A/N: This chapter comes with an M warning.
Ruth was trembling, as she stared at Harry; she couldn't help it. His kiss had set fire to her very soul, had left her every nerve tingling, and she felt the desperate pull of his body, dragging her ever nearer to him. Still, though, she resisted, her feet planted firmly on the floor in the middle of the kitchen, her thoughts a chaotic jumble she could not fathom.
It was so unlike her to jump without looking, to throw herself so unashamedly into intimacy the way she had done only a moment before. She was a trifle embarrassed, to be honest, somewhat ashamed of the way she had given all of herself to Harry without a moment's hesitation, wanton and earnest and completely without reservation. What must he think of me? she wondered as she watched him, watched the steady rise and fall of his chest, watched his dark eyes focused intently on her. Nothing about this was light-hearted or flippant; she had told him days ago that she loved him, had sat before him in a derelict warehouse and spilled the secrets of her heart to him, and she hoped that he could understand that there was not another man on earth who could have inspired such a reaction from her with only a kiss.
Usually it was the endless churning of Ruth's thoughts that stopped her short of reaching out and taking what she wanted, that made physical connection like the one she had shared with Harry there against the sink all but impossible for her. Her mind would wander, would consider every possible ramification for every action, would be overcome by anxiety, by the all-too familiar sense that she was insufficient in every way, that her affections were clumsy and most certainty disappointing to her partner. With Harry, though, when he'd kissed her she'd stopped thinking, stopped worrying, damn near stopped breathing as her mind took a backseat to the yearning of her body.
It was a feeling unlike any she had ever known, a feeling she very much wanted to experience again.
Will's untimely interruption, however, had given her just enough of a reprieve to bring her body back under her control, and the doubts and the fears began to fester in her mind once more. Had she overplayed her hand, revealed her wants too early, had her affections painted her as desperate and clingy? Could he possibly want her, possibly need her, possibly feel as much for her as she felt for him? And, oh, Christ, how was she ever going to explain this to Will? The questions swirled through her mind. What is he thinking now? she wondered, watching him take a single tentative step towards her, approaching her as a hunter might pursue a deer, careful not to make any sudden movements, careful not to make a sound lest she spook and run.
This is madness, she thought.
There was no other word for it, no other descriptor that could so completely encapsulate the feeling of reckless, thoughtless abandon that had thrust her into his arms. It was surreal to her, impossible to imagine that it could have happened at all, that Harry's hands could have so blatantly traversed her body, could have so easily lifted her up onto the counter, that Harry's tongue had been in her mouth, that her thighs had locked around his waist and ground her tender heat against his hardness through their clothing.
It was madness, to think that they could so easily set aside their past, that she could without a second thought disregard a lifetime of fearful abstinence in the face of lust and love and a thousand unspoken emotions. It was madness, and she wanted, very much, to do it again.
"Harry," she breathed, hardly daring to blink, unwilling to take her eyes off him for even a second. As she prevaricated and doubted and caught her bottom lip between her teeth he had continued to move towards her, and as she spoke his name he finally reached her.
"I'm sorry," his whispered, his voice a deep, rumbling growl.
She opened her mouth to protest, to tell him that he had nothing to be sorry for, but before she could speak a single word he had taken hold of her once more, and once more he was kissing her with everything he had.
It was, if possible, even more electric, even more all-consuming, even more spine-tinglingly erotic than the first time. With one hand splayed possessively on the small of her back he pulled her towards him, the touch of his hand guiding her body into a graceful arch, pressing every inch of her against him. With the other he cupped her cheek, directed her to him, held her in place while his lips and his teeth and his tongue stole the breath from her lungs and elicited from her a low, needy, keening sort of sound, a sound she had never made before, as she trembled and melted all around him. Never in her life had she experienced a kiss quite like this one, as dazzling in its intensity, as heady in its promise, a kiss that somehow managed to do the impossible, and stop the riot of her thoughts.
Her hands had moved, too, as he continued the endless onslaught, as she strove to slide herself further into the circle of his arms, to bury herself beneath his skin and never leave. She curled her fingers into his cloth-covered shoulders, felt the hard muscle beneath the warm skin, and realized, not for the first time, just how physically imposing he was. He was taller than her – well, technically, just about everyone was taller than her – and his shoulders were broad and his arms were strong enough to lift her easily. She could feel every inch of him, as he curved his body around her, could feel the heat of him, the hardness of him, and the sensation of his closeness left her reeling and desperate for more.
