A/N: Once again, I must apologize for the delay. I've been quite ill the last week or so, and on top of that I've been totally swamped at work. I have not forgotten this story, and I have no intention of abandoning it, though I may not be able to stick to my usual breakneck pace of writing. I beg your patience. And for now, this chapter is M-rated.


18 July 2006

As the minutes ticked by, the passion between them only grew, as they kissed with a bruising ferocity, tangled up together there in her kitchen. Harry couldn't quite believe his luck somehow, couldn't quite wrap his mind around the notion that Ruth had reached out to him, that she had placed her hand over his own and asked him so boldly what he wanted, knowing the answer and yet throwing caution to the wind, and asking anyway. He wanted to throw his hands up in the air and cheer out of sheer exuberant joy, but he could not pull himself away from the gentle warmth of her body long enough to engage in such exulting, not now, not when he was holding her, not when the sunlight streaming in from the windows warmed her skin and turned her golden and glorious before him, not when her tongue was furiously, feverishly tangling with his own. In this moment he could no more have stopped kissing her than he could have stopped breathing, and Ruth herself seemed equally swept away by the flood of desire that swirled around them, drawing them under.

He took one step, and then another, and Ruth moved with him, her body bowing against his as his hands traveled the elegant curve of her spine, learning the changes time had wrought in her and falling ever more deeply in love with her with each passing second. One more step, and then they came to a stop, as Ruth bumped into the kitchen table, letting loose a breathless, startled little laugh before resuming her exploration of his mouth. There was no space left, between their desperate kisses, their fervent moans, their eager, insatiable hands, in which to come up with a plan, to consider ramifications, to take a step back from the precipice. They had already jumped from the cliff, and were plummeting fast, tangled up together.

As they stood, locked in their embrace, Ruth's hands mapped the broad expanse of his shoulders, her fingertips dragging against the hard muscle and harder bones beneath his skin, and with each tender touch, his yearning for her only grew. For twenty long years he had thought of her, had dreamt of her, had thrust himself inside his faceless partners thinking only of her, the brilliant shine of her eyes, the delirious song of her whimpers, the sheer damning heat of her. No other woman, before or since, had left such an indelible mark upon him; he was addicted to her, had been from the moment they first touched, and across the decades that marked their separation he had endured all the symptoms of withdrawal, his hands shaking and his thoughts consumed by his need of her. And now he had her again, felt the sharp, nigh on unbearable high of holding the object of his desires within the circle of his arms once more, and his rational mind deserted him, all thoughts of his age and his bum knee and his countless failings deserting him at once so that he was now acting on instinct alone, that base, primal urge to claim her, to devour her, consuming him even as he longed to consume her.

So it was that he did not stop to think about the foolishness, the recklessness of what he was about to do; he simply did it. Acting on instinct his hands trailed down across her body, feeling her trembling beneath his touch, until his hands curved around her bum, squeezing her once before lifting her up and onto the table behind her.

The table was small, round and made of oak, but it was mercifully sturdy, and did not buckle under her slight weight. The sudden change in their position tore them both from their kiss, and Ruth took the opportunity to draw a ragged breath, tossing her head, her dark hair swirling round her shoulders. Sitting astride the table she was now slightly above him, and she reached out, running her fingers over his scalp, threading through his sparse hair and smiling at him softly as she struggled to steady her breathing, her chest heaving, her nipples hard and visibly standing to attention beneath her soft shirt. Harry ran his hands over her hips, around her waist, feeling the fabric rippling beneath his touch, feeling the heat of her scorching him even through that barrier, knowing it would be easy, so damnably easy to strip her bare and take her there and then, if she wanted him to, if she would let him.

It was in his mind to ask her, to check one final time to confirm that this was what she wanted, that her thoughts had taken the same somewhat lascivious turn as his own, but Ruth did not give him the chance to speak; she wrapped her legs around his waist, the heat and the softness of her thighs pressing against him drawing a groan from his lips unbidden, and with a surprising strength she pulled him into her, throwing him momentarily off balance. Harry tumbled into her, her hands cradling his head, guiding his mouth back to hers even as he threw out his hands to catch himself, coming to rest palms down on either side of her bum. It was her turn to lead them on, and so she did, the insistence of her heat, unbearably close to his own growing hardness, the press of her ankles against his body telling him in no uncertain terms precisely what she wanted.

