swell of her breast to both of their delight.
She tasted like honey, like whiskey, like sin and love and joy and light, and he could not get enough of her. In his arms she was weightless, arching into his touch, her fingers scraping gently over his scalp while beneath his lips her flesh erupted in goosebumps, her nipple pebbling at the touch of his questing tongue. He sucked it between his lips, flicked it with the tip of his tongue, ground forward against her as every sound she made only made him want her more. As he increased his ministrations, sinking his teeth into the curve of her breast, she moaned his name, and the sound of it struck him hard and fast as lightning. Before he could turn his attentions to the other side, however, she stopped him, his Ruth, this siren made flesh.
Her hands pressed flat against his chest, pushing him back a step, and he followed her wordless instruction without protest, fear and yearning churning deep in his gut. There was no need for him to worry; just as he opened his mouth to ask her why she'd pushed him away she smiled at him softly, and then, with all the grace of a dancer, she sank to her knees before him. And for his part Harry could do nothing but stare at her in wonder, as she ran her hands over the outside of his legs, her fingers threading the course hair she found there until at last she reached the waistband of his trunks. He was hard and aching for her, and the sight of her before him, her wide, brilliant eyes, her full red lips swollen from his kisses, the mark of his teeth upon her breast, drove him nearly mad with want of her. Those slender fingers divested him of his trunks, freeing his straining erection, and though he had some idea what she had in mind he still found himself shocked into near insensibility when she reached out and wrapped her hand around his length. This was not something he had counted on, not something he ever would have asked from her on this their first night together, but he wanted it so very badly he felt he might spontaneously combust should she deny him the touch of her hand.
With all the gentle curiosity he had come to expect from her she explored him, his heart pounding so ferociously he was concerned for a moment that he may very well die from want of her. Her fingertips feathered down one side of his shaft and up the other before she wrapped her hand around him, stroking him gently in time to a rhythm all her own. He could not stop himself; he groaned and tangled his hands in her soft hair, using every ounce of self-control he possessed to keep from thrusting into her touch. He called her name, his voice hoarse and alien sounding to his own ears, but she just smiled up at him from her perch upon the ground.
And then his Ruth, his brilliant, bonkers Ruth, drew him towards her, her hand wrapped around the base of his shaft as her lips descended upon him. Her name left his lips, over and over in a breathless chant as she slowly took him into her mouth and back out again, spreading the wetness she found, the heat and the friction and the glory of her burning him alive. The sight of his cock disappearing between her lips, the feel of her tongue swirling around his tip left him breathless and wild, and without any conscious thought he thrust gently against her, watched her take him that much deeper, felt the rush of his release roaring towards him. He had to stop her, he could not stop her, he wanted her, he loved her, he needed her; everything was Ruth and heat and a haze of lust in that moment. Those slender fingers, wrapped around him, squeezed him tighter, pulled him deeper, and at the last possible moment he wrenched himself away from her, closed his eyes for fear that the sight of her wiping her mouth clean with the back of her hand might well be all it took to push him over the edge.
Ruth was quite proud of herself; she had decided, the moment she divested Harry of his shirt, that before they lost themselves too completely she would taste him, would show him with lips and hands how she loved him, how she needed him, how she wanted nothing in the world so much as him. It was not her favorite act, but the sight of Harry, his eyes almost feral and his barrel chest heaving with each of his gasping breaths, boneless and reduced to groans of dire need from her ministrations had left her wet and hungry for him. As she caressed him she had very nearly reached down to touch herself, so moved was she by his response to her, but he stopped her before she had the chance to. It was clear he was struggling to pull himself under control, no doubt wanting to save his release until they were sweaty and tangled up in his bed together, and Ruth was deeply grateful to him for showing the restraint she herself was so sorely lacking. Something deep inside her had shifted, the moment she allowed herself to admit that there was nothing stopping her loving this man, and now that she had faced herself, faced him, admitted the truth of her heart, there was nothing in the world she wanted more than him.