And still he kissed her, still he pushed for more, as his tongue tangled with her own and his lips left her panting and gasping for him. She whimpered, just a little, when he dragged that perfect mouth away from her, let loose a soft sound of dismay that morphed into something else entirely when she felt him pressing hard, heated kisses down the column of her throat.
"I'm sorry," he repeated between kisses. With her left hand she clung to his shoulder, desperately trying to keep herself upright, and with the other she tangled her fingers in his hair and clutched him close against her skin.
What the bloody hell is he sorry for? She wondered. She couldn't remember, any more.
"Just don't stop," she gasped, the words sliding past her lips just ahead of a gentle, reckless moan as he sank his teeth into the soft skin of her throat, just above her racing pulse, exerting just enough gentle pressure to leave her utterly incapable of speech.
This was the very definition of pushing too hard, and Harry found he could not care less. He could not find it in him, to give a damn about propriety, to concern himself with patience or with the thought that perhaps there should come a point when he should cease his ravishing of her. She was soft and receptive and eager in his arms, and the taste of her, the scent of her, the sound of her encouraging him on left him powerless to resist.
It had been in his mind to wonder if perhaps she did not want this, if perhaps she had merely been caught off guard before, if perhaps given a moment to think better of it she might ask him for space. She hadn't though; the few minutes they'd spent speaking to Will and trying valiantly to pretend they hadn't just been snogging their hearts out against the sink had given them both time to think, given them both an opportunity to say no, not now, not tonight, if they were so inclined. If she had said no, if she had held him at bay, if she had given him any indication that this was not what she wanted, he would have kept his hands (and his tongue) to himself. When the moment came, when they were alone once more and the silence stretched between them and she had the chance to tell him no, she had only beckoned him on, and had welcomed his kiss with an enthusiasm that left him breathless and hungry for her.
Her whispered command, don't stop, only confirmed for him that she was as invested in this as he, and he took her at her word, and continued to trace the gentle lines of her neck with his lips, while his hands dug in hard to the flesh of her bottom, anchoring her to him as she ground herself forward against his hardness and whimpered in his arms. Every sound she made pushed him nearer the brink; he knew that the kitchen was no place for this, that she deserved a bed and a lifetime of tenderness, of gentle caresses and soft lilting sighs, but he did not have it in him, to tear himself away from the salty sweetness of her skin, to break the connection of their bodies for a single second, let alone the few minutes it would take them to disentangle themselves and mount the stairs.
His body found the answer long before his brain did; he guided her back, searching for something, anything to ground them, and felt the tremor that ran through her when her back connected with the wall. Instinct had taken over, as all conscious thought receded; in the absence of doubt, in the absence of grief, muscle memory and sensation urged him on. It had been five long years, since he'd last slept with a woman, five years during which his nights had been lonely, and his thoughts had been consumed by her. By the woman currently running her soft, warm hands across the broad plane of his back beneath his shirt, this woman who was somehow as radiant as the sun and as mysterious as the moon, darkness and light and hope and grace and a thousand other things all at once. Everything was new, with her, every sound, every touch, every fleeting moment fresh and bright and endlessly addicting.
There was no need for thought, no need for planning, no need for worries; as he dragged his tongue along her collarbone he ran one hand down her back to clench her thigh, and he found that she responded to his unspoken suggestion without further prodding, as together they angled themselves so that her leg wrapped around his waist and he was thrusting his throbbing, almost painfully hard cock against her, hampered somewhat by the fact that he was still wearing his trousers and she was still wearing her jeans. Christ, but if it felt this good, just to hold her, just to kiss her, what would it be like to have her naked in his arms? He could think of nothing sweeter.
He needed to feel her skin, to see her, really see her, to know every centimeter of her, to share every piece of himself with her, but if they stayed tangled up together like this much longer he was going to come in his pants, and he'd be absolutely no good to her after he died of embarrassment.
So it was that what little capability for thought remained to him forced him to rally, to pull away from her and the siren song of her warmth, and continue their stumbling progress. He guided her with his hips, his mouth having once more found its home, pressed against her own. He kissed her ardently, fervently, reverently, and she breathlessly matched him with her own insatiable need. Finally, miraculously, they made it to the sitting room, where they collapsed together on her battered old sofa.
