A/N: Thank you to readers of this fic so far, and especially to reviewers.
I have upped the rating to accommodate this chapter, and later chapters. Adult activity (and yes, Harry is still alone!)
The man stays at his outdoor table in the square until 4 o'clock. He considers staying until 5, but he knows that would be foolish, and unnecessary. He'd had to leave his table twice for visits to the bathroom, and so had asked the people at the table next to him to watch should a young brunette woman arrive, searching the tables, looking for someone. The people at that table are Greek, and his Greek is rather good.
"If you see her, please call her over, and tell her I'll be back soon," he'd said in Greek.
They'd nodded and smiled, and the two Greek men had nudged one another knowingly, while their women had watched the Englishman disappear inside the cafeteria, silently wondering why it was the man looked so sad. Was it this dark-haired woman who had broken his heart?
By 4, it is clear to him that she's not coming. At 8 minutes after 4, he leaves, and wends his way back to his hotel. As he walks, he keeps his eyes to the ground, counting the pavers as he goes. He doesn't wish to see Ruth in every woman he passes. When he is behind the locked door of his hotel room, he checks the private email account set up by Malcolm, but there is no email, and there are no messages on his phone. He slumps on to his bed, and considers heading to the nearest taverna. Twenty minutes later, he is still on his bed, lying on his back, his head on the pillow, his forearm over his eyes. The sun is bright in Siena, and even with the curtains drawn, the room is lighter than any room in his house in London in May.
But the brightness in his room does not lift his mood. He is used to keeping a lid on his feelings, but the prospect of seeing her again, even had it only been for an hour, or a few minutes, had opened his heart so that all the doubts and hurts could freely emerge, like wraiths from the mists of his memories.
Theirs had been a celibate relationship, but he'd held on to the hope that one day …... one day they may have become lovers. While in her presence his blood had surged, and his heart had thudded, his skin tingling with the unexpressed passion between them, and he could read in her eyes that her body had reacted as had his. Even now, as he lies on his bed, conjuring up a remembered moment between them, he feels his blood pumping faster, and his groin aching with wanting her. Even he knows that it is a strange and dangerous thing to lust after a memory. He slides his hand down the front of his trousers, and feels himself growing under his hand. In his opinion, seed spilled in a quick act of self-gratification is never a good idea, even though, since he'd begun loving her, the majority of his orgasms have been experienced while he is alone. He removes his hand, and tries to will his body to relax, but his body is not cooperating.
He lifts himself off the bed with a groan. Before he heads to the shower, he unzips his trousers, draping them over a chair, sighing with relief as his erection is freed. Next it's his shirt, and then his underwear. He holds his cock in his hand, enjoying the heat of it, the hardness of it, as he crosses the carpet to the bathroom. He should not judge the reactions of his body like he does. His hardness is telling him he is alive, healthy (healthier than he has a right to be), and able to satisfy a lover without the aid of drugs of any kind. It's just that the only lover he wants is so elusive in life that she has taken up residence in his imagination.
He welcomes the heat of the water in the shower as it battles with the heat in his groin. He is now rock hard, and in need of release. These moments of need are accompanied by long days and nights of missing Ruth. Not long after she'd left London, he'd visited bars and picked up women, purely for the purpose of acts of meaningless sex. Over the space of six months or so, he had gone home with around eight different women. Not one of them had been more to him than a warm body to sink himself into, and to lose himself inside for a few brief moments of much-needed release. All had told him he was an amazing lover, and that had made him feel good – even worthy - but only for the moment. He'd come inside them, then lay beside them for a few minutes, after which he'd dressed and gone home. After each encounter, he'd fallen asleep spent, but feeling sad and more than a little dirty. He'd seen none of them a second time. He'd told them his name was John. He had forgotten their names by the morning after he'd been with them. He'd used those woman in an attempt to exorcise his longing for Ruth. In the end, all he'd been left with was his longing for the woman he still loved.
He is standing under the water, the needles of heat stinging his scalp and shoulders. Slowly, he leans his forehead against the tiles, and closes his eyes. It is while he's alone under the shower that he thinks of her in a different way, in the way they'd never been with one another. He admits to himself that his thoughts of her while he's showering are not pure, or chaste. He'd wanted more from her, but he'd been prepared to wait for her to want him as much as he wanted her. He imagines her in the shower with him, her rounded body wet all over, rivulets of water dripping from her nose, her chin, and each breast. In his mind he sees himself lapping the water from her chin, her breasts, her hips, and between her legs - his tongue, his lips devouring her skin. He imagines kissing her, his tongue finding hers, running his hands over her curves, kissing her breasts, sliding his fingers inside her while she pants his name. He opens his eyes, and looks down to see his cock, harder than ever, and throbbing. Again he closes his eyes, and imagines she is with him. It is she caressing his chest, and then his stomach, running her fingers down to his balls, rolling them around between her fingers, teasing his cock with a light touch of her fingernail. It is she feathering her fingertips along his inner thighs, away from his groin, and then back again, so that he almost cries out with need. In his imaginings, he'd grasp her wrist, and place her hand on him, showing her with a smile into her eyes, that he'd like it were she to grasp him, her fingers closing around his girth. `I like it like this,' he'd say. Then he'd lean against her as she stroked him – slowly at first, and then faster, harder, squeezing him until …... It is when he comes against the tiles in the shower that he calls out her name …... shouts it sometimes. He leans his forehead against his folded arms, and sighs the last of his orgasm. By this time, he is usually close to tears, which he holds back, as he finishes off his shower, cleaning the tiles of the evidence of his release, before turning off the water. He steps from the shower feeling little other than regret, laced with a considerable amount of shame. He can't imagine that Ruth would be flattered by what had just occurred while he'd showered, but he feels he has little option.
He is so close to her, and yet he has no idea where she is. Being this close to her – if in fact he is close to her – is infinitely more painful than being in London, knowing she is long gone, and far away.
It is just after seven o'clock when his phone rings. The only person who has the number to that phone is Malcolm.
"Yes, Malcolm," he says.
"Harry," Malcolm says, and he can hear the seriousness in the tone of his voice, "I think we may have a problem."