Four declarations in four days play on a repeated shuffle in her head. The final one the trigger pressing play.

She's the interest.

He's never wanted anyone the way that he wants her.

This isn't just about sex.

He can't take them being nothing more than an impersonal contract.

The statements weave together in their complicated web, trying to connect the words with the Harvey she knows, and the Harvey she's afraid of getting lost in. Strands are merging before her eyes, and she's dizzy from spinning in her search for emotional organization.

Harvey's staring from across the table. Maybe not staring. Gazing. With pleasure. Only five days since he'd crossed their line and shifted their focus to physical recreation. Now he's barely touched his food and is leisurely drinking his wine. Like she's the focal point amongst the vast luxury they're resting in.

This entire plan, the flirting, the taking care of needs, the contract, and the carrying out of the contract feels like a blunder. Yet the minute he'd asked she'd emotionally jumped, because that's what she does with him. Even afraid, she'd trusted he had a vision. Right now her vision of him is mixed somewhere between explicit trust and knowing his attraction to shiny things and the combination terrifies her. Perhaps more than her inability to keep from leaping over cliffs when his lips got involved.

And his lips are definitely involved. Smiling at her, kissing her, killing her with words, and soon to be all over sultry flesh. Her face goes hot, and she tries to drown the temp in her wine.

"You're quiet," he says with a sip of his glass.

"And you're barely eating."

"Your mind was on food. Mine was one finishing what you started earlier." He scoots his chair closer to hers, upsetting the symmetrical balance. Lips lean closer to brush just under her ear, bringing chills with rising goosebumps. His hand lands on her thigh, nose nuzzling in her hair. Then fingers slide higher, pulling the hem of her dress with them. A throb settles between her legs.

"Do I need to tie your hands up to finish dinner?" she scolds, his palm now resting at the top of her thigh.

"I wouldn't mind."

Fingers slip inward and she traps them with a tight close of her legs. "What happened to all this talk about more than the physical?"

His eyes make a repeated dot to dot connection between his hand trapped in between her thighs and her eyes, playfulness and desire in the action. "That's quite a grip." He pulls hard, freeing his fingers.

His arm settles along the back of her chair instead. "And, I can't help it. It's been how many years, Donna? I haven't even gotten to taste you yet."

Her stomach keeps plunging without her brain's consent. "That's because you're supposed to be eating something else." She gently shoves him away. "We can fool around after, but we need sustenance."

He takes a bite of pasta and a sip of wine, an obscurity in his expression. "What other things are you going to surprise me with?"

"Then they wouldn't be surprises, would they? Finish your dinner."

"I like how you force my pants down but I have to wait for you to be ready."

"A woman needs foreplay." She takes a sip of wine. "Are you complaining?"

He's suppressing a grin. "No."

The conversation shifts, falling into small talk about amenities of Vegas and details about his out-of-town case. The tension visually builds in him while he talks, rigidity forming in his shoulders, and a hardness in his face. He's stressed, but the details of the case don't seem to match the heightened response.

He's holding back still, maybe not about them but it reminds her the man in front of her isn't ever fully exposed, despite giving her access to the usually covered, the obscure still remained. She wonders if they're the bonus complication that comes saddled with him, never wanted but must be overlooked in order to take home the prize.

When they finish dinner, Donna heads for her things, thrown by the unknown of the night. "Where am I sleeping?"

"I assumed with me."

"Will you behave yourself?"

"I figured you'd prefer I didn't."

Her cheeks prickle with the heat of the truth. Neither of them moves, her body suddenly absent of response.

"There is a second room," he points out, no encouragement in the words.

She didn't want them anyway. "No."

He nods, an arm extending to the right to lead the way. He flips a switch illuminating the room in low light from a table lamp.

The bedroom is post-modern with a 70's flair. A large bed is the centerpiece framed by a turquoise suede headboard, with a wall-length window showcasing a distant lit up Vegas strip.

She wants to open a window or turn up the A/C when they step inside. The air feels thick, but with the jittery feeling in her hands she doubts it's the temp. She finds a folding luggage rack and sets it next to the dresser, beginning to unload clothing into an empty drawer, and setting toiletries on the surface.