In deference to Harry's obvious need for control she did not push him; she rose to her feet and shimmied out of her pants before crossing the room to stretch herself out upon his bed, watching and waiting and eager for him. As she waited for her lover to regain control of his faculties she took a moment to relax, to let the softness of his bed beneath her drain away the tension in her shoulders; absent-mindedly she rubbed her legs together, feeling the pull of arousal deep in her stomach as she watched Harry's eyes open slowly, burning like embers in the darkness as he began to prowl towards her, his cock hard and heavy and straining for her, bobbing with every step he took.
It happened as if in slow motion; Harry reached the edge of the bed and covered her body with his own, his hands coming to rest on either side of her head as his lips descended on hers and his weight settled over her, pressing down against her. On instinct her legs rose up around his waist, cradling him there between her thighs. The tip of his hardness brushed against her damp folds and she could not stop the little whimper that escaped her at the sensation. Harry's lips devoured her, even as his left hand kneaded the tender flesh of her breast, even as his right hand descended the plane of her stomach, heading for the ache between her thighs only he could sate. It was almost more than she could bear; every inch of her body was alight, covered by Harry in some way, her senses overwhelmed by him, by his heat, his scent, his touch. His heaving breaths ghosted across her cheekbone as his fingers tangled themselves in the sparse curls between her legs and she thrust up against him, reduced to only this burning desire for him. Harry shifted his weight above her, freeing her lips so that she could gasp aloud as he touched her.
"Please," she whispered as he continued his exploration of her, growling as his fingers slipped through her wetness, spreading her desire for him. With eyes dark and hungry he watched her, learning her responses, guiding her through as those fingers thrust within her, curling against her until she was writhing, incoherent and blissful and electrified by the sensation. She knew what he wanted, could feel it in the fevered thrusting of his hand against her tender sex, but she needed more.
Blindly she reached out for him, caught his cock in her hand and stroked him, trying to tell him without words that she was ready, that the time had come for them to step from the precipice together. This man, this beautiful, terrible man meant everything to her, and she did not want to waste another moment pretending that she did not need him, did not love him with everything she had. They were making themselves anew tonight, delighting in their own private celebration of a future they had both of them been dreaming of for so long now. The road that lay before them was cloaked in shadow, but this dance they could navigate together, and Ruth was determined that they should enjoy whatever moment of peace and delirium they could claim for themselves before life beyond those four walls reasserted itself and they were left uncertain once again.
Ruth had no need of words to communicate to Harry what she wanted from him; they had known one another far too long, and he had already demonstrated such understanding of her body as to leave her breathless and crying out for him. His thumb rubbed circles around her clit even as he readjusted himself above her, preparing them both for what was to come. The touch of his hand, the fire of his kiss, the brush of his cock against her bare thigh; all of it together was almost more than she could stand, beautiful and torturous all at once. She wanted everything, all he had to give, and she wanted it now, before either of them had a chance to stop and think about the ramifications.
With all the tender restraint she had come to expect from him over the years Harry eased himself inside her, replacing his fingers with the tip of his hardness, stretching her deliciously and drawing a cry of sheer radiant delight from her lips unbidden. In his arms Ruth was wanton and alive and free; she felt as if she were a bird taking wing, spreading herself out across the sky, lifted into the clouds by his love of her. Her body trembled, quite beyond her own control; she took one ragged breath, and as she released it Harry thrust that much deeper within her, her breasts pressed hard to his chest and her head thrown back on the pillow as she canted her hips to meet him.
Bliss and heat and the faintest hint of pain; he was strong and hard and real, plunging inside her again and again, harder, and faster, watching the fluttering of her eyelashes and listening to her whimpering breaths, using her response as a guide. It came as natural as breathing, this rapturous abandon, after so many years of self-control and self-denial. Ruth could not recall a time in her life when she had ever wanted anyone this badly, when the touch of any man had been enough to make her weep from sheer desperation, and yet she felt it now, from the tips of her toes to her trembling hands; she wanted to consume him and be consumed by him, and with each powerful thrust of his hips Harry forced her closer to the brink. She wrapped her legs tight around his waist and dragged him to her with her heels against the small of his back, clenching him deep inside her and drawing a loan groan from each of them at once. Harry rolled into her, again and again, a vast wave breaking upon her shore, and she could do nothing but hold him, cling to him, give him shelter within her body.
