"I stole the MD reader," Ruth confessed.
Harry stared at her, chest heaving, drunk on adrenaline and her proximity. They were alive, mercifully, blissfully, recklessly alive, and they were alive because of Ruth, because of her courage, her strength, because when Harry challenged her she had not backed down, but had proven in word and deed that she was deserving of every ounce of trust he'd placed in her. Even now, now when she was shaking with righteous fury, hands trembling and eyes blazing, she did not quail before him. Her tone had not conveyed an ounce of remorse or fear of consequences; if anything she seemed to be challenging him, now, pointing out her own flaws in the face of his praise.
Silly girl, he thought for a moment, his eyes locked on her face; and such a beautiful face it was, especially now, in this moment when tensions were high, when passion made her bold. A born spook he had called her, and she had dared to disagree, had tried with all her might to distance herself from that title, to shift the responsibility for what she'd done away from herself and onto Harry. Her gaze was accusatory, her words likely intended to give proof that she was not all he said she was, that she was not deserving of his regard. But oh, how very wrong she was, for the simple fact that she had stolen the MD reader and managed to keep her theft a secret for so very long seemed to Harry to be proof that she was, in fact, a very good little spook.
And he could not deny how proud he was of her. She had come such a long way, had Ruth; she had never been hesitant to speak her mind, before, but she had always been just a little insecure, just a little too eager to please. That had faded, with time, as she grew more confident in her abilities, as Harry relied on her more and more and she rose to the occasion each time. Beautiful, brilliant, fiery Ruth; his thoughts lingered on her more and more of late, the swing of her hips, the fullness of her lips, the warmth of her voice, the sheer, staggering, unparalleled depth of her intellect. Ruth was a one in a million sort of a woman, and now that he had taken note of those qualities in her, he found he could not stop.
"Then return it," he breathed, leaning in close.
Too close, it seemed, for suddenly his every sense was overwhelmed with Ruth. Her breasts brushing against his arm as she drew in a sharp breath, her bright, brilliant eyes darting down to staring longingly at his lips, the light, nearly undetectable scent of her floral perfume, the damning heat of her. How long had he been watching her every move, smiling to himself each time she slipped into his office without so much as a knock to warn of her arrival, his heart clenching with fevered jealousy each time she bestowed her affection upon another man, however chaste? How long had he been trying to deny the joy it brought him when she finished his sentences, when she lingered on the Grid with him after hours, when they shared some little piece of trivia or other delightful banality that no one else could ever hope to be a part of? How long, how long had he been falling in love with her?
And did it matter? Here, now, standing in this place, made euphoric and indestructible by the rushing of the blood in his veins, by the knowledge that this incredible woman had once again risen to the occasion and saved them all, Harry's thoughts did not linger long on grand notions of romantic love. It took only an instant, for the words to pass his lips and Ruth to lean towards him in a small, unconscious gesture of surrender, and then the last of his self control - the very self control he had told her only moments before would keep them all alive - shattered like a vase upon a marble floor.
He was on her in an instant, one hand cupping the back of her head, fingers threading through her soft hair as the other came to rest on her hip, drawing her hard against him. There was nothing soft or tender about this kiss; he wanted nothing more than to claim her, to brand her as his own, to sear himself into her skin, to remind her that she was so much more than she ever gave herself credit for, that she belonged in this world of swirling shadows as much as did he. To his shock - and his delight - she did not push him away, but nor did she melt into his embrace. Ruth flung her arms around his neck and pulled him hard against her, the pair of them tumbling back against the wall as her tongue surged into his mouth and the world went white-hot and silent around them. For the first time since this madness had begun his thoughts were quiet, halted altogether by the taste of her, the nip of her neat teeth, the sound of her panting breaths between hasty, desperate kisses. Her lips pressed into his own ardently, desperately, and in response he growled and redoubled his efforts.
Christ but she was as fantastic at this as she was at everything else. There was a rapturous sort of abandon in the way she gave herself fully to the moment, the way her body bowed against his own, pressing them together in ways that made his heart cry out for more more more. The fevered urgency of her kiss whispered to him, called to him, told him that she wanted this, as much as did he. Perhaps she'd spent the last few months allowing herself the same indulgence Harry took so often, to think of what things might be like between them, should they ever take this leap. Perhaps she had imagined his mouth as often as he had imagined hers, and if she had, he could only hope that she was as blown away by the erotic reality of this moment as was he.