Harvey stares from beside the bed, silent but watching.

Her climbing anxiousness feels ridiculous. She can't look at him, nor can she settle the indescribable beat thrumming in her pulse. Her suitcase runs out of items, and she's out of excuses not to notice where they're standing. She turns around, remaining in place, over ten feet between where he's fixed and where she's lost.

He's looking at her like she's an untamed animal and he's observing, not sure how not to chase her away. Then, he's taking tentative steps toward her. He stops just in front, pulling her closer by both hands.

His lips turn up at the corners. "I don't think I've ever seen you this nervous."

"I just don't..this is new, Harvey." Her voice barely sounds like her own anymore. She doesn't know where she put her bravado, but it disappeared somewhere between releasing him from her mouth and drinking more than half the bottle of wine.

"Do you want me to get you more comfortable?"

She can feel the reverberation of his tone somewhere low. Her lips part, because 'God, yes' wants to come out, but the words seem terrifying and a launch further than her trembling nerves can take.

"Donna, you're practically shaking." He rubs hands up and down her arms.

"The traveling. The wine," she offers.

His head bends. "Wine doesn't make you shaky."

"Can we just…?" She doesn't know the rest of her question or why she's struggling so much, but the butterfly inside feels like it's rapidly multiplied, and she's panicking just as sudden.

He catches her chin, leaning down and picking her up from this uneven place with a press of his lips against hers. Her trembles don't disappear fully but sink lower while her heart floats high, lips sucked between his and arms holding her safely in the ride. They pull her in tight, steadying her while his tongue makes her belly spin. Kissing him is thrill and serenity all at once and she's not sure how both are molded to coexist.

Then he takes her deeper, coasting faster, holding on to the thrill of his tongue exploring hers as if the connection of them is the only place that makes her feel alive. His want presses into her, turning her head upside down along with her outlined resolve. Like she was needing this. Like jumping in with him was the key all along.

He slows them then, a tense press of the brakes as he pulls them to a less frenetic level. Mouth finds untouched skin on her face and neck, less manic, more longing. Her hands grip fistfuls of his shirt, perhaps too tightly because the sudden excitement has tailspinned her into shock.

"Let me control tonight."

She'd tied him up in a rule for more than a dozen years, maybe with them both knowing at anytime he could have let himself free. The illusion of holding the reins, when he could've taken them and she would have lost herself in the ride. She nods. Desperately. Because perhaps they both knew it. She may not fully trust the unknown, but she'll trust to succumb to it with him in control.

He pulls away, reaching around her toward the dresser and for a moment she's confused. He plucks up a bottle from within others and then she knows what he's doing.

The massage oil. She'd brought it to repay another unfulfilled moment for him. He observes her face as he holds it between them. "Do we need to turn around this time?"

Her head shakes back and forth slowly. His tongue juts out and trails over his bottom lip, setting the bottle of oil back down on the dresser behind her. He coaxes her toward him with a yank of her waist, then a hand scoops her hair around the side of her neck. She feels her neckline tug with the sounds of a zipper being pulled down her back. His fingers hook under the fabric resting on her shoulders and he pulls them apart, fingers brushing skin as her dress drops to the floor.

She stands in barely-there lace, freckles and paleness shining more than the glitter of the Vegas night. Exposed and surrendering, allowing him to decide how much.

He begins unbuttoning his shirt and her fingers deftly speed up the process. She pulls the tails out of his waistband and he yanks it from both arms and tosses in a heap to the side, followed by the tank underneath. Her fingers find his chest, feeling him, brushing against the beats of the man she'd memorized on the outside, but only by distant memory underneath the suit.

He sucks at the hollow of her neck while her fingertips press into the warmth of his back. He frees her bra while they're pressed together, flattening an exploring tongue on her collarbone before stepping away again to appreciate the view while she pulls off the straps and joins the item with his shirts.

A low groan hides under his breath as his gaze gently falls over her exposed skin, lids narrowing focus on the last piece. She pulls them down for him, heat building between her legs from the darkness in his eyes. He loses his pants and boxers quickly behind her, leaving them both bare to each other except for the stacked uncertainties between them.

Seeing him like this makes her pulse thunder, more of what she'd privately revered, all of what she'd silently tucked deeply. Want.