This was as far as he could go; Harry didn't possess infinite self-restraint, and he needed to feel her, taste her, all of her, now. He rolled her beneath him, taking a moment to stop and simply gaze in awe-struck wonder at her face, flushed and luminous as she smiled up at him. She reached up, cupped his cheek in her hand, her thumb brushing gently against his bottom lip. There was no quiet declaration of feeling, no whispered words passed back and forth between their gasping breaths; there was only her beatific smile, and the answering call of his own battered heart. What need did they have of words? What words could they possibly speak that could ever capture so perfectly what they felt for one another? It seemed to him that they had left the realm of spoken language far behind them, that they had found a way of whispering to one another with their hands and their eyes and their lips, a way of expressing more completely, more succinctly, more truthfully the burdens of their hearts than any mere words could ever hope to do, and so he did not speak.
She ran her thumb along his lip, tracing the shape of him, her eyes reflecting every feeling that coursed through his veins, and so he kissed her skin, softly, tenderly, and then reached beneath him, fumbling between them until he found the hem of her shirt. She sucked in a deep breath, tensed for a moment, and his heart nearly shattered in his chest, as he wondered if perhaps he had read her wrong. It passed quickly, that moment of doubt he saw flash across her face; she was smiling again, and she gave him a shy little nod. Thus encouraged, he helped her shimmy free of her blouse, taking her bra with it. Beneath the soft, pleated folds of her shirt she was just a woman, after all, just flesh and blood, just an endless expanse of soft, smooth skin. He shifted slightly, and lowered himself to her, tracing the curve of her breast with his tongue, his whole body reeling as she arched her back up to meet him, thrusting her hips against his hardness and whimpering, please.
Harry was still a soldier at heart, and he knew an order when he heard one. He smiled against her skin, and continued his slow, steady exploration of her, drawing ever nearer the tight furled bud of her nipple. When finally he closed his mouth around it and flicked her lightly, teasingly with his tongue, she dragged her nails down his back and moaned, a heart-stoppingly erotic noise that had him desperate for her all over again.
There was still the barrier of her jeans to be dealt with, and he was still wearing all his clothes, and so while his mouth was busy learning the topography of her chest his hands wove between them, his fingertips tracing gentle patterns across her soft belly, delighting in the way her muscles trembled and jumped beneath his touch. When he reached the waistband of her jeans he did not linger; he released the button from its sheath, lowered the zip, and immediately began to seek out the wetness between her thighs.
Ruth's sofa was old, and mercifully large, big enough that she could lie flat on her back with her knees bent, cradling Harry's body between her legs. This was, he decided, his favorite place in the entire world. In no time at all he was tracing the shape of her dripping folds with his fingertips, each touch of his skin against her own drawing a new, irresistible noise of want from her. Without further consideration he plunged two thick fingers deep inside her welcoming warmth, and she cried out beneath him, bucking hard against his hand, the fluttering of her tight inner walls drawing him deeper and deeper. He sucked hard on her nipple, curled his fingers inside her, and followed the lead of her wildly roiling hips, thrusting again and again until with another shattering cry she came around him, her head pressed back into the corner of the sofa, her fingernails digging into his scalp, painting an image of such transcendent glory that he nearly wept to see it.
Ruth thought she must have passed out, for a moment; when she came to Harry had divested her of her jeans and her ruined knickers alike, and was laying heavily atop her, pressing gentle kisses into the curve of her breast and looking at her like she was the most precious, the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen in his life. She had never, ever come like that before, had never before managed to divorce herself so completely from her treacherous thoughts and give every piece of herself over to sensation alone.
There was something so right, about being naked beneath him, about feeling every inch of him pressed against her skin, but still she wanted more. Ruth wanted him, wanted him bare and beautiful and exposed to her own wandering hands, her own desperate touch. She reached for him, pulled his face up to her own, and kissed him soundly; while she occupied him with searching lips and tongue she slipped her hands between them and fumbled for his shirt buttons. Harry chuckled against her lips, and raised himself up on his knees, offering her his help unasked as they kissed and laughed and struggled to divest him of his clothes while still touching one another as much as they could.
She wanted everything, and she wanted it now. She wanted to run her hands along the length of his body, wanted to trace the shape of his throbbing cock with her fingertips, wanted to take him in her mouth and hear him moan, wanted him to thrust himself deep inside her and make her lose what little remained of her self-restraint; she wanted all of this, all at once, and she knew in that moment that having him just once would never, could never be enough for her. She wanted everything, every moment, and she felt in the trembling of his hands and the pleasant aftershocks still coursing through her own body that this was only a beginning.