Their choice of location left much to be desired, but Harry's rational mind had all but shut down beneath the onslaught of sensation, his desire for her which for months had been starved now feasting on the warm, soft reality of her. Though he kept one hand anchored in her hair he let the other wander, cresting the swell of her breast and taking note of how she gasped and arched into his touch, tracing the curve of her hip, sliding round to map the contours of her bum over the soft material of her skirt. More more more his hungry body demanded when Ruth ground her hips against his own and scraped her fingernails over his scalp. Emboldened by their near brush with death and the newfound sense of hungry urgency that filled him at the thought of all the delights he'd almost missed out on Harry pressed her still further, pinned her hips against the wall with his own, kissed her hungrily, messily, eagerly as his hand slid over the back of her thigh.
And then, oh then, she stunned him utterly, reaching down with one hand to hitch up her skirt, allowing his palm purchase against her satin soft skin. He lifted and she went with him, wrapping her leg around his waist, nestling his body against the warm wet place where he longed to bury himself. Hard and aching for her he exercised no restraint whatsoever, wanting her to feel it, this evidence of his need for her, the pulsating expectation that surged and flowed between them, the promise of everything they could be together, if only they let go in this moment.
She tore her lips from his with a gasp and he at once fastened his mouth to the smooth column of her throat, drinking her in as if he were a man dying in the desert and she his only salvation. Things had progressed too far already, but his fingers remained locked around her thigh, and the flick of his tongue kept time to the beat of her pulse beneath her skin.
"Harry," she breathed, and the sound of his name falling from her lips while she was in such a compromising position, right on the edge of giving all of herself over to him, sent a new wave of desire crashing over him. He scraped his teeth against the delicate tendons of her neck, and she shivered, and he grinned. But then, oh then, her hands clenched hard around his shoulders, and with all the might that she possessed she pushed him away.
Though he was larger and stronger than she Harry relented at once, taking a step back and gasping as he stared at her, his every question written upon his face. He was rock-hard and aching for her, his lips still stinging from her kisses, and Ruth appeared to be no better off. The color was high in her cheeks, her lips swollen and delicious, her hair impossibly mussed and her skirt hopelessly wrinkled from his attentions.
"For the love of God, Harry," she gasped, but to his dismay there was nothing happy, or even rueful about her tone; if anything, she sounded horrified. "We can't."
"I think we can," he answered, trying to regulate his breathing, trying to sound charming, and not pathetically desperate for her. "If anything, I think we've just proven we can, quite well."
"Are you mad?" she hissed. "We are at work, for Christ's sake. We can't...I can't…"
Harry reached for her, intending nothing more salacious than to take hold of her hand, to offer her his reassurance, but she was having none of it. She flinched back as if he'd struck her, shot him a single, horrified look, and then, without another word, she turned tail and ran.
Harry watched her go with his head hung down in his shame, all his frustrated longings turned to bitter self-recrimination in a moment. For a few minutes, a few glorious, all-too brief minutes, he had discovered just how wonderful they could be together, but in the process it seemed he had ruined any chance he might ever have of holding her again.
Self-control, self-denial, these are the things which keep us together in this job.
The words echoed in his mind as he sat in the back of a taxi, blood stains on the cuffs of his shirt, his head pounding, the city sliding by in darkness all around him. When he spoke those words to Ruth earlier in the day he had meant them, with everything he had. Those words were a piece of wisdom, passed from a long-suffering Section Head to a young and inexperienced analyst. Across all the many long years that Harry had spent toiling in service to his country he had learned that hard lesson, that those who did not exercise such restraint were doomed to fail, doom to fall apart, as Tom had done. Tom had stopped denying himself, his wants, his needs, his own sense of morality, and his conscience had exploded as he was torn between the demands of his profession and the desires of his heart. There had been others, dozens of others, who had forgotten self-control in a pivotal moment, and been doomed for it. It was through controlling his responses, denying himself for the sake of the greater good that Harry had managed to stay alive and fighting for so long.