He moves in to kiss her again, his growing cock pressing into her belly and she gasps at the contact, a grip of hollowness in her center wanting union. He's reaching back for the bottle of oil and snapping it open. She wonders how he can have so much control with their boundaries dropped to the floor.

He tucks a strand of red behind her ear. "Put up your hair."

She nods and complies, twisting it in a messy bun and reaching into her toiletry bag on the dresser to grab a couple of pins, securing it to the top of her head.

He moves around her back, and she hears the slickness of oil rub between his hands. They're soon on her shoulders sliding over thickly, and then slip up to her neck. The nakedness isn't the only thing that makes this unique to his last massage. The touch is light, and more of a caress, igniting each inch of skin, leaving each past area envious of the next. Shoulder-blades to down her spine, reaching low on her back and reapplying oil whenever the slip over skin became less slick. Palms soothe down sides and this time move down her waist to buttocks, smoothing over the outside, then moving toward the center. She pulls in a staggered breath when he ventures between her cheeks, confining oxygen until she gasps when fingers sneak amidst her thighs in a non-exploring tease.

The last thing he works is arms, and when that's finished he picks up the bottle and hands it over her shoulder. "You wanna do me?"

She lets the double entendre slip because she's struggling for air. "Yeah."

When he hands her the bottle she moves behind him. "We're not moving to the bed?" She squeezes a quarter-sized amount in her hands, then follows the similar path he'd taken, starting with his shoulders.

"I have my reasons."

She kneads more than he did, working into tight muscles before moving to the next area. Her lips keep finding unexplored places on his back. Shoulder-blades and spine, muscles of his arm, the feeling of stronger sinews under heated soft skin like a charged magnet for her open mouth. Her eyes close. Breathing him in. Tongue relishing his taste.

When she passes her hands past waist to buttocks she sees his head tip back. A bit of her confidence slips back into place while paying homage to the area she'd been tempted to grab or smack on more than one occasion. Sensual kneading, intimate strokes until he groans. Teasing him. Reminding him what he felt when her mouth took over his pleasure.

When she finishes with his arms he turns around, his cock is already in full glory and ready to connect. He's always masculine but seeing the whole of him displayed overfills her desire. Even though she'll never share with him how much.

She works the remaining oil on her hands all over his chest and stomach, the muscles under skin attracting her hands like a divine sensory experience. She takes a little more oil and surprises him with a grip. He grabs her wrist but doesn't pull her hand away. She works it into his stretched member and around his balls. His eyes close and he hisses when her fingers encircle him again. She swirls her hands around him, and he begins thrusting into her fist. Suddenly he pulls her hand away.

"Turn around," he orders calmly.

Nervousness climbs up her spine and into her chest. Her back is already slick, and there's obviously an unrevealed plan in the request.

"You trust me?" he asks.

Her lips press together and she nods. "Yes." Because she does. In too many things and in too many ways. So she turns.

She hears the oil and then feels his want press into her back, his arms embracing around her middle and slicking over her abdomen. They slide easily around before they move smoothly over her breasts, thumbs slipping to flick back and forth over hard nipples. The attention from earlier makes his front slip against her back, the sensual experience of them oily together making it hard to process more than intense erotic sensation.

Then, his palm descends. A path down her stomach, moving lower until it's passing over her mound. He teases her outer lips first, then they slip into center. She gasps as he slides fingers in between her folds. Oil isn't needed, as she's far more slick than even their most lubed parts. Her legs are quickly unsteady, but his arm around her middle pulling her flush against him holds her upright.

Out of nowhere he lets go, leaving a chasm of emptiness and cool air that her body wants to bend backward to get back. The bottle squeezes once again, and when she glances over her shoulder he's rubbing it around his dick. He snaps the cap and sets it further back on the dresser.

He kisses her again, tongue searching and achingly sensual, communicating something that sends a personalized message straight to her core. He backs her toward the side of the bed and turns her to face it. A beat thrums in her chest because she doesn't have a clue what's happening next yet she needs him to do this. To take charge, to decide what her head won't let her free herself from.

He presses palms on the outside of her thighs. "Press your legs together."

"What?" she squeaks out.