And if this was what she wanted, if she had somehow found it within her heart to forgive him for abandoning her, to admit to her need of him, to succumb to the desire that had bound them almost from the moment they first met, then he was bound and determined to give it to her, to give her everything he had and more besides, to make her scream out in pleasure, to make her his, once more, never again to be taken from him. If this was what she wanted then he was determined to love her in a way that not even he had managed before, even when he was young and headstrong and capable of thrusting himself inside her all night long. If this what she wanted, then he was determined to make sure that for all the rest of her days, he would be the only man she ever longed for, just as she had become the only woman in the world to him.

He did not pause, did not give himself an opportunity to think better of it. He slid his hands once more to her hips, and ran them under her gray t-shirt, sliding against the sinuous, silky softness of her skin until her captured her breasts, kneading them in time to the thrusting of his tongue in her mouth, her nipples hard and pebbled beneath his palms. Beneath him she whimpered and gave a subconscious thrust of her hips against his own, drawing him ever tighter against her, and still he continued, drunk on the feel of her firm, tender flesh beneath his hands and the way she ground herself against him, the rhythm of her movements promising him delights beyond imagining. And still the tempo of their desire grew, their hearts beating in time, faster and faster, blood pounding in his ears like some ancient drum echoing a song of love that wakened some slumbering beast deep within his chest, some insatiable giant come to life and eager to feast upon this woman he held within his arms.

That song, that need, that fire could not be denied, and so he all but ripped the shirt from her, drawing a gasp from her lips as they separated. He did not give her the chance to speak, but the burning look she gave him told him everything he needed to know. With a growl from somewhere deep inside his chest he pressed his advances upon her once more, holding her up with one hand pressed flush to the center of her back while his mouth descended upon her, enveloping one tight, delicious nipple between his lips while his lover moaned her approval and rocked against him in ever-increasing wantonness. The taste of her, the heat of her, the sound of her, the smell of her arousal floating all around him drove him nearly mad with need, and he continued on, relentless, wedging his free hand between them, his fingertips pressing along the seam of her trousers, using that little ridge to his advantage. She was hot and wet already; he could feel her, through the thin material of her pajamas, and she let loose a gasp, her whole body shuddering as she thrust down against him, desperately chasing the friction between them, the release he promised with each pass of his fingers. It would be easy enough, he knew, to make her come undone right then, but he wanted more, wanted everything, and so he did not give into her demands.

Instead, scraping his teeth across her nipple and sucking it back into his mouth once more to her delight and her undoing, he caught her hips in his hands, running his fingertips beneath the elastic of her pajamas and knickers alike, catching the fabric and dragging it down. As he stripped her he took the opportunity to run his hands along the creamy softness of her legs, from the joint at her hip all the way down to her ankles, forced to release the hold his mouth had taken as he withdrew from her, leaving her panting and completely naked on the table, her bare breasts heaving, her legs splayed open and the dark thatch of curls between her thighs calling out his name. She was impossibly lovely, his Ruth; her posture, the curve of her body, the tension in her soft muscles, the burning luminescence of her eyes, all combined to paint a singular image, a Renaissance portrait come to life.

And in that instant, staring at her, wanting her with every piece of himself, he stopped. Only for a moment, watching her, wondering at her, at her beauty, marveling at the thought that this woman wanted him as he wanted her, that she was here in this room with him, watching him with hungry eyes, not telling him to stop but with her every movement calling him on, begging him for more. They did not speak, but then they did not always need to; sometimes, he had found, words simply got in the way, particularly with Ruth, with this woman who always spoke so carefully, who weighed her every thought so heavily before sharing it. Perhaps it was best not to speak, not to ruin this moment when for once they seemed to be of one mind, bent on one common goal. Perhaps it would be best, he thought, if he were to touch her again.

