A/N: Thank you, guys, for the reviews and likes and messages and the lot. This fandom is beyond welcoming; what a fantastic environment.

And to ashadesofblue, for always lending an ear and an eye. :)

Hope you enjoy!

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IV. (i was caught in between) all you wish for and all you need

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He doesn't like Stephen Huntley right off the bat.

Unsurprisingly. He's there with the sole purpose of being a pain in his ass and while they may be in bed with Darby now, this is still his goddamn firm and his goddamn client, and Harvey doesn't share well with others.

He notices the way he looks at Donna, of course, and at first he suspects it's to get a rise out of him. Not that Donna isn't an attractive woman – Huntley's not the first, he won't be the last to ogle his secretary - but he's known a few Stephen Huntleys during his career, and he knows how they operate. It's a valiant effort, he'll give him that. He obviously knows where to poke the bear. Harvey doesn't bite.

But then suddenly Donna is making copies for him and he's chatting her up at her desk which is right outside his glass office and she's flirting back instead of focusing (on him) on her job and Harvey grits his teeth through it.

His dislike for the man morphs into something altogether different when Donna tells him she's been sleeping with him. Now, Donna can sleep with whomever she damn well pleases and has done so over the years. She may be his secretary and his friend and his – Donna - and Harvey may be territorial to a fault, but he knows their boundaries and limitations. He's helped set them. He's also a modern man, a goddamn feminist even, and if a woman wants to indulge in some casual sex with an irritating Brit, all the more power to her, is what he says.

Huntley, though? Harvey grimaces as he flicks the light on in his bathroom. He's a sleazeball with an agenda, that's one. He doesn't trust him one bit, not after the stunt he pulled with Gianopolous and certainly not after the stunt he pulled with Mariga, and seeing Donna get hurt is at the very bottom of his list. And if it happens, which he's pretty sure it will, he'll have front row seats seeing as they all work oh so closely together.

And there it is.

It does bother him. She can sleep with whomever she wants but did it have to be someone she works with? He feels petty and it's like she said that morning in their diner - it's her life and she needs to live it and god knows she deserves to have a private life to go to after her workday …

He looks in the mirror. His jaw is clenched; his fingers are white on the bathroom counter. He really is so very bad at sharing. The image of her snuggling up to Huntley at the piano flashes in his head. Yeah.

He splashes water on his face in hopes it clears his mind and makes him stop obsessing over who Donna chooses to date. He stares himself down in the mirror. He feels ridiculous. There's no reason it should bother him. He gave her the speech, that's there and they're over here, but if Harvey's honest with himself – which he isn't, which he can't be – their lines have shifted countless times over the years. And he can't help but feel like she just moved the goalpost – no, the goddamn playing field - by dating a guy she works with.

He hasn't thought – really thought – about the other time in a while. He's not someone who dwells on the what-ifs and that whole memory is loaded with them. This, them, how they are, how they have been for a over a decade; that works. Her breaking some stupid rule from a lifetime ago is meaningless.

He disproves this immediately by grabbing his phone and finding her name. His thumb hovers over it for a split second; he presses it before he has time to change his mind. It rings once, twice. He drums his fingers on the hard surface. Three. Four. He has no idea what the hell he's going to say, especially after interrupting their date and threatening to beat Huntley up, but he needs her to pick up right the hell now. Five. He takes a deep breath and is just about to hang up when she answers.

"Harvey?" She sounds out of breath. He holds his. "Harvey? Hello? Are you there?"

There's a moment where he says nothing, where he just listens for any background noise on her end, where he realizes how incredibly stupid this is. He rubs his forehead and finally, "Donna. Sorry. Pocket dial."

She's silent and he rolls his eyes at himself in the mirror. He knows she's not buying it, but he needs her to play along anyway. She doesn't let him down. "Oh. Okay." She's letting it go. Then, "Listen, Harvey, about –"

"I gotta go, Donna. I'll see you in the morning."