"You need this," he peels out gently. "We both do. Do it and grip the edge of the bed."

She doesn't think, she responds. Her thighs tightly squeeze together which doesn't help the ache the pressure creates between her legs. She bends and her ass pushes out, flat palms landing on the mattress.

His fingers find her from behind, slipping in between the tight press of her folds. The feeling is snug, stretching sensitive skin as his fingers horizontally delve between her lips. Then, she feels the head of his cock pressing where his fingers had just been.

"Harvey," she manages, his name a question for the reassurance of his voice.

"Donna, if you don't trust me, I'll stop."

"No." She pauses, catching her breath. "Do it."

"Keep your thighs tight."

His fingers make room by parting her lips, and his cock invades the space. Pressing firmly, her slickness and the extra oil allow him to force his way through the tight space. He quickly reaches around her, one arm looping over her stomach with a hand gripping a breast, the other flings over her hip and reaches between her legs, disappearing in the front.

Then, he thrusts.

Finding a rhythm, the fingers in the front being used to slip between to press the head to bump her clit on each forward motion. His lips find skin on her back and neck, devouring her as he repeats each shove forward.

He may as well be stealing breaths for how dizzying this feels. Each pass makes it hard to concentrate, brushing against her sex but never close enough.

"You okay?" he asks as he picks up a bit of speed.

"My legs." She feels like she'll collapse from how weak they feel.

"I've got you."

"Harvey, I can't…"

Each hit to her clit lights a flame to her core. She feels a craze inside her. Needing more of him. Needing to open all the way when she's pressed so tightly closed. She curses this fucking contract. She has to tell him. Beg him to stop this delectable nonsense and give her more. All of him.

"You like it?"

Her lips betray her with something between a whimper and a moan. He grunts behind her, thrusting past her clit making his body slap against her buttocks.

"The...contract," she says.

"I know."

"No." Her abdomen is aching. Clinging into itself to bring her womb relief. "Please slow down," she says in a rush. She can't properly tell him...like this.

"What?" he asks while keeping less intense strokes.

"I... never signed it. Can we just…" A detail demised by her own subconscious. She pulls in a few breaths. "Please?"

"What?"

"I...forgot."

"It's okay. We agreed orally... and both of us have begun... performing... our ends of the deal."

She swears to god he finds this funny, hitting her clit extra thoroughly now. Okay, think of a comeback. Outsmart him and his… She throws her head back. Torturous pace. Then the clarity is there, like at the doorway when she arrived. How she would invalidate that sex contract business once and for all.

"A small conflict of interest. I'm not finalizing that contract... anymore... so it won't hold." She finally manages the words. Her legs are shaking, her body starting an unnumbered count to the edge and she swears if she comes without him getting in she's never fucking him ever again.

"Shit," he says. "You're good at this."

"I know," she breathes. "So please... put it in?"

"We should... talk after. I wouldn't want to... push you," he grunts out.

Oh for fuck's sake. She wiggles her thighs to allow her hand to slip between her legs and mid thrust she times it to perfection, forcing his head inside, stabbing between her slick walls in an instant. He pushes to the brink and stills. "Fuck, Donna. Are you sur-"

"Yes." Her voice is muffled, hair falling out of the pins and curtaining her face and slumped shoulders now just above the mattress. His single plunge fills her, burns in that desired ache of being combined in the transcendent need.

His hand that had been between her legs coaxes her thighs apart and he pulls out almost completely before he buries into her once again. Stretching her and taking over. Giving her everything she's allowed him to take, more than enough and somehow never quenching the need fully. This isn't romance and candles but raw urgency.

He continuously buries into her, upper body collapsing into the mattress because anything other than anatomy rebounding against anatomy had lost. The fabric of the duvet brushes against her open lips, her hot pants the paint, her moans the inspiration, and her growing build the final masterpiece.

She'd been a fool again, getting so close to her hollowed out primal wants and expecting to stare lust in the face and outsmart it by deterrence in a parallel path. Maybe she'd been intentionally tempting it, tempting him to force his way in the way he was doing right now. Again and again, hitting the front of her walls with encouragement from his fingers tapping away at her clit. She's breathing underwater while her core is above the surface in the flames. She's upside down on the edge and only through him does she have a chance to be righted.

