He has beautiful hands, she thinks. Powerful and large. A man's hands. His fingers are perfectly proportioned. Not long and thin like Adam or Malcolm's, but thick and strong. His hands are sort of square in fact. So powerful and beautiful and... ruthless. Those hands have killed people, she realises with a jolt... They can be violent and hard and merciless. They've gripped a gun many, many times, pulled the trigger too, wounding, maiming... killing.
She watches them now as they lie folded together on the table in front of him, calm, still. What exactly have they done, she wonders. They have punched, she's sure. They're good hands for a punch. Sturdy, strong, hard. Have they broken bones? Have they done more than that? A gun is one thing, impersonal, distant... detached. But a knife? A rope or wire? Or... nothing? Just the hands...? Have they stabbed, have they slit a throat, have they strangled? Bare hands tightening around a neck as slowly the body goes limp, the life snuffed out, deserting it?
And yet they are so beautiful, so gentle when they want to be. They have softly cradled babies, his daughter, his son; they have gently wiped away tears, soothed the hurt, stroked soft hair, cradled tiny bodies against his chest. They have given pleasure too, she knows, and they are very good at it, judging by the number of S24 forms that are buried in his file. What would it feel like to have them running over her skin, caressing softly, rubbing firmly, those strong, large, beautiful, masculine hands?
"Ruth?" his voice cuts through her reverie and she looks up at his eyes startled, feeling the blush creeping up her neck to her cheeks. It's bad enough that she hasn't been paying the least bit attention to what Malcolm's been saying, without being caught out fantasizing about Harry's hands all over her body.
"Yes?" she almost squeaks.
"Are you alright?" his voice is gentle, soft like a caress. And yet it too can be harsh, dangerous, hard like steel.
"Yes, sorry," she mumbles, turning her eyes back to the screen. "Just a bit of a headache," she lies.
He watches her out of the corner of his eye as Malcolm resumes his talk and wonders what she was thinking. What had she been contemplating with so much focus and attention that she'd been distracted during a briefing? It's most unlike her. She'd been staring at his hands with such intensity, her brow furrowed in a frown at first and then her eyes glazing over slightly, her pupils dilating, the tip of her tongue coming out to lick her lips. And even though he'd only been watching her out of the corner of his eye, that look had been enough to arouse him, and feeling the tightness in his trousers, he'd spoken her name, keen to get her focused back on Malcolm's briefing. Had she been thinking of him? Or had the way she'd stared at his hands been irrelevant? Perhaps it was someone else she'd been thinking about, someone else that had kindled her desire...
Dear God, she's doing it again! She's staring at his hands, watching his fingers drum softly against the table, unconsciously tapping out a tune. He stills them and clasps them together again, noting the way her eyes follow their movement. She isn't just staring absently into space, thinking, he realises. She's actively watching his hands. He feels the temperature rise, the tightness in his trousers return, and his tie is suddenly choking him. He twists his neck in an effort to loosen it, to breathe more freely. There is no mistaking the desire he glimpses flickering deep in her eyes as he surreptitiously turns his head toward her for a moment. He's been around too many women to not recognise it...
She tries to concentrate on what Malcolm's saying, but it's another boring report on breaches of protocol that doesn't really apply to her anyway as she's rarely in the field. And besides, when she is in the field, she always follows protocol. Before long, her eyes have strayed to his hands again, watching them tap out a rhythm against the hard, wood surface. It's almost hypnotic and again she finds her thoughts drifting, thinking about those hands.
At first, it's again a somewhat detached train of thought, thinking about all the mundane things that people's hands, and specifically, Harry's hands do every day. Typing, writing, pouring coffee, cradling a cup of tea, holding a phone... She's distracted by his hands moving, ceasing their soft drumming and clasping back together, holding each other softly. That's another thing that his hands do softly, gently. They run through his hair, rub his eyes, scratch his nose, tie his tie, dress him, remove his clothes, wash his hair, his body, touch his...