And he had thrown it all away, rather spectacularly, for the sake of a woman, a beautiful woman, a brilliant woman, a woman he wanted more than any other. He had forgotten himself, the edicts that had kept him safe for so many long years, and he had paid the price as he had watched Ruth running away from him with disgust in her eyes. Oh, she wanted him, too, of that he had no doubt; why else would she have kissed him so ardently, so passionately, so unreservedly? That had not been the kiss of a woman who was uncertain about her desires. Yes, she wanted him, but she had managed to see what he could not, that they would be ruined should they choose to follow this path. There seemed to be no possible way for things to go well between them. Yes, he treasured her, valued her, adored her, and yes she seemed to care for him, but she was under his command. Logic dictated that he must maintain an air of authority, must be sure that she would do whatever he asked of her at a moment's notice, must be certain that interpersonal relationships did not jeopardize the stability of his team. Though he encouraged his field agents when they took up with one another - after all, who better to understand the heart of a spy than a fellow agent? - he encouraged such entanglements among equals. There could be no denying that while she was his superior in the realm of intelligence and grace and compassion and sheer bloody mindedness she was most certainly his subordinate on the Grid. To take her into his bed would be to upset the status quo, to risk the functionality of the entire team, and yet while she remained strong enough, clear-headed enough to acknowledge such consequences and deny her longings for the sake of the team Harry found he could exercise no such self-restraint.
He wanted her, and in the moment that was all that mattered to him. Let the chips fall where they may, he told himself. He was much too old and much too tired to go around pretending he didn't long for her with everything he had.
And to that end, he directed the taxi to Ruth's little house.
Likely it was madness, to pursue a woman who had rebuffed his advances earlier in the day to her home in the dead of night. Likely a more enlightened man would have something to say about the lack of gentility inherent in such a possessive gesture. Likely Ruth would be justified in slamming the door in his face. Still he went, because he was exhausted, because he felt they should at the very least speak to one another, because he knew she was not sleeping. The news had come down the line that Adam had come through surgery and was resting and would be allowed visitors the following day. Angela's body had been carted off to the morgue, the current threat had been neutralized, a new wave of analysts had been put to work researching the mysterious Jakarta, and Ruth and all the others had been sent home for some much needed rest after two days of trial and horror. It had been less than an hour, since Ruth had been shuffled off the Grid, her head hung down as she made her way to the bus. She'd be home by now, he knew, but likely that labyrinthine mind of hers was racing, keeping her awake even as his own thoughts refused him a moment's peace.
He had not been able to see her, to speak to her, since before the shooting. In this moment, when he had once more come too close to death for comfort, when one of his best and brightest was lying gravely wounded in hospital, when the very foundations of the earth seemed to have shifted beneath his feet, he wanted nothing more than to sit down with her in some quiet place and listen to her counsel. Well, perhaps that wasn't entirely true; he wanted to talk to her, sure enough, about what they had done, about what they were going to do, about Angela, about Adam, about the whole bloody mess, but he also wanted, very much, to feel the heat of her legs wrapped around his waist while he drunk the taste of her passion from her lips. Having been granted such a blessing once, he was almost painfully eager for a second showing. Ruth was hardly likely to grant him such a boon, however, and so he tried to counsel himself to prudence. They would talk, and if that was all that was on offer this evening, he would be content.
Soon enough the taxi came to a stop, and Harry paid the driver before shuffling slowly up the walk towards Ruth's front door.
I'm getting too old for this, he thought morosely. Still, there was a light on inside, and so he straightened his shoulders and rang the bell.
He could hear the clatter of footsteps from inside, watched as her shadow resolved itself behind the stained glass inset in her front door. For a moment she hesitated, and he knew then that she had seen him, that she was even now warring with herself, trying to decide whether or not to let him. He was determined not to beg, to plead, to cajole; if she opened the door to him he would speak to her softly and accept whatever answer she gave him, and if she did not he would turn his back and walk away, and never press her again, though his heart cried out for her. It was agony, waiting for her decision, for her to give him some indication of what fate waited for him.
But then the door was opening. Only a crack, only just far enough for him to see a sliver of her face and a soft blue dressing gown.
"Harry?" she asked incredulously. "What on earth are you doing here?"
