A/N: Apologies for dragging this out. Just kidding. I'm enjoying myself (as are Ruth and Harry, clearly). Hopefully you are too. Thanks for your lovely reviews. Cheers, S.C.

Tuesday, 22nd December 2009

This time, when he takes a seat, he chooses the sofa, turning his body towards her and patting the spot beside him. She smiles, wordlessly sitting down next to him, their bodies close, but not touching.

"Cheers," he says, lifting his glass towards her.

"Cheers," she replies, clinking hers against his before taking a sip, her eyes on his the entire time. She can't seem to shake the spell he's cast on her, her eyes glued to him – his warm gaze, his soft lips, his sure, strong, efficient movements holding her attention, her passion burning low, deep in her belly, her want unsatisfied, her need unfulfilled.

His gaze is direct, warm and intense, the boldness of her own giving him permission, perhaps, to openly show his admiration.

She wants him, and yet, she's rather enjoying the anticipation, the gentle torment of her simmering passion, the feeling of being fully alive. It used to be like this between them all the time, back before Cotterdam when they couldn't keep their eyes off each other. It's a wonder she got any work done at all in those days and no wonder at all, really, that Mace had managed to outwit and outplay them so perfectly. It's never been like this with anyone else, not since Alan in Year 10 and she's pretty sure that that had been entirely one-sided.

Alan. She hasn't thought of him in decades.

"What's Al short for?" she asks suddenly.

He smiles and takes another sip of his drink.

"Alexander? Albert? Alan?" she suggests, wondering if perhaps he's never thought about it before. "Or is it just Al?"

"Alastair," he replies softly, his voice like molasses.

"Isn't that the Scottish version of Alexander?" she asks, frowning as she tries to retrieve the information from the recesses of her mind.

He smiles. "I've no idea, Ruth."

"I think that's right."

His gaze softens with fondness and he lifts his hand, fingertips reaching for her face, trailing along her jaw. "You're the most remarkable woman I have ever know," he whispers, sending a shiver running down her spine at his gentle touch, her eyes closing, a small whimper escaping her throat as his fingertips move lower, down her neck to her chest and the top of her blouse – the single most erotic touch she has ever known. "So remarkably responsive," he murmurs in wonder, his fingers continuing their journey, over the fabric of her top, round the side of her breast and under, causing her breath to hitch and her lips to part with a gasp. She closes her mouth, catching her lower lip between her teeth, fighting the urge to throw herself at him.

He withdraws his hand, but it's only when she hears him swallow more whiskey that she dares to open her eyes again. She knows her face betrays her arousal as does his own, his dilated pupils and smouldering gaze, his flushed skin, and the tension in his jaw muscles.

"Do you enjoy torturing us both?" she asks him, taking a quick swig of her drink.

He chuckles. "Hardly, but I can't seem to help myself. You're far too enticing by far. Irresistible, in fact."

She hums, tipping the rest of her whiskey down her throat and setting her glass aside before turning to him once more. "In that case," she says, "I'm going to need a cuddle." Then, before he can object, she moves closer, wedging one arm behind his lower back to encircle his middle as she tucks her feet beside her on the sofa and leans against him, resting her head on his shoulder with sigh of deep satisfaction.

He shifts a little, getting comfortable, but he doesn't pull back, his right arm wrapping around her shoulders, his hand running up and down her upper arm as he presses his lips against her hair and breathes in deeply.

They lie like this in silence, adjusting to the feel of each other, their bodies stilling, relaxing, becoming perfectly attuned. She's no longer feeling aroused, but content, peaceful, and perfectly safe in his arms. After a while, she notices that their breathing has somehow become synchronised and she has a feeling that perhaps their heart-rates have too. She remembers sitting on her father's lap as a small child, the same peace, the same security enveloping her heart.

"I love you," he murmurs, the rumble of his voice through his chest to her ear, the contentment, the peace, making her smile softly. Of course, he loves her. He's her Harry and she's known that for years.

"I know," she replies, eyes closed as she moves her head, rubbing it against his shoulder. She feels as contented as a cat in this moment.

"I hope it's not... too soon... to be saying that. I just needed to... tell you. Last time I was ready..." He tails off.

"Yesterday would have been," she murmurs in reply, "but today... it's just right. Your timing's perfect."