The sounds of their union echoed loud and frantic throughout the stillness of his bedroom, slaps and smacks and moans and desperate kisses as he pressed her closer and closer to the edge. Though she had wondered, more than once, what it might be like to be loved by him she had never reckoned on this, had never imagined that the touch of his hand would cause her to lose all control. She was entirely at his mercy and she could not spare a moment to be afraid, not when he drove into her again, and again, pressing her back against the pillows as his body smothered every thought in her head save for him. He was bigger, harder, more than she had ever given him credit for, and she was delirious with want of him.
Dimly she heard herself crying out as at last release washed over her, her inner muscles clenching and fluttering around his cock, and still he did not stop, his thrusts frenzied now and forcing her into an oblivion the likes of which she had never known before. It was as if, once started, she could not stop, as her pleasure tore through her again and again, left her screaming, crying, laughing all at once. Beneath her hands Harry's body was slick with sweat, and she drew him to her, his head pillowed on her breast as at last he allowed himself to let go and followed her over the edge, spilling himself inside her with a roar.
It took some time for Harry to come back to his senses. When at last he did he found himself lying on his back, Ruth sprawled across his chest and drawing nonsense patterns against his skin with her fingertips. He caught her wrist and lifted her hand, pressing a gentle kiss against her palm before releasing her with a sigh. When this dance between them had first begun he had intended it to be slow and languorous and euphoric, but in her arms he had become a man possessed, driven only by his need of her. It was in his mind to apologize, for the ferocious way he'd taken her, for the marks he'd left upon her body, but as he gazed upon her he saw that her cheeks were still faintly flushed with pleasure, and she was smiling at him softly.
"Hello," she murmured.
"Hello," he answered softly, his voice a low, rumbling growl.
"This isn't why I came over here tonight, you know," she continued, her eyelashes lowering as she looked away from him, suddenly bashful despite everything they'd just done together. Harry smiled and lifted his head just high enough to brush a kiss against her temple.
"I know," he told her reassuringly. And he did know; Ruth had come to him frightened and uncertain; there had been no guile in her. There never was.
"I just needed to see you. I couldn't stand it, being apart from you."
"I know," he said again. Though the words might have sounded trite, they were true, and Ruth knew it as well as did he. Harry had been separated from Ruth too many times in that past, had spent too many nights tossing and turning, sleepless for want of her. He understood her frustration better than anyone, for he felt it himself.
"Will they really fire you, Harry?" she asked. She was hiding from him no longer; her eyes were wide and fearful, pleading with him from inches away.
"I don't know if it will come to that," he answered slowly. "It's more likely that I will be encouraged to retire."
Ruth hummed, and Harry shivered as her fingertips danced along his collarbones. "And then what, Harry? What will you do?"
"And then, Ruth, I think I'd rather like to marry you."
She tensed, her brow furrowing as she stared down at him incredulously. He had spoken without thought, exhausted and still riding the wave of pleasure she had spilled over him, but as he watched her, took in the little lines at the corners of her eyes and the soft curve of her breast and the dark waterfall of her hair, he realized that he had spoken the truth. It was his heart and not his head that whispered to her now, that told her of his dreams for them, for the life that they could have, if only she were willing, if only she gave herself over to their love of one another.
"You're serious, aren't you?" she asked incredulously.
"I've never been more serious about anything in my entire life."
Ruth collapsed against him, burying her face in his neck, and he chuckled, half from amusement and half from sheer terror. This was not the way he had imagined proposing to her for a second time, naked and boneless beneath her, but then things between them had never quite gone the way he imagined.
"I think I'd like that, too," she whispered, her lips brushing against his neck.
It had taken a suspension and a faulty mobile and a glass of whiskey and one rather energetic round of lovemaking, but Ruth had finally somehow come around to the idea of them together, and Harry was left overjoyed and overcome in the aftermath.
"Good," he murmured, tightening his arms around her. "That's good."