"I think we ought to talk, Ruth. About what happened earlier."
Her cheeks flushed scarlet and her eyebrows rose in distress. "Harry-"
"Ruth, it's been a very long, very strange two days, and I for one don't want to leave things as they are. I want to clear the air before you get the wrong impression of me and my intentions."
"And what are your intentions, Harry?"
This is dangerous. The thought echoed fleetingly across his mind. Her eyes were huge and round and impossibly blue, and there was a low, almost hungry note to her voice that had what little remained of his discipline in tatters. What were his intentions? He intended to be kind to her, to show her how utterly magnificent she was in every possible way, to back her up against the nearest hard surface and snog her senseless - and perhaps a bit more, if she were willing. He intended to love her, wholly, completely, shatteringly, for as long as she would let him. He intended to prove to her that this thing bubbling between them was more than simple lust, more than a sudden, impulsive reaction to adrenaline and a brush with death, that together they could be transcendent, could be so much more than she gave them credit for. He intended many things, but he knew better than to spill it all out at her feet without first taking the time to reassure her that they could survive such passion intact.
"I intend to talk to you," he began slowly. "I intend to reassure you that what happened earlier today was not a mistake. Perhaps the timing was not the best, but I don't regret it, Ruth. And I don't want you to regret it either."
She cast a wary eye over his shoulder towards the darkened street beyond, and then she gave a long suffering sigh. At last she opened the door and took a step back.
"Come inside, Harry," she told him. "We shouldn't have this conversation on the doorstep."
This was a positive development indeed, and so Harry stepped forward, trying hard not to stare at the length of Ruth's bare legs beneath her robe, the expanse of soft pale skin visible above the overlapping folds of material that crossed her chest. Her hair hung loose and soft around her face, a face that while lined with exhaustion and worry was nonetheless completely lovely to his mind. Harry reached out and closed the door behind him, and his heart stuttered in his chest as Ruth gasped, softly, and reached for his wrist.
He held his breath as she drew his hand towards her, fingertips brushing over the tender skin just beneath his palm, her eyes tortured and full of fear. In the dim light of the hallway he could clearly see what had troubled her so; blood, red and terrible, undeniable against his white cuffs.
"You almost died today," she whispered into the stillness, raising her head to stare at him, her expression ravaged by grief. He heard all the words she did not say, how she had feared for him, how she still feared for Adam, how she might hate herself for feeling just the tiniest bit of relief when she learned that it was not Harry who had been wounded.
"But I didn't," he reminded her, as gently as he could.
"We can't do this, Harry," she said, but still her fingers were tracing patterns against his skin and there was a plaintive, almost desperate note to her voice that gave him cause to hope. Perhaps she really did think that this thing between them, this desire that arced back and forth each time they drew too close to one another was a disaster waiting to happen, but she wanted it, just as much as did he.
"If you really don't want to, Ruth, if you really think we would be better off keeping one another at a distance, then I will leave right now, and never mention this again. But before you decide, please, just hear me out." He paused and took a very deep breath. The truth was he had no idea what to say to her, how to explain himself, how to assuage her guilt, but he was damned if he was going to let this opportunity pass him by. "What we do, what we are to one another, that is no one's business but ours. Yes, we should keep it off the Grid. But we aren't on the Grid now. I'm not your boss, now. I'm just a man, Ruth. I don't want you to be afraid of me."
The words hung heavy in the air between them; he could feel the warmth of Ruth's fingers wrapped around his wrist, could almost taste the desperation in the air. He could see the war she was waging with herself, between what she should do and what she wanted to do, could see every nuance of her emotion writ large across her lovely face. And yet still he had no notion of what she might say, what might become of them, until at last she spoke, and changed the course of both their lives forever.
"I'm not afraid, Harry," she breathed, her gaze dark and full of meaning.
Emboldened by her words Harry reached for her then, his palm cradling her cheek, her hand still holding onto him, anchoring him against her skin. He stared at her in wonder, thinking only how brilliant, how lovely she was, how he would do anything she asked of him, anything at all for her sake. But only for a moment, for he knew that the time had come to act, and so he leaned towards her, delighting in the little gasp that escaped her before his lips touched hers, softly, gently, reverently. He did not overwhelm her, did not press her, did not challenge her, did not fling her back against the wall; he only kissed her, tenderly, waiting to see how she might respond, praying that perhaps he might have swayed her, that she might finally have decided that they were worth this risk.