He presses his lips against her hair, then takes a quick gulp of his drink, draining the glass and reaching over to place it on the side-table, making her whimper in protest. "Sorry," he whispers as he settles back again, his now free, left hand rubbing her upper arm. "I needed my hand free."

She sighs happily as he continues to rub her arm, then her shoulder, his fingers slipping into her hair, massaging her scalp and eliciting a moan of pleasure. "You know that I..." She hesitates, unable to say the words yet, her thoughts spinning like they're caught in a whirlpool, gravitating to its centre where an image of George she doesn't want to look at, doesn't want to think about while lying in Harry's arms, grapples for her attention as she struggles to free herself from its grasp and hold onto the splash of heaven she's found here, in his arms.

"I know," he replies, probably sensing the sudden tension in her. His fingers slide through her hair again, more firmly this time, drawing her towards him, his lips pressing against her hairline, her forehead, as he leans towards her, her heart-rate rising, her breath heavier, matching his as he draws her closer, his lips pressing kisses against her skin, her eyebrow, her eyelid. "I know," he murmurs again, leaning into her, his left palm suddenly, unexpectedly cupping her breast.

She moans in pleasure, all thoughts of George banished, and gasps his name. "Harry."

He hums, his lips finding hers, kissing her softly, repeatedly, then sensually licking her lips, his tongue seductively brushing against hers when she parts them, causing another moan to leave her throat, blending with his heavy breathing and the wet sounds of their kisses.

"Ruth," he murmurs reverently, his voice a low, aroused rumble.

They kiss more deeply, his hand kneading her breast, her own hands busy exploring his body, the hard planes of his chest, the softer feel of his belly, the rough scrape of his stubble and the silky softness of his hair.

This feels so good. He feels so good.

"Harry," she murmurs as his lips leave hers to explore more skin.

His teeth scrape her jaw and she shudders, her hips jerking forward involuntarily, desperately seeking some friction. His left hand has already left her breast and is now kneading her bum, and without much thought, she grasps it and redirects it, placing it firmly between her legs, whispering again, "Harry."

Sadly, rather than encouraging him, this seems to bring him to his senses, and it's with unbearable frustration that she feels him slowly withdraw, the diminishing ardour of his kiss and the gentling of his touch making her want to scream with frustration. Wordlessly, she tries to convey her displeasure, but he's already made his decision and, short of begging him for release, there is not much she can do about it. She's not yet that confident around him, however, nor is she willing to risk his rejection, however gently and kindly it's delivered, or nobly it is meant.

She knows him. Harry's a gentleman and he prides himself on his self-control, his self-restraint, his self-denial even. He's clearly unilaterally decided that tonight is not the night for them. Twice now he's stopped them and, despite the sexual frustration she's experiencing right now, she knows she cannot sway him. She could try to seduce him, break him and take her pleasure from him against his better judgement, but she doesn't wish to do that. After all this time, when they come together, she wants it to be a joint decision, something they both want, not something only one of them is fully on board with. And, who knows, perhaps he's even right to make them wait. She's certainly not yet over what happened when she came back to Britain and she's definitely not ready to commit herself to them with all her heart. Her heart's still shattered, its pieces scattered widely between here, a warehouse in East London, a cold grave, and a town 2000 miles from here where a boy lives, his life forever altered by her choices and actions.

"I should go," he says, voice gravelly still.

She's buried her face in the crook of his shoulder, her hands fisting in his jumper as she fights to keep the tears at bay. She doesn't quite understand where they're coming from. Is it frustration? Disappointment? Is it loss? Is it George, or Harry?

"Ruth?"

She takes a deep breath, but there's no masking the hitch in it, the almost sob.

"What is it?" His touch is gentle, warm hands rubbing her back. "Did I hurt you?"

She shakes her head, breathing in deeply, pushing her emotions down, struggling for control. "It's nothing. I'm fine."

She pulls out of his arms, sits up, and quickly wipes her cheeks with her hands.

"I'm not... rejecting you, Ruth," he says softly, and when she lifts her eyes to his, his gaze is full of concern. "I'm just..."

"Making sure I'm ready," she finished for him, giving him a brief smile. "I understand, Harry. I... I appreciate it... how careful you are, how gentle. I feel safe with you. I know I can count on you and that is a precious thing, even if I have to suffer through another sleepless night of frustration." She offers him another smile, warmer this time, her gaze softened by love and gentle teasing.