She knows she's blushing again as the images of Harry in the shower pleasuring himself fill her mind. What the hell is wrong with her today?! It must be that book... She valiantly tries to push aside the images, looking down at her own hands as she fights to calm her breathing, but all too soon, she finds herself wondering how he does it. Does he use his whole hand, or simply his thumb and a finger or two? Does he twist it, does he use a backhand approach, two hands?
"Ruth?" Adam says this time. "Are you sure you're all right?"
"Yes," she whispers breathlessly. "Just feeling a little... Is it hot in here?"
"No," Adam replies. "You're not coming down with something, are you?"
"I don't know," she mumbles.
"Malcolm," Harry interrupts just then and his voice sounds a little strained. "I think we should take a break right there. Give me your report and I'll review it. We'll continue this another time."
"As you wish, Harry," Malcolm nods and slides over the report as everyone begins to file out of the room.
It's late again and he sighs heavily, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his eyes with his fingers. There's just too much sodding paperwork. Sometimes he really misses the field work, the excitement, the adrenaline rush, the significantly lower level of paperwork required...
"Harry?"
He looks up quickly, his eyes seeking her out as she steps into his office with two mugs of tea.
"I thought you might like one," she ventures, coming closer and proffering one of the mugs out to him.
"Thank you," he smiles as he takes it from her hand and gestures to an empty chair. "Join me," he invites. "I could use a break. I'm going cross-eyed."
"I know what you mean," she smiles as she sits down. "Too much paperwork... You're probably going to need glasses before too long."
"Glasses?" he queries, raising one eyebrow at her. "Ruth... are you suggesting that I'm old?"
He watches with amusement as she blushes and stutters, "No! No.. I'd never... I don't think you're old. Far from it, I think..." She stops and her blush deepens as she lowers her gaze to her mug.
"You think?" he prompts, his curiosity piqued.
"I mean, you're only fifty-one... That's... that's not old," she replies, risking a glance up at him.
He smiles. "Some days, I feel practically ancient," he confesses with a sigh.
"For a spy," she murmurs with a mischievous smile, "you probably are."
He laughs at that and delights in the smile that spreads across her lips. She looks stunning when she smiles and her dimples come out in full force, and not for the first time, he feels desire stir inside him. He desperately wants to reach for her and kiss her, taste her, dip his tongue into each dimple, delve into her mouth. He looks down at his tea quickly as he re-establishes his self-control.
"I'd best get back to work," she murmurs softly.
"Okay," he smiles, looking up at her once more. "Don't work too late, Ruth."
"I won't."
"Thanks for the tea... and the company."
"Any time," she smiles and begins to rise.
"Ruth?" he asks as she stands and begins to turn away.
"Yes?"
"You seemed a little distracted earlier," he dares to say. "In the briefing..."
"Sorry," she replies, lowering her eyes quickly, but not before he notices the surprise and panic in her gaze.
"You looked very thoughtful," he murmurs. "What were you thinking about?"
"I... um... I was thinking about the searches I was running," she replies. "Malcolm's talk was something he'd already discussed with me, so..."
"You were bored," he ventures with a smile, though he knows she's lying. He'd suspected she wouldn't be honest when he'd asked her the question. From her reaction in the briefing room, he'd known that her thoughts had been of a very private nature.
"Yes," she grins, her dimples flashing once more and making his heart race. "Don't tell him, will you?"
"Mum's the word," he winks and watches her leave his office.
She tilts her head back and sighs, the fatigue beginning to get to her. She probably should go home. She glances at the clock. The next bus won't be here for another twenty minutes, which means that she should be able to get ten more minutes of work done before calling it a night. Her eyes drift over to Harry's office. He's studying a report, his brow furrowed in concentration, his lips moving slightly as they always do when he's reading something important. They're good lips, soft, plump, full, beautiful, expressive. His smile lights up his face, his pout makes her heart race with desire, wishing to feel those lips against hers, against her skin... Stop it, Ruth! She really needs to get a grip.