And then, oh, then, she sighed and melted against him, opened her lips to him, slipped her arm around his neck and gave herself over to the moment with a reckless abandon he had only before dreamed about.
His heart exulted in his chest like some selfish wild beast, and he found his hunger for her only growing as his tongue surged into her mouth and she laced her hands together at the back of his neck, holding him close. They could do this, he knew. She was a born spook, his Ruth, and he was long practiced at the art of compartmentalization. They could have this passion, this glory, this heat here in the sanctuary of her home, where no one else could see, and in the morning they could go to work and still he would trust her implicitly, and still she would challenge him, and all would be well. He had to believe it, for his heart might shatter in his chest if he did not.
But then all conscious thought left him, for she was soft and warm and responding to his every caress with an ardor that reminded him of their clinch in the corridor what seemed like a lifetime ago, and his hesitant joy was replaced with burning need in a moment. She nipped at his bottom lip with her teeth, and he growled and spun them around, pressed her back against the door. Everything was moving suddenly, shockingly fast now; their tongues swirled together and his hands traced the shape of her over her soft robe and her hips bucked against his own, hungry and insistent. Nothing else made sense, in that moment, but that he should slide his hands beneath that robe and feast in the softness of her skin, and so he reached for the belt at her waist. And Ruth did not stop him, did not ask him to wait, only arched her back and pressed herself more firmly into his grip.
The need to breathe overwhelmed him, and so his lips traced a path over her jaw to a sensitive spot just beneath her ear while her panting breaths ghosted across his skin and his hands slid beneath her robe, his cock springing to attention as he found that she did not seem to be wearing anything underneath it. One hand found the curve of her hip and anchored her against him while the other cupped the swell of her breast, nipple pebbling in desperation beneath his palm, and he raised his head to look at her, awestruck and aching for her.
There was a question he wanted to ask, about what she was doing loitering around her home naked save for that robe, but he never had the chance to voice the words for she took one look at his face and read his intention immediately.
"I thought you might come round," she told him knowingly. "I rather hoped you would."
He groaned and reached for her at once, kissing her fervently, desperately, messily as his hands tore at her robe. She helped him, and in a moment she was bare, completely, gloriously naked, shining brighter than any star. She was small and soft and lean, every inch of her more unbearably perfect than he could possibly have imagined, given that the intoxicating lines and curves of her were so often hidden beneath layer after layer of thick - and occasionally gaudy - material. There was no pretense in her now, no attempt at obfuscation; as he reached once more for the comforting weight of her breast she sighed and sank against him, gave him access to every piece of her. She had been waiting for him, naked and hopeful, for despite her feeble protests she must have known, as he did, that they were worth this risk, that if only they were brave they could claim for themselves the kind of bliss they could never have imagined while they were apart.
Her hands reached for his shirt buttons even as his palms glided down the elegant curve of her back, and he realized as she began to undress him that they were in terrible danger of coming apart right there in her foyer. While some baser part of him rejoiced in the thought of taking her hard and fast there against the door the truth was that what he felt for her was more than simple lust, and he rather thought she deserved more than a quick shag. She deserved a bed, and the tender worship of his lips and tongue, deserved a lifetime of adoration. Her nimble fingers peeled the shirt from his body - his tie and jacket were forgotten back at the office - and he grasped her hips in his hands, walking them back apace, intent on making his way up the stairs.
But then, oh then, her fingernails scraped over his shoulder and her mouth descended upon his chest and he forgot his every gentlemanly intention. The wet heat of her lips against his skin spoke of delights as yet unimagined, and the fierce beast in his chest shouted down his better angels. He had her backed up against the wall in a moment, fingers curling hard around the softness of her thigh while her lips pressed against his collarbone and his vision went white-hot with need.