He hangs up before she can say anything else.

He hops in the shower after that. It's been a long ass day. With Jessica, with Huntley, with Donna and his trip down memory lane. He needs to unwind if he's going to get any sleep tonight. He hangs his head as hot water batters the back of his neck, his arms stretched out in front of him holding him up against the tiles.

It's a reflex, more than anything. Muscle memory. His left hand still firmly on the tiles, he reaches for his dick with his right, giving it a tug. Then another. His dick doesn't seem to be in the mood. He's not surprised. He's annoyed with himself – for a myriad of different reasons – but mostly for calling Donna to find out if she was still with Stephen. What the hell was that juvenile shit all about. He might as well have gone to her place and pissed all over her furniture. He can hear her in his head, clear as day, "Whip 'em out, boys and let's get this over with."

His cock twitches in his hand. Harvey rolls his eyes. Fucking typical. He doesn't feel like thinking about her at all, let alone in that context, not when there's a very real possibility she's currently in bed with another man; his dick has other ideas.

He may purposefully not think about the other time, but he does remember it. And if he allows himself to go there, her body is no longer just an abstract expanse of skin, something to wonder about under her outfits. It's something real, something he's touched, something he's tasted, something he can still picture with frightening precision.

Growing harder now, and he does just that.

It proves effortless, conjuring memories of that night. Donna's come hither look, all nonchalance he knows for a fact was a little bit for show. He knows because so was his. The way they both smiled into that first kiss, and how different and new that had felt. How he pulled back and looked at her and saw her, his hand finding the back of her neck, pulling her to him and kissing her for real. How she responded, immediate and perfect.

.

"Finally," he grins against her lips. "I know what you taste like. It's been driving me crazy."

She leans her head back to scrutinize him, "What do I taste like?"

"Hmmmm. Strawberries?" He runs the pad of his thumb along her bottom lip then puts it in his mouth, sucks, "The lipstick?"

"Lip balm."

"Whatever." He leans in again, "I could get used to it."

"I didn't know you were such a fan."

He narrows his eyes at her, "Yeah, you did." There's not a doubt in his mind that's why she put it on tonight.

"I have some in the fridge, if you want to –"

"Oh, I want to. Later." Is she stalling? Harvey pulls back, but only an inch, only enough to give her a proper look, "Are you nervous?"

"Me? Please."

He hums doubtfully, but lets it go. He's eager to kiss her again, but she's a maddening woman, "You know what goes well with strawberries, right." She shakes the can of whipped cream next to their faces.

He grins at her, "You really took to that idea, huh."

"Get with the program already, Specter."

"Oh, I'm there." Without looking, he reaches for the can and takes it, giving it a shake. She watches him curiously, amused. He opens the can and squirts some on his fingers, then smears it slowly across her lips. She tries to say something – a smartass remark, no doubt – but it's unintelligible under his fingers. "Will you shut up so I can kiss you?"

She pauses, her lips slightly parted, white and pink and delicious; Harvey seizes the opportunity and catches her top lip between his own. "Mmmmm," he says around the kiss. "You were right. This goes really well together." He sucks on it gently, watching for her reaction.

"I'm always right," she mumbles into him, but it's half-hearted. His tongue darts out and her eyes droop closed. Smiling, he walks her back into the living room until she's backed up against a far wall. He lets his own eyes shut better to enjoy the taste. Somewhere in the back of his mind, where it barely even registers, a thought niggles at him. That they go really well together.

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Without realizing, Harvey's fucking his fist. It's slick with water and he skips forward, to him being the one leaning back against the wall, his pants around his ankles, Donna on her knees in front of him, licking her lips. Oh –

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"Fuck." He swallows, looking down at her. "This is hot. You're hot."

She shrugs, but he knows she appreciates hearing it. "I haven't even done anything yet." She's shaking that damn can of whipped cream again and his head falls back.

"Jesus."

"Oh, you're gonna wanna see this."

