Chapter 10

The door clicked softly closed, as they stood silhouetted by the blue half-light of her hallway. She wasn't entirely sure how they had come to be there for she was certain no words had passed between them. A cab hurtling through the darkness, their faces illuminated by the passing lights, his gloveless hand on top of hers, thighs brushing, she turning into him, his soft breath on her cheek, a look of invitation on her face. A door, a key, a lock; she had let him in.

They faced one another, neither of them daring to move for fear of breaking the tenuous thread that they had miraculously woven between them. They were both aware that having crossed the threshold into her space, they had taken a monumental step, a sense of returning to a point in time that they had reached years before when they had been so close to realising what they had then both desperately wanted. It was with this knowledge, this awareness of the acute fragility of their state that they stood, unable to move further, still wrapped in their coats, he in black and she in grey, toes on the edge of a precipice.

She knew that he was looking down at her, holding her with his eyes, drawing her to him. A wave, caught in his gravitational pull, swelling towards him with each breath. She turned her head to indicate the flat. "It's not very..." her voice trailed off. Warm? Homey? "I haven't had time to ..." Again the words dissolved into the air.

He didn't follow her gaze but kept his eyes locked on her, afraid that if he looked away she would disappear. "I don't care," he murmured.

They whispered so the shadows would not hear. She had moved from the safe house to a flat that was bigger and brighter, but the ghosts had followed her, as she knew they would. During the day, she could move about, shaking off memory, lost in a world of intrigue. The night was a different story. The bottle of pills had run out and she had refused the offer of more. She would lie half-awake, pulling the covers over her head, trying to shut them out. Tonight, she had said their names, honoured them, hoping they would give her a reprieve. With Harry here they had receded even further into the darkness, his presence pushing them away. He was not a ghost, but corporeal, immediate.

For years, she had kept this man at arm's length and now he stood, waiting for her just as she had waited for him.

"You never sent..." she faltered, not knowing how to complete the thought or whether she had any right to voice it.

"What?" he asked, bending his head closer to hers.

"You never came ..."

"I thought you were safe. Away from me."

"And now?"

She saw his chest rise, drawing in the air around her, letting out a long sigh that warmed her temple. She kept her face down, unable to look at him, unable to face what was surely preordained. She could feel the heat radiating from him, the solidness of him felt overwhelming and comforting at the same time. Her heartbeat quickened. She marveled that his nearness could still thrill her after all these years. So many years.

"Why?" she asked.

"Why what?" he asked her in return, his voice so very soft and low, his head leaning in closer to hear her words.

She could sense the tension in his arms, his fingers flexing at his side as if trying to keep hold of a slender thread. She thought that by delaying, she could keep a mote of control over the situation, over Harry, herself. If she let go she might well lose the little bit of herself she had cobbled together, held in fragile repair.

"Why would you still want me...after all this time?"

"How can you not know?" he hoarsely answered her question with a question. He could not put into words the thoughts that had haunted his sleepless nights.

She finally looked up at him, searching, as if by saying nothing she could draw out the raw nerve of his being. His eyes met hers with the same darkness, the same vulnerability, although she had carried hers around longer. She was not like him, schooled in the art of masks. In his eyes, she saw the look he had shown her, those many years ago when they had sat across from each other, during dinner. Their one date, which for her had taken on a staggering significance, having been the only time when they were completely alone, where he had looked at her with an openness that had left her equally thrilled and scared. A look, which she felt then, as she did now, entirely undeserving to receive.

"Because I'm broken," she whispered.

"You're beautiful," his voice quietly washed over her.

Her breath came out in a half laugh, half sob and before she could gather her senses, his head dipped down and his mouth found hers. Her heart stopped. There was nothing else, only his lips, pressing softly against hers, slowly moving over her mouth, warm, tempting her to more. She stood completely still, utterly lost, all conscious thought melting away. There was a faint rustle of fabric as his hands found their way under her coat, resting on her hips, his fingers tightly clasping the folds of her skirt; the thread of self-control. Her hands rose, hesitating, suspended in the air, finally coming to rest on his arms. She could feel the rough wool of his coat under her fingers and through it the solidness that was him. A part of her mind became detached, floating away on the wonder of the moment. She took a stumbling step into him - a move that served to break the thread of his resolve. His hands left the sureness of her skirt and moved to the small of her back, his fingers pressing into her spine, bending her, pulling her in.