Somehow they managed to coordinate themselves, to peel the many layers of Harry's clothing away until he lay in her arms, smiling and gasping slightly at the sensation of his skin brushing against her own. He was warm and hard and here, with her, tangled up on her sofa, his cock nestled in the crook of her hip, his breath warm on her cheek.
Slowly she dragged her fingertips down the length of his spine, sending a shiver coursing through him as she reached as far as she could; his chest was covered in a sparse blanket of coarse, golden-brown hair that left her tingling as she felt it scratching ever so gently against the tender skin of her breasts. He was magnificent, was Harry; everything about him was so much more, more than she ever imagined, so much better, and she strived in that moment to commit every piece of him to memory.
They did not trouble themselves with words; when he was ready, Harry braced himself on his forearms, his hands cupping the back of her head, holding her in place as he stared down at her with a question in his eyes. Ruth leaned forward, caught his lips in one more searing kiss, and then reached between them, unable to stop the gasp that escaped her when she finally closed her hands around his erection and felt him for the first time. This, too, was more than she had ever thought possible, but she was not afraid of him; however limited her experience in this particular department might have been Harry had shown her tonight that she could trust him with herself, with her body and with her heart, and she did not fear him.
He caught her bottom lip between his teeth and held it there, distracting her somewhat as she guided him into her.
"Christ," she moaned, unable to keep her silence as he finally, finally, slid home. He was thick and hard and hot and he filled her, fully, completely, deliciously. She threw her head back, her hands clutching his hips as he settled himself inside her; in that moment, she felt herself in danger of flying apart completely, so great was her need and so overwhelming was the feeling of them, together. Harry tenderly kissed her cheek, her jaw, the column of her throat, and then he used the hands still cupping her head to draw her face close to his own. Her eyelids fluttered open, surprised at the movement; the moment her gaze fell on his face he locked his eyes on her own, and she found herself unable to look away. A lazy, satisfied smile colored his features, left him looking younger, more confident than she had ever seen him before.
And then, ever so slowly, he withdrew, pulling almost all the way out of her. Though she whimpered, and dug her fingers hard into his hips, trying to pull him back into her, he would not be deterred. He held her gaze, his dark eyes burning, and he waited, just a moment, left her balanced there on the edge of a knife, desperate for him.
"I love you," he breathed.
"Harry-" she started to speak, but then his smile grew, and he plunged himself back inside her with a powerful thrust of his hips, and whatever words she was about to say vanished in an instant, chased away by the sound of her crying out for him.
This was bliss, this was paradise, this was perfection, realized; she kept her eyes locked on his face, her hands had flown up from his hips to his back where they dug in as she clung to him for dear life. She was hot and wet and perfect, and he could not tear his eyes away from hers. Onward he moved, plunging into her harder, and faster, and with every needy, hopelessly erotic sound she made he found himself falling deeper and deeper under her spell. She locked her legs around his waist, the heels of her feet pressing into his bottom, encouraging him, calling him on. Ruth was, without a doubt, the single most responsive partner he had ever had; he had no need to ask her how she was faring, what she liked. She told him without words, in the flutter of her eyelids, in the hoarseness of her moans, in the bucking of her hips, just what she wanted from him. And he was more than happy to give it to her; he had never in his life wanted a woman this badly. In that moment, as he sank himself inside her again and again, he felt that if he had to stop making love to her he might surely die, so great was his yearning for her.
This was what he had been waiting for, all his life. This love, this union so perfect in its imperfection, this complete and utter surrender was unlike anything he had ever known, and he knew, knew by the look in her eyes, by the ragged, desperate sound of her breathing, knew by the marks she was leaving on his back, that this would not be the last time. It was that knowledge that kept him from losing his head completely, kept him moving sure and steady. Yes, the sofa was not the most romantic setting, and yes the circumstances that had led them to this point were truly horrific, but there was beauty in this, in this coming together after so long apart, in this joining of their bodies after having shared the truth of their hearts with one another. He wanted her, every piece of her, but more than that, he wanted to give himself to her, and so he did.
On he moved, pushing her ever nearer the brink; he saw her eyelids flutter, saw the rosy blush spreading from her perfect breasts up towards the slender column of her throat, and he knew that she was close. He braced himself on one arm, and used his free hand to search through her raspy curls until he found what he was searching for. As he thrust into her he rubbed her clit, over and over, searching for just the right rhythm, just the right pressure, that would send her spiraling into