He groans and looks down just in time to see her covering the length of his very hard dick.

"You know," he tries conversationally, but his voice is strangled. "Your carpet is going to be a bitch to clean tomorrow."

Donna stops mid-squirt to raise an incredulous eyebrow at him, "Are you seriously thinking about my carpets right now?"

What he's thinking about is trying not to come before she even touches him, but he's not about to admit that to her. "I'm a considerate guy."

"Yeah, right," she snorts and covers his tip. "There."

His cock twitches in anticipation. "So, Donna," he starts. "Are we just going to admire it or are we –"

Before he can finish, she takes him in her mouth and godfuckingdamn.

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Harvey thinks about her lips around his cock, wet and warm, as she took him in. He remembers her making a sound, humming around him as his tip hit the back of her throat and holy shit, he's surprised now that he lasted beyond that point. He remembers the feel of her hair under his fingers; how she looked up at him without ever breaking her slow torturous rhythm, remnants of whipped cream on top and her tongue on the underside of it, the tip just touching his balls as she slid it in deeper.

He needs to stop or he'll come, just like he stopped her then on the verge of a very sudden and very intense orgasm.

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"I want to fuck you," he offers as way of explanation, pulling her to standing.

"Can't go twice in one night?" Donna challenges.

"Oh, I can go as many times as you like," he grabs her waist and steers her in what he thinks is the direction of her bedroom.

"No, you can't," she changes the course to where her bedroom actually is.

"You don't know that."

"I do know that."

"Fine. Four is my personal best," he shucks his suit jacket. "Still impressive."

"Three, tops. And I'm being generous."

He stops just short of her bedroom, "Any more of your lip and I'm leaving."

She smirks, pulling on his tie, "No, you're not."

He works the corner of his lip, smiling, "No. I'm not." He lets her reel him in for a kiss, chuckling as he falls on top of her on the bed.

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He thinks about her pussy and that first time he entered her; how he had to stop, still her hips as she sat on top of him and she thought it was to allow her to get used to him inside her. When really, it was to prevent him from coming in seconds like a goddamn teenager. He sees her clearly – her hands on his stomach, her chest heaving, her hair an absolute mess, biting her lip as she looks down at him. His hands traveling up from her hips to her waist, stopping at her ribcage and pulling. She's leaning down, her hands on his face, her hair falling around him. He can remember a thought forming in that moment – this could be something, I could have this, this could be something I could have – but it never fully realizes, certainly never leaves his mouth.

And they start to move.

He pumps into his fist, his fingers twisting, his thumb rubbing the tip with every thrust as his thoughts take a turn – a more dangerous turn – and it's not her pussy or her mouth or her tits he's thinking about. It's her. The way she laughed when he flipped her onto her back, catching her off guard. A spontaneous girlish squeal rather than a seductive giggle. The way she slapped his ass as she followed him into the shower between rounds one and two. The way she wouldn't stop talking. Not with his lips on her clit ("Figures you'd be amazing at this.") or his fingers curling inside her ("You were right – should have done this aaages ago.") or his dick inside her as he fucked her on the kitchen counter ("It's a – jesus, Harvey, right there – a stupid stupid rule.")

The way she made him feel. Like maybe falling in love didn't have to be synonymous with falling apart.

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Letting out a pained groan, he comes on the tiles in front of him, again and again and again, until he's completely spent. He rests his head on his outstretched arm and watches the water wash it away down the drain.

As he towels off, he catches his reflection in the mirror. It's so foreign, he needs a moment to identify it, but he gets there in the end. Loneliness was never a familiar look on him.

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The following evening, in a completely different bathroom, he's punching Stephen Huntley into a bloody pulp. He's punching him, for Ava Hessington, for being murdering scum, for tricking them, for using Donna, for deceiving her, for making her cry, for not being worthy of her, for… For not recognizing, not appreciating what he had been so generously offered.

Harvey's only regret is not punching harder.

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