The kiss became more insistent as he ran his tongue along her lips, coaxing them open, delving deep within her mouth, the force taking her breath away. She felt his chest expanding against her breasts as if he were breathing her in, filling himself with her essence, taking what little of her that she had found. He could not take all of her; she would demand something in return. Her arms came to life and she met the intensity of his kiss with her own fervour, pulling him into her, filling the dark spaces inside she could not face. Their hot breaths mingled, stirring them on, hungry mouths devouring each other. Their centres became unstable and they tipped off balance, thudding against the wall, he turning her against it for support. The words 'we should stop," became an incoherent jumble in her brain, lost on the journey to her mouth, escaping in a moan. How wonderful to be touched, to be held, to taste each other, starved pilgrims that they were.

His tongue trailed along her jaw, dipping into her ear, the rasp of his breath blocking everything out. She moaned as his lips moved to her throat, sucking the tender flesh, her neck extending in a delicate arch, her hands finding his shoulders for balance. He drew his hand across her ribs and cupped the weight her breast, his thumb rubbing her nipple through the layers of fabric. She inhaled sharply. This... this ...oh, this was all moving far too fast.

"Harry." She had meant it as a reproach, a caution; it came out as a sigh.

His lips moved against her ear. "Can we?" he whispered.

Oh, this man who never did anything in half measures, where she was a woman of quarters and eighths.

His fingers looked for access to her skin, tracing down the opening of her blouse, dipping into the valley between her breasts. He paused, his fingers lingering, on the rounded swell. "So soft," he murmured in wonderment. He found a button and moved it between his thumb and finger. One. Two. He drew the material away, revealing her skin still dusky from the Cypress sun, hooking the rough pad of his thumb under the lace of her bra, exposing where her flesh remained winter pale.

Her hand came up to still his. "I...we..." her voice faltered, her lungs unable to draw in air.

His gaze remained on her breast, his body stilled, as if breathing was a labour to great for him. He released her name on a sigh. "Oh, Ruth." This time, he did not own it. This time he intoned it with a quiet reverence, giving himself up to her.

Her knees buckled under the weight of the sentiment and she leaned against the wall for support. She closed her eyes and swallowed hard. All the lines she had drawn and redrawn quickly disappearing, her resolve fading with them. His hand remained on her breast, enflaming her skin, her nipples growing taut. A warm flush suffused her body as she thought of him, covering her, surrounding her, moving inside her. "God forgive me," she murmured.

She opened her eyes to find his gaze burning into her, a knowing look on his face, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. She clutched the collar of his coat and brought his mouth down to hers, kissing him hard. He braced his arm against the wall, using his other hand to rake through her hair. They fumbled, teeth gnashing, noses bumping. She didn't care. She wanted him to take away the regret and the guilt, to lose the pain if only for a moment. She silenced the voice in her head telling her this would all lead to a massive emotional hangover.

Her hands moved along his sides, searching under the great weight of his overcoat, under the rough fabric of his suit jacket, feeling the silk of the lining, moving further to the cotton of his shirt. She needed to feel his skin and with great daring, she slipped her hand under his shirt only to feel the fabric of his vest. She let out a moan of frustration. So many layers, where did the real man begin.

He gripped her waist and stepped backwards, pulling her along with him, her head reeling from the force. As they moved, his hands came up, slipping her coat from her off shoulders, sliding it down over her arms until it fell to the floor with a sigh. She grabbed the lapels of his coat, pulling it back from his chest and over his shoulders, working it down his arms, pushing him back. She struggled to remove the garment and it finally fell to the floor with a resounding thump.

One layer removed, their feet tangled amongst the coats, they returned to discovering each other. His hands mapped the outline of her body, roaming over the curve of her hip, under her skirt, up her backside, massaging, kneading. Her palms lay flat against the expanse of his chest, her fingers flexed, feeling the muscle underneath his shirt. Her hands moved to find the smooth knot of his tie, a small hum of triumph escaping, as her fingers unravelled the silk. She released one button then the next; bringing her mouth up to the exposed hollow of his throat, her tongue flicking out, licking, sucking, a primeval groan arising from his depths.

He pulled back, looking at her, heavy-lidded and swaying. A smile tinged the corners of her mouth at the knowledge that she could do this to him. His eyes narrowed and he let out a gravelly rumble. He kissed the smile away, bringing her in close, finding points of contact they had only ever imagined. His fingers followed her hip bone, down to the crook of her inner thigh, feeling her heat through the layer of her skirt, his fingers pressing against her, moving in slow circles. She gasped into his mouth, feeling the corners of his lips rise in a sly smile. Another breach through the walls of intimacy, her defenses crumbling, soon there would be nothing left.