Later, he told himself. Later he would give her passion slow and languorous and sweet, would have her writhing, begging, delirious with need. Now, though, now all he could envision for them was this, eager, grasping, furious, every ounce of desire he possessed flowing from the hands that held her to the trembling muscles of her lithe frame. Just as he had done once before he lifted her thigh and she responded at once, her heel drumming against his flank as she drew him into the cradle of her hips, ground herself against him, and the very idea she could feel the friction of his trousers in the place where she ached for him most drowned out his every other thought. Reckless and impulsive as a teenager he ground against her, felt the heat of her against his hardness even through the layers of his clothing that separated them still.
Ruth's hand fell to his belt buckle and she cast her head back against the wall, watching him through hooded eyes. He wanted to ask her if this was all right, if she objected to the direction things had taken between them, if she would prefer they go upstairs, but the words died on his lips as he caught sight of her. Arousal was plainly evident in her features, her hooded eyes and parting lips and flushed cheeks, and the way she tugged at his belt left him in no doubt at all. But still, she possessed that uncanny ability to read his thoughts, and as she slipped the belt free she spoke.
"Don't stop," she told him raggedly.
And who was he to deny her?
He knocked her hands out of the way and removed his trousers himself, dropping her leg only for as long as it took to strip himself bare. And then her hands were reaching for him, and his own were grasping her bum, and in a feat of strength he had not attempted for some time Harry lifted her. Between the wall and his chest he held her, and with her arms around his shoulders and her ankles locked tight around his hips she helped him. A whimper escaped her as his length nestled against the agonizing softness of her folds. His tongue traced the shell of her ear and she shuddered, an impossibly erotic sound tearing from her throat at the sensation. He ground against her, mindlessly, desperate for friction, for heat, drunk on the sheer damning heat of her. His fingers dug into her tender flesh, hard enough to bruise, and he dipped his head, nuzzling against her for a moment. Understanding what it was he wanted Ruth thrust her chest towards his hungry mouth, and at once his lips found the curve of her breast. She was impossibly soft, indescribably perfect. And then he caught one tight-furled nipple between his teeth, and she trembled in his arms, and he felt the rush of her need against his cock, despite the fact that they had only just begun. Some notion of marking her skin flitted through his lust-addled mind, but before he could act a particularly heady groan left her lips, and he raised his head to stare at her in awe.
"The mirror," she panted, her gaze locked on something just over his shoulder.
Harry turned his head, and felt a surge of desire so strong he was thrusting against her in an instant. There on the opposite wall just behind him hung a large, round, gold-framed mirror, and in it he could seem himself, his bare back, his powerful legs, Ruth clinging to him, could see the ecstasy already written on her face. The thought that she might able to watch herself while he took her, that she might see for herself what he saw when he looked at her, the rapture, the passion, the beauty of her, overwhelmed him utterly.
"Good," he grunted, hardly capable of speech. He turned back to her, kissed her once, hard, and then shifted his grip upon her. "Watch," he breathed against her lips.
And then, oh then, he lifted her, and with one hand guided himself into place, a shudder wracking his body as the head of his cock slipped between her silken folds, all but dripping with need of him now. She clutched at him, thrust down to meet him, and in a moment he was buried inside her, could feel the fluttering of her muscles around his rock-hard length, could feel the need, the unbearable bliss of having her, at last.
She wrapped around him, her arms holding him fiercely, her legs trembling but refusing to let him go; her chin caught his shoulder and her lips wrapped around his earlobe, just for a moment. For her sake he tried to wait, tried to give her a chance to adjust, tried to hold off the release that threatened to drown him so that she might find her pleasure first, but then those gentle lips spoke, and he was lost.
"Show me, Harry," she whispered. "I want to see."
There was no patience, no restraint left in him now. With a groan he braced one hand on the wall by her head, the other fastened hard to the soft flesh of her bum, and plowed into her mercilessly, relentlessly, again, and again, and again. With every powerful thrust of his hips he buried himself that much deeper, his muscles strained beyond their limits, but the desperate, unrestrained sounds of want that left her gave him the strength to carry on. They were so brilliantly, so beautifully matched, so attuned to one another, and the way their bodies worked in tandem allowed him to reach so deep inside her that the he feared for one mad moment the heat between them must surely burn him into ashes. She ground against him, hungry for friction, for release, eyelashes fluttering as her gaze remained fixed on the mirror behind him. With every pass the head of his cock struck that place inside her that might her mewl with undisguised longing, and he pursued that bliss with all the single mindedness he possessed. Furious, powerful, feral; he felt almost godlike, in that moment, her bliss, her body, her moans his to control, to unleash, to revel in. Sweaty and perfect she held him, and still he pressed on, harder, and harder, until with each pass the breath left her lungs on a cry of delight.