And so he did, sliding back between her thighs, his hands dancing up the length of her legs. She drew her face to his once more, and once more he kissed her, felt the quiet reflection of a moment before fading fast beneath his longing for her, and hers for him. And still his hands moved, feeling the curves and dips of her, until he reached her hips once more. This time, though, he did not stop, did not linger; gently he caressed her, sought permission with his kiss while his right continued on its journey, across her soft stomach, down through the raspy curls at her center, until he reached the velvety of softness of her folds.

"James," she gasped, tearing her lips from his own as she threw her head back, reclining on her outstretched hands and canting her hips up towards him invitingly.

Something inside Harry's chest snapped, at the sound of that name falling once more from her lips. Always before he had resigned himself to this, to hearing her call another man's name, to the surge of guilt that filled him, as he thought that she would never truly know him so long as she did not know his name, that he would forever be a stranger to her, unless he gave in and trusted her with this deepest piece of himself. Always before he had hated himself, for loving her and lying to her.

No more.

As his thumb circled gently around her clit, teasing her, he leaned towards her, capturing the lobe of her ear between his teeth for a moment, allowing himself an instant to prepare before he spoke, and risked tearing them asunder, for good and all.

"My name is Harry Pearce," he growled against her ear, even as he thrust two thick fingers deep inside her.

Whether Ruth had him or not, he could not be sure; she had given herself up utterly to the moment, riding the rising tide of her passion with undulating hips, her eyes closed as a meager defense against the onslaught, even as she trembled and moaned and came undone beneath him. For his part, Harry simply guided her through, plunging his fingers into her slick wetness again and again, drunk on the sound and sight of her pleasure, his own heart pounding in time to the fluttering of her muscles around his fingers. Onward he moved, building her up higher and higher, never ceasing until suddenly her thighs locked tight around his wrist, her whole body seizing up the moment she achieved her peak, and tumbled over it, whimpering.

Carefully he held her, cradling her dripping sex in his hand, dropping tender kisses against the sharp protrusion of her collarbone, trying to ignore the way his cock screamed to replace his fingers, unable to block out the memory of their first time together, pounding against her as she supported herself on the tabletop in the pub, her hair cascading like a river down the smooth expanse of her back. The sight of her now, curled against him, shuddering slightly as the last waves of her orgasm washed over her, absolutely trounced all his previous memories of her.

Finally she came back to herself, taking one last deep breath before releasing the vice-like grip of her thighs on his forearm. She wound her arms around his neck, and dropped a gentle kiss against the dip in his chin.

"I think we should take this upstairs, Mr. Pearce," she told him softly, and though he could not see it, with her face turned away from him, he could feel the smile on her lips as she dragged them across his raging pulse. So she had heard him, after all.

"Actually," he said, catching her face in her hands and tilting her head back so that he was once more staring into those brilliant eyes he loved so well, "it's Sir Harry."

"Jesus," she said softly, the expression on her face caught somewhere between chagrin and amusement.

"You aren't angry?" he asked, even as he took a step back, taking her hand in his and helping her slide down off the table.

"I knew your name wasn't James," she confessed. "I knew you couldn't have told me the truth, back then. I didn't need to know your name to know you. But thank you," she said, leaning up on her tiptoes to kiss him once. "For telling me now. For trusting me. Sir Harry," she added with a twinkle in her eye.


With her heart pounding in her chest, her fingers tangled with his, Ruth led James - Harry - from the kitchen, and up the narrow stairs towards her little bedroom at the back of the house. She had told him the truth; she had always known, in her heart, that his name wasn't really James. It didn't suit him, somehow, didn't quite go with his personality, his face. Harry, though; she rather thought that name fit him as well as the crisp white shirt she was even now planning to tear from his shoulders the moment the bedroom door closed behind them. It was a very English name, she thought, Harry Pearce; and he had a knighthood, to boot. What on earth did he do to earn that? She wondered, even as it occurred to her that she was completely naked, and the fully-dressed knight of the realm who was currently prowling up the stairs behind her had an unrestricted view of all of her most vulnerable parts. This did not concern her very much; the fingers of his right hand were still damp, entwined with her own as she led him on, and there was a pleasant tingling ache between her thighs that spoke so eloquently of him, of them, of what they had done, of what they had yet to do, and she could not find it in her to be bashful. There had been a moment, one single, terrified instant, when in the height of his passion he had stripped her bare and she had wondered if perhaps he would not be pleased, to see how the time had changed her. It had only taken a single look at his hungry expression, however, to tell her that he was more than pleased with her, that he still wanted her, just as he had done when they were both of them younger and tighter and fitter than they were now. And, truth be told, she wanted him just the same, despite the extra weight he carried, despite the way his movements had slowed with time. Beneath it all, he was still James - Harry, whoever - still the same man, and she wanted him, now, before she had a chance to think better of it.