He smiles crookedly and drops his gaze briefly, she thinks in embarrassment, or perhaps its guilt. "Sorry about that. I got a little carried away."

"Never apologise for wanting me, Harry," she repeats his words from earlier back to him. "You have no idea how many years I've waited for that."

He chuckles and lifts warm eyes to hers. "You could have fooled me."

She wrinkles her nose in displeasure. She doesn't like to be reminded of her own stupidity in denying them back then, when things between them had been so much simpler. "Just because I was scared doesn't mean I didn't lie awake at night wishing you in bed with me."

"I wish I'd known that," he says, voice low.

She smiles. "And what would you have done about it if you had?"

"Seduced you."

"You tried," she reminds him. "At Havensworth. I wasn't having any of it, remember?"

He smiles a slow, confident, sexy smile. "That was nothing. Had I known, I'd have turned up at your door one night and convinced you to let me in. No Diaspora, no CCTV, just us... in a room together. There would have been nowhere to run, Ruth, except straight into my arms."

She swallows, desperately wishing suddenly that what he's described had actually happened, or given that they cannot change the past, that he would shut up and do it now. She's already completely under his spell and loving every minute of it.

"Why didn't you?" she asks once she's found her voice again. "You knew I liked you."

"I knew no such thing," he replies, sadly.

"I'd gone out with you. I'd wanted to go out again."

"You said maybe. You needed time to think about it," he counters.

"Only because I was so overwhelmed by my feelings. I wasn't used to not being able to think straight. It scared me and I didn't know what you wanted. I thought maybe it was just a fling."

"And how was I to know that, Ruth, if you wouldn't tell me?" His gaze is soft and sad now, full of regret for the opportunities that were lost.

"I don't know." She sighs.

"I was your boss. I couldn't risk pressing you with unwanted advances. I had to respect your decision. I tried to talk to you, but you were forever cutting me off and changing the subject."

"I know."

They fall silent.

"God, I was so stupid!" she blurts out suddenly in frustration.

He chuckles and holds her gaze, his hazel eyes warm and full of affection. "I should get going," he says again. "It's getting late."

She sighs. "Yes," she concedes. If there's to be no sex tonight, they might as well try to get some sleep.

They get up and carry the glasses back into the kitchen before she follows him to the door, watching him pull on his coat and gloves, admiring his body, her thoughts straying to the next time they're alone together at Christmas. He might have booked two rooms at the inn for the occasion, but she has every intention of using only one of them.

"What?" he asks when he looks up, noticing her scrutiny.

"Just wondering if you've got me a Christmas present."

"I have," he replies with a soft smile.

"Good. I have one for you too." She doesn't tell him that her present is herself, wrapped in a beautiful dress and some flimsy, lacy underwear that she will be shopping for tomorrow. She hasn't been ready for physical intimacy between them until tonight and she has a lot to arrange before Thursday, though thankfully the IUD she had fitted in Cyprus makes for one less thing to worry about at such short notice.

They smile at each other, hesitating in the doorway, both of them clearly reluctant to part.

"Good night, Ruth," he murmurs eventually, leaning down for a soft kiss, his hand cupping the back of her head as her own grab hold of his lapels when he comes back for more.

They kiss hungrily, passion rising again as he pulls her roughly against him with his hand on her bottom, his lips trailing kisses along her jaw to her ear, teeth biting the lobe, tongue plunging in and making her cry out with need.

"You'll be the death of me," he growls and abruptly pulls back, pressing a hot, wet kiss against her mouth and releasing her, turning and slipping out her front door, eyes blazing with desire as he hungrily takes her in once more before pulling the door closed behind him.

For a moment she's stunned, frozen in place by his abrupt departure, but then she takes a step forward and bangs her fists against the wood in frustration. "Damn you, Harry Pearce. Damn your bloody self-control and your fucking self-denial."

She rests her forehead and palms against the door, willing him to come back, knowing it is futile, wishing it was his shoulder she was leaning against, that his arms were securely wrapped around her. She takes a deep breath and sighs, bolting the door and turning away from it, crossing her flat to her bedroom, then the bathroom where she runs a bath and slips into the hot water and the promise of an orgasm or several to relieve the unbearable tension.

Next time it'll be his fingers that deliver it, she promises herself. She's going to have sex with Harry on Christmas Eve if it's the last thing she does on this earth.