That tumble over the peak doesn't take long. It's jolting and too much, clenching her walls in pulses against his advances in search of his own equilibrium. She's still whirling from recovery when she feels him jerk against her slick body. His exhales are loud and heavy when he slumps against her, arms wrapping around her frame more tightly and face resting against the top of her spine.

He falls next to her, upper back resting against the mattress. He pulls her above him, his chest rising and falling in hard pants.

He raises his head, pulling her to meet his lips sloppily. "So we just…"

"Yeah."

"That was…"

"Messy," she answers. In multiple ways.

He chuckles, planting a kiss on her forehead. "The contract?"

She forces out an exhale and starts to shift away.

He gets up, helping her stand. Her back screams a bit from the jolts while being bent over, while her insides throb in pleasured ache, and she feels like she'll leak everywhere if she doesn't cross her unstable legs.

He pulls her close, pressing their bodies now slick more from sweat than oil together. He helps her resettle hair that's wildly around her face. "Any regrets?"

"No," she states honestly. "But maybe worry?"

His lips bend down for a moment, then he pulls his upper body away and glances to the positioning of her legs. He smirks. "Come with me."

He pulls her by the hand to the bathroom and stops them in front of a massive oval tub. He helps her to step inside, turning the faucet and feeling for the temp. He engages the plug. "Sit."

"Are you still controlling this scenario?" she asks while she's complying.

He tilts his head. "That depends if you can handle more pleasure."

The words send a surge low. "I'm still coming down from your last surprise."

"Tonight's been revealing multiple surprises," he counters.

He motions for her to slide over, faucet waterfalling into the tub. He steps in next to her, sitting and facing her side. He settles and pulls her back to his chest.

"Are you going to wash my hair?" she asks with a tease.

"I planned on focussing somewhere else."

Her breath hitches and she leans into him, his arms wrapping around her frame.

The level begins to rise in the tub, and he scoops handfuls of the water and lets it empty on her skin, lips taking any droplets resting on her neck and shoulders.

"About the contract, Harvey-"

"Why didn't you sign it?"

"I forgot."

"You don't forget details like that."

"I don't."

"Then again, why?"

She shifts sideways and angles her face toward him, tongue caressing his before lips can touch. She loves the taste of his mouth. Sweet, hints of their drinks, and some indescribably familiar element that's all him and she could pick out from anyone else.

Pulling away, she studies his face, sighing. He'd mastered the art of admittance recently, but letting her own words out she'd forbidden even as thoughts for almost a quarter of her life takes an extra colossal effort. "I guess subconsciously I didn't want it there either."

A large grin punctuated by smile lines takes over his face. He's pompous and elated at her words. It fades into a smirk, eyes narrowing a hair and never leaving her face. His lips brush against hers. Softly. Relaxed. As if one more piece fell into place between them.

"Does that mean?"

She doesn't know what it means, except somewhere along the way, she had fallen into him emotionally. Only instead of a building path like most people took in a relationship, they'd taken the bag of logical steps and shook them up, pulling each piece by piece out of order. She had to find the unused pieces, creating uneven but usable steps. "Can we maybe just enjoy our weekend? Be us, let the rest lie, and see where this goes?"

He presses his lips together, a slight curve to them as he nods. "Does that mean I can't finish what I planned?"

Her eyes widen, and she evens her expression. "No. I think the butterflies in my stomach would protest." Because they're lighter all of a sudden. Less angry and more exhilarating. She's relieved she hadn't set the first one free.

He's smirking. "Turn around, Donna."

"Again?" she challenges.

He slants his head but helps her shift until they're facing each other, her legs bent between his. "Now lay back."

Her eyes dart north in a feigned annoyance, but she does as he says, settling her body in the few inches of hot water with her hair floating around her.

He wordlessly coaxes her frame toward the opposite wall of the tub, then parts her legs as wide as they'll go in the porcelain confines. He separates her lips with fingers of one hand and scoops up water, letting it trickle over her exposed sex. She pants a breath out of her lips, the light feeling of streaming drops stimulating. Then he's leaning forward more, lips just above the surface of the water. He blows, creating a mini-wave that breaks against her sensitive folds.

His simple attention on her in the bright bathroom light brings its own tantalizing edge. He's prowling and she's the prey tonight. There's a thrill in being in his focused hunt.

Eyes keep locked, his face moving forward between her legs before his tongue takes a slow tour between her slit. A gasp draws out with her breath when he hits her clit, reacting in an involuntary flex. He repeats the process, this time stopping to suck at where her labia meets water as if he needs to quench thirst. He blows against her damp skin, the lightness of the cool air a tease. She mewls when suddenly he's lapping at her clit, animal-like tongue seeking out his newfound oasis.

Her abdomen rises and falls with more labor, core tension pulling in and thoughts fading out. Fingers press at her opening, slipping into her aching entrance. She hisses at the sore sensation, waiting out the intrusion, settling into the feeling of bliss. His lips seal her then, suction and flickering of tongue playing an orchestra of her favorite piece as she waits out the fortissimo. Her legs begin to quake, a battle of tension between her womb and her clit. But her womb wins, his mouth leaving her. She whimpers, wanting to punch him and pull him back.

His fingers continue to pump.

"Harvey?" she pleads.

"You want to come again?"

"Yes," she admits.

He slides her weightless body in the water until her center is right under the running faucet.

"Hold yourself open for me."

She can't argue because she needs whatever she knows he'll give her. She gives in, and water crashes over sensitive flesh. She jerks at the sensation at first, almost writhing away but wanting to get closer to the familiar method she'd used alone before. But never at the mercy of someone else who liked to amuse himself with her teasing her pleasure.

Using his free hand on the opening of the faucet like a hose, he blocks the flow until it targets her clit with more pressure. The direct stimulation is overwhelming with her already fatigued sex. It's too much and not enough as she settles into a building wave. Her stomach tenses and reflexes out of her control, almost jumping ahead of her body's release.

Then, his fingers hit just right inside, the thundering on her clit forcing her hard over the edge. Her clit throbs and he lets go of the flow, turning down the pressure as she subsides, her walls clenching against the softness of water. Pulses drawing in and pressing out.

She pulls in breaths to settle from the intensity, the floating feeling being the perfect place to fall. He slips down along her side, facing her and smoothing wet tendrils from her face. Pressing kisses on her temple and cheek.

They stay that way for a long while. Soaking with bare wet skin pressed against bare wet skin in the warmth of the full tub, settling into his arms' security and breathing into the closest thing she'd ever felt to complete peace.

When the water gets cold, they get out and dry off. She puts on panties and a tank, climbing into bed.

He joins next to her in a pair of boxers, spooning her back, arm wrapping around her upper abdomen, leg hooked over her knee, and face nestling into the crook of her neck. "I thought we'd be more naked," he teases low into her ear.

She doesn't hold back a laugh. "Save it for later, Harvey."

"I don't want to."

"We both came twice already. These clothes will tamper that want of yours."

He presses a kiss under her ear. "Donna, I could have the entirety of the linens in this hotel between us and I'd still want you." His voice is a soft and lazy whine.

Her lips fall open, eyes wide. Frozen in shock and loss of response. So she doesn't. She just settles herself in his arms again. Silence falls between them until she almost fades to sleep. Then the truth rests at her lips. The darkness makes it hard to convince herself she needs to bury the confession deeper than him. "Harvey?"

He hums in response.

"I'm scared."

He props himself on an elbow, leaning over her. His top arm reaches around for a hand to cup her cheek. "I am too. I'm not sure where this will end up, Donna. Only where I want it to."

His lips press to hers and she flips over. Facing each other as they fall asleep, bodies wrapped and confessions freed.


A/N's: Are the confessions fully freed? Anyway, this is the conclusion of my Smutacular chapter. I know this was(again) different, but I seem to be drawn to the challenge of writing different. Hopefully it's not too out there and I didn't scare anyone away.

Thank you SO much for reading and the reviews! Please let me know how you felt about this too. I fret otherwise. And thank you to my wonderful writing partner Bew0G(read her stuff, it's great!) for helping me through each chapter and to Kate McK who always goes over my chapters when I post and helps me beta unfound errors. And Mieh for continuing to force me to write this.