For in truth, she had been dreaming of this moment since the day he left her all those many years before, wondering what it might be like, if ever they were to meet again, and now that the opportunity had presented itself, now that she knew that the heat, the lust, the love that had burned between them in their youth had somehow survived all the chaos and calamity of their separation, she could not bring herself to retreat from him, to deny the longing of her heart. She wanted him, and by God she would have him, here in her little house on a bright Tuesday morning when the horror of the world seemed to have been banished, however briefly, and all that remained was hope and the gentle caress of his hands.

The door closed behind them, and they were there, standing together just inside her little bedroom. Situated as it was in a corner of the house the room boasted two windows, the soft curtains drawn back to let in the morning sun, her bed nestled against the far wall, beneath the lowest point of the gently sloping ceiling. She cast her eye about anxiously, wondering if Harry might find something off-putting in the general disarray of her room, the jumbled pile of clothing in the corner, the untidy heaps of books stacked around the periphery. She'd never gotten around to buying bookshelves for this room, partly due to her lack of finances and partly due to the fact that she simply couldn't face hauling furniture up those stairs if she didn't absolutely have to. There was no need for her to worry, however; it was clear from the look on Harry's face that he couldn't have cared less that the room was messy and the bed was unmade. He only had eyes for her.

"You're so lovely, Ruth," he murmured, reaching out to run one of his broad, strong hands along the curve of her hip, drawing her once more into the circle of his arms.

She sighed happily, pressing a kiss against the underside of his chin before she set about unbuttoning his shirt, hell-bent on balancing out the inequity of their dress. While she did his own hands wandered, reawakening her longing for him.

And wasn't it strange, she thought, the way he could with a single touch set her heart ablaze. In the many long years since she'd last seen him, Ruth had only slept with two other men, first George, and now Sean, and though both of them were attentive - and in Sean's case, inventive - lovers, neither of them had ever quite succeeded in making Ruth lose herself the way that Harry had done so easily. Always her mind was racing, her thoughts a constant distraction, but not with him. He set her soul at ease, filled her with peace, left her operating on nothing more than instinct and emotion in a way that was both foreign and freeing to her.

With his buttons all undone she peeled the shirt from his shoulders, a soft gasp escaping her as she took note of the new scars he carried. During their short-lived affair she had often traced the red welts and lines that marred his broad chest, and he had told her what he could of their making, sparing her most of the details in deference to the need for secrecy inherent in his work. She knew their number well, and as she counted them now, she saw that he had added to the collection; at least one mark, the one on his left shoulder, was identifiable as a bullet wound.

Reverently she leaned forward and kissed him there, feeling the rough edges of the blemish beneath her lips. He's given so much, she thought, but she did not speak, knowing what he would say, should she ask him why, ask him if it had been worth it. Harry believed in what he was doing with all the righteousness of a crusader, she knew; he would no doubt tell her that the safety and freedom of his countrymen was worth the price he paid in blood. Ruth disagreed, but then, she loved him in a way he could never love himself, and his pain seared her twice as deeply.

"Come to bed, Harry," she murmured, her fingers digging beneath his belt, catching hold of him and dragging him back with her. With no further prodding he followed her, still unwilling to tear his hands from her bare skin, even as she was unwilling to cease the exploration of his chest her lips and tongue were currently undertaking. Yes, the time had changed him, but the salty taste of his skin was the same, and she wanted him still.