He was close, too close, need tightening his body, coiling low in his belly, his cock throbbing as he thrust into her welcoming warmth again and again. It would not do, for him to fall first, but he could not take his hand off the wall, could not reach down and caress her into ecstasy.
"Ruth," he growled, teeth scraping against the straining tendons of her neck.
She needed no further prodding. Her left hand remained anchored to his shoulder, holding her in place, while her right slipped between their bodies to the place where they were joined. As he pulled back and then buried himself inside her once more he could feel the brush of her fingertips against his length even as she stroked herself fervently, and the thought that they were doing this, together, that they were every bit as delicious as he had always suspected they would be, that she was wanton and uninhibited in his arms, undid him utterly.
His pace increased, as did hers, and then at last she broke, cursing, her tender heat clenching him tighter and tighter until he had no choice left but to follow. With one last bruising thrust he pinned her to the wall and roared his release, trembling as he emptied himself inside her, her gasping breaths a chorus of beauty in his ear.
He could not hold her up as long as he might have liked, and they were both of them unsteady on their feet. And so he did not carry her up the stairs, as he would have done if he were twenty years younger. He only wrapped his arm around her waist and led her to the sofa where they collapsed in a sweaty heap, Harry lying flat on his back with Ruth's body draped over his like a blanket. Her fingertips traced idle patterns while his own palms glided up and down her back, gentle and relieved. His eyes were heavy, his whole body sated, his heart lighter than it had been in months. Adam would be all right, Angela had been neutralized, and Ruth was in his arms; he wanted for nothing, in that moment.
"Harry," Ruth murmured softly, and in response he hummed, too content for words.
"Promise me this isn't a one-time thing," she said, and the note of fear in her voice had his eyes opening and his gaze turning her way in a moment.
"Ruth," he breathed, running his hand over her hair. "You must know it isn't. You are worth so much more than that."
"It just feels so sudden," she confessed. The faint blush that painted her cheeks told him how much it had cost her, to reveal her feelings so plainly; Ruth did not often allow herself such vulnerability. He understood, for he was much the same, and in the moment he decided that if she could be brave enough to lay her heart bare to him, then so could he.
"Maybe," he allowed. "I don't think it is, though. This has been brewing between us for months. You...you know me, Ruth, as no one else has ever done. This, what we did today, this was...fantastic, and I would very much like to do it again, at the first possible opportunity. But this isn't all I want from you."
"Isn't it?"
There was something shy, almost self-deprecating about her question, that she should be lying naked in his arms and still worry that he did not see her worth, that once he had taken his pleasure he would abandon her. How many times had that happened in the past, he asked himself, for her to be so uncertain now?
"It isn't," he said firmly. "You are brilliant, Ruth. I know you know that. I enjoy talking to you as much as I enjoy...what we just did. I want to share my time with you. I want to have dinner with you, and drink a glass of wine, and just be with you. For as long as you'll let me."
For a moment she mulled over his words, her fingers twirling through the soft hair at the nape of his neck.
"I want that, too," she confessed, and his heart sang in his chest. "But I love my job, Harry. Promise me this won't affect our work. That we won't let this change what we have on the Grid."
That was two promises she'd asked of him, and he found that they were both agreeable to his plans for their future.
"I promise," he said. "I promise this isn't a casual fling, for me. And I promise that we will keep this separate from work. We will make a place for ourselves here, at home, and we will protect what we have. I will protect you, Ruth. I will keep you safe."
It was a vow more solemn and sincere than any he had made to any other woman in his life, including his wife. Always before he had said whatever was expected of him and then forged his own path, but he was older now, and wiser, and he knew what it was she was asking of him, what it was he had pledged to her. It was nothing short of love, that devotion, that fidelity he offered her in that moment. Ruth bowed her head, and sealed that vow with a kiss, and he held her close, content in the knowledge that they would be together, would be everything he had ever dreamed.