Instinct took over as she moved her leg between his, his thigh coming between hers. She curved against his body in soft undulation - breasts, stomach, hips. His fingers dug into her flesh as he pulled her pelvis against his. A quickening flashed deep in her belly as she felt his hardness grinding into her, she pushing back in sinuous abandon. His breath became harsh, hers, a soft whimper. Her heartbeat doubled, pounding in her ears. This was the Rubicon, she thought, how would they ever come back from this.

He moaned, tightening his arms around her, she wrapping hers around his neck, her toes rising from the ground. He stepped over the coats, carrying her in the embrace. She murmured against his lips, "mind your back", to which he replied, "Bedroom." Her response was an incoherent mumble. She had passed the point of decorum, not caring where he had her.

They didn't hear the sound, even though they were acutely attuned to the tone no matter where they were. They continued to kiss, as if there was no chime, convinced their passion could keep the world away. The sound stopped and they sighed into each other, only to become tense when it started up again. He released his hold around her and her feet gently touched the floor. Through the layers of their lust, words rose to their consciousness. Nuclear deterrent, deadline, Nightingale. Their mouths remained against each other slightly parted, panting, continuing to breathe one another. The stood holding each other, their chests heaving, trying to find their equilibrium as they came down off the plateau where they had taken one another.

He moved to her ear, nipping her lobe between his teeth. "It's not important."

Her lips moved against his cheek. "Isn't it always?"

"If it was important, they'll phone back."

The phone chimed and vibrated. Harry growled.

"Would it be the end of the world if I didn't answer?"

"Considering the current political climate, it very well may be."

Ruth pulled away and his hand came up to grab her upper arm. "Don't go," he implored. She moved, taking him with her and leaned over to rescue his coat from off the floor. She retrieved his mobile from the depths of a pocket, her eyes falling on the display. She handed the phone to Harry and he gave her a levelled look. He flicked the screen with his thumb and answered a terse, "Yes." He kept his free arm around her waist pulling her into him. She rested her head on his chest, feeling the vibration of his voice against her cheek as he spoke. She sighed at the unexpected bliss of the experience.

"I have to go," he whispered into her ear.

She nodded her head, understanding all too well the pressure of the life he led. "Do you need me to come with you?"

"No, get a few hours sleep if you can." His lips brushed the top of her head. "I don't want to go."

At this, she looked up to find his gaze resting softly on her. She raised her hands, placing them on either side of his face, rubbing her thumbs across the skin, rough and warm. "I know," she answered and she pulled his head down to hers. She kissed him as she had that day on the wharf. This time it was not a kiss of goodbye but a kiss of coming home.

They untangled their arms from around each other, Harry tucking in his shirt. He paused and gazed at Ruth, his lips parting slightly, a gleam in his eye. Ruth looked down and realised her blouse was still undone. She hastily pulled the fabric together, holding it over her breast, looking away, demurely. How would they ever look each other in the eye when they were on the Grid?

"You should..." she trailed off.

"Yes." He cleared his throat and adjusted his tie, smoothing, aligning, creating order. He shrugged on the great weight of his coat and stood with his arms hanging at his sides, looking down at the floor.

Ruth moved closer, trailing her fingers over the material on his forearm. "It's alright," she assured him.

He looked up abruptly as if waking from a dream and took the few paces to the door. He placed his hand on the doorknob and spoke without turning to her. "Will you lock the door after I'm gone?" His voice held a tone she could not decipher. She didn't answer but stood in the dim light. He quickly opened the door, vanishing, as if he was never there.

She walked over to the door and leaned into it, resting her head against the cool wood, a poor replacement for Harry's warm chest. She moved her hand to the door chain, listening to the metal slide across the track as she settled the notch in place. She had opened the door, let him in and now she locked it. The realisation hit her. He was asking if she would lock the door between them, just as she had done years ago.

She turned around and leaned back against the door, her head was thick, the wine wearing off. She used to be able to drink twice as much with George. "George," she whispered, the memory of him flooding back into her conscious. She saw the outline of her coat, a crumpled heap on the floor, feeling the weight of what had just happened sink in. She slid down the door like a rag doll, every support she had built since her return crumbling at the thought of what she had done. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," she whispered to him.

The shadows moved around her, those who had died too young while she remained, calling her, never letting her go. She had let it all happen too quickly, she hadn't healed, she hadn't mourned, and she was not whole enough to be doing this. It could never be just her and Harry in a relationship, there would always be George rising between them. And Lord knew how many ghosts trailed after Harry. She ran her fingers through her hair, pulling at the ends.

"Oh Jo, what have I done?"