Once they reached the bed Ruth disentangled herself from him; that was always the most awkward part, she thought, that moment of falling into bed, and Harry was not a small man. She didn't imagine that it would be comfortable, to simply flop back with him on top of her. Instead she chose to arrange herself amongst her tangled sheets, her hair fanned out on the pillow as she watched him, waiting for him to come to her.

Those dark eyes seared her to the core as he slowly, deliberately began to unfasten his belt; for her part Ruth could not tear her eyes away, could not so much as blink as she drank in the sight of him, of his body being slowly revealed to her. The strong, sturdy muscles of his thighs, the coarse hair of his chest, the straining bulge of his cock tenting his trunks; every piece of him delighted and inflamed her, and her inner walls clenched involuntarily at the thought of having him once more between her legs.

When he was finally naked she held out her hand to him, and he took it, sliding his body over hers, leaving her burning everywhere he touched her. He propped himself up on his elbows, his hands cradling the back of her head, and she clasped him there between her thighs, teasing the back of his legs with her toes for a moment before once more wrapping her legs around his waist. He was close, so unbelievably close, his gaze adoring and intimate as he leaned over her. He kissed her once, softly, and then brushed his nose against the tip of her own, eliciting a hum of pleasure from deep in the back of her throat.

This was right, this lying here together, sharing the same air, the same space, breathing one another in like swimmers preparing for a deep dive, filling their lungs one last time before they plunged into the unknown. Everything about this moment was sharp, and sweet, and heady in its promise, and Ruth was grateful that Harry was not rushing them along, that they had left their reckless abandon downstairs, trading it instead for this soulful, steady merging of their hearts. Though her body cried out for him, though she could feel him throbbing with want of her, they savored the moment, savored their closeness, and within her chest she felt her love of this man swelling to almost unbearable proportions, until she thought she might burst from happiness alone.

"I have to tell you," he whispered, his nose pressed to her cheek, his face so close she could not focus on him and instead closed her eyes against the intensity of the moment. "I never stopped loving you, Ruth."

She gasped then, partly because of the words, the depth of emotion, the yearning behind them, and partly because he had chosen that moment to begin to enter her, the flared head of his shaft slipping between her folds, stretching her deliciously. It had not been so very long, since last she'd spent the night with a lover, but she had never had a man quite as well-endowed as Harry, and the sensation of their joining left her breathless and aching for him. He was mindful of this, as ever, moving slowly, and it did not seem to bother him, that she did not respond to his declaration of love. Likely he had not expected her to, given the way he'd spoken, and so Ruth did not fret about it, choosing instead to lock her arms around his neck and give herself over to him entirely.

And then he was fully sheathed within her, and her mind shut down all together. He raised himself up on his arms and withdrew from her, ever so slightly, sliding back into her with a smooth thrust of his hips, and with each movement of his body some fresh, mewling sound of want left her lips until it became too much for him to bear, and he began to pound into her in earnest. She could do no more than cling to him and moan her pleasure, as she was swept away by it, by him, by them together, by the relentless way he filled her, by her own desperate yearning to be utterly consumed by him. Still he moved, harder, and faster, and harder still until she could no longer breathe, could no longer move, could no longer feel her toes, until she reached that point of frenzied, trembling need, when it felt as if with his next thrust she must surely be torn asunder, until she nearly wept with the dire, uncontrollable need that bubbled up deep within her. Harry, sensing just how close she was, shifted their position slightly, catching the back of her thigh in his hand, pressing it back towards her chest, realigning himself above her so that on his next thrust he drove so much deeper within her than before, and she broke with a wail, relief flooding through her in waves as he set her every nerve alight.

The clenching and trembling of her inner muscles around his rock-hard cock was his undoing, and with two more powerful thrusts he succumbed himself, as with a roar he emptied himself inside her before his shaking arms gave way beneath him and he collapsed against her, his head pillowed on her breast. She was thankful for that, thankful that his head was nestled beneath her chin, and so he could not see the tears that streamed freely down her cheeks as she stroked her fingers through his sweat-dampened hair and struggled to regain her breath. He had shaken her to her very core, and she knew, in that moment, that for all the rest of her days, she would love no man but him.