His eyes look up at her just then, those gorgeous, hazel eyes... and they too can express so many emotions, just like his lips, and his hands... They can be hard, steely, unyielding, and they can be soft like butter, warm like honey... hungry like... Hungry! She's never seen them look at her like that before. He's staring, pinning her in place with his gaze and her mouth has suddenly gone dry, her stomach has dropped away, her insides have melted and are churning around like molten lava... Hungry, intense, desiring, wanting...
He gets up, breaking eye contact with her as he does, and she knows he's coming out to find her, talk to her, confront her... She panics and flees to the bathroom, knocking over her bag and a couple of files in her haste and sending some of their contents sliding across her desk. She doesn't even attempt to pick them up before rushing from the room.
"Ruth!" he calls after her, and even his voice is laced with desire. So warm and deep and husky. Such a wonderful voice... just like the rest of him... a wonderful man...
He sighs and reigns in his emotions and desire once more. She's not ready yet... He turns back toward his office, glancing at her empty desk and spotting the mess her hasty retreat has caused. Well, he could pick up those files for her, having made her so uncomfortable... He approaches the desk and begins to gather the scattered paperwork, placing it in a neat pile, righting and closing her bag, picking up the lipstick and hairbrush that have escaped, and placing them together next to it. He knows better than to attempt to return them to the handbag. A woman's handbag is sacred and no man should ever dare open one without expressed permission.
He's about to turn away when he spots a book lying on the floor. Something else that escaped her handbag then. Reaching down, he picks it up, turning it in his hands to read the title, "The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty" by A. N. Roquelaure. A fairytale? he thinks with amusement. He opens it near the beginning and reads, "Her flaxen hair lay long and straight over the deep green velvet of her bed, and her dress in loose folds revealed the rounded breasts and limps of a young woman. He opened the shuttered windows. The sunlight flooded down on her. And approaching her, he gave a soft gasp as he touched her cheek, and her teeth through her parted lips, and then her tender rounded eyelids. Her face was perfect to him, and her embroidered gown had fallen deep into the crease between her legs so that he could see the shape of her sex beneath it."
Bloody hell! He reads on, unable to stop himself... "He drew out his sward, with which he had cut back all the vines outside, and gently slipping the blade between her breasts, let it rip easily thought the old fabric. Her dress was laid open to the hem, and he folded if back and looked at her. Her nipples were a rosy pink as were her lips, and the hair between her legs was darkly yellow and curlier than the long straight hair of her head which covered her arms almost down to her hips on either side of her. He cut the sleeves away, lifting her ever so gently to free the cloth, and the weight of her hair seemed to pull her head down over his arms, and her mouth opened just a little bit wider. He put his sword to one side. He removed his heavy armour. And then he lifted her again his left arm under her shoulder, his right hand between her legs, his thumb on top of her pubis. She made no sound; but if a person could moan silently, then she made such a moan with her whole attitude. Her head fell toward him, and he felt the hot moisture against his right hand, and laying her down again, he cupped both of her breasts, and sucked gently on one and then the other."
He's beginning to feel hot under the collar again, so he loosens his tie and releases the top button of his shirt. Is this what Ruth had been thinking about in the meeting room? He suddenly feels weak at the thought and pulls a chair over to take a seat. He glances up to make sure she's not approaching before turning his attention back to the book in his hands. "They were plump and firm, these breasts. She'd been fifteen when the curse struck her. And he bit at her nipples, moving the breasts almost roughly so as to feel their weight, and then lightly he slapped them back and forth, delighting in this. His desire had been hard and almost painful to him when he had come into the room, and now it was urging him almost mercilessly. He mounted her, parting her legs, giving the white inner flesh of her thighs a soft, deep pinch, and, clasping her right breast in his left hand, he thrust his sex into her."
Dear God! This is rape! And Ruth's reading it... Ruth's reading porn! "He was holding her up as he did this, to gather her mouth to him, and as he broke through her innocence, he opened her mouth with his tongue and pinched her breast sharply. He sucked on her lips, he drew the life out of her into himself, and feeling his seed explode within her, heard her cry out. And then her blue eyes opened. "Beauty!" he whispered to her."
A noise has him lifting his head sharply. Ruth is standing a couple of meters away staring at him in horror, her cheeks a deep red, but as soon as he looks up, she begins to turn away to flee from him again.
He clears his throat and murmurs softly, "I'm sorry, Ruth. I came over to pick up the things that you'd knocked over in your haste, and curiosity got the better of me when I saw the book... I didn't mean to pry." He puts the book back on her desk and watches as she hesitates, her back toward him. "It's... er... a rather good read. I... um-"
"Oh, God, Harry," she sighs lifting her hands to her face. "This is so embarrassing." She turns toward him and he's sure that he looks as uncomfortable as she does. "I... um... I wanted to read "Fifty Shades of Grey" to see what the fuss was all about, but-"
"It was bloody awful," he interrupts, pursing his lips in distaste.
"Yes," she smiles tentatively in relief. "I couldn't get past the first few chapters and I was very grateful that I'd decided to borrow the book from the library instead of buying it. Anyway, one of the reviews I read recommended this book instead, so I bought it the other day. It's not the kind of thing I normally read and it's a little...um..."
"It's porn, Ruth," he states calmly. Her eyes widen in surprise, so he adds, "Well, what else would you call it?"
"You're probably right," she nods, lowering her gaze, "but..."
She hesitates, so he prompts her, "But?"
"I can't do this, Harry," she complains, shaking her head as she stares at her feet. "You're my boss. This conversation is wholly inappropriate."
"How so?" he asks gently.
"How?!" she demands indignantly, raising angry eyes to look at him. "Well, every time you see me you'll... you'll think..." she tails off and looks away.
"Ruth," he murmurs softly as he rises from his seat and takes a step toward her, "I've been unable to think of you as just an employee for some months now. Believe me, this makes absolutely no difference to how I see you, how I think of you."
He watches her eyes light up with a mixture of pleasure, hope, and desire, even as the doubt and fear remain. "What do you mean?" she asks.
"If I tell you that, Ruth," he murmurs softly, seductively, "I'll need you to guarantee that you will not be charging me with sexual harassment. I have nothing but the deepest respect for you, and if you tell me that I should never mention this again, I won't."
"That... um... seems fair," she stammers.
He steps closer still, approaching carefully, slowly, in a non-threatening manner. It's rather like taming a wild animal, he thinks. "Would you have dinner with me, Ruth?" he asks softly. "I would very much like to date you... if you would find that agreeable, of course."
"I'd like that," she whispers softly and there is no hesitation in her voice as she replies. "I'd like that very much."
He smiles warmly at her, feeling suddenly positively euphoric.
"But first," she adds softly, "I'd really like to do this."
And he watches in wonder as she leans towards him and presses her lips against his. The kiss is over before he has a chance to really participate, but to his utter delight, she comes back for more, pressing her lips to his again. This time he participates fully, his eyes sliding shut, and when he feels her arms wrap round his neck, he gently places his hands on her hips.
"Mmm," she hums when she pulls back. "I've always wondered what that would feel like."
"Always?" he asks in a husky voice.
"Always," she replies.
"Is that what you were thinking about during Malcolm's briefing?" he dares to ask.
"Among other things," she blushes.
"Things?" he asks gently as he struggles to control his breathing.
"Things," she replies firmly.
"Let me give you a lift home," he murmurs, needing to put some distance between them before things happen too quickly. One look at her face, however, tells him that he's put his foot in it. "I didn't mean it like that," he stammers. "I truly just want to give you a lift home, no things," he sighs, "strings attached."
She laughs softly at his flustered speech and it surprises him that she's suddenly the confident one. "Okay, Harry. I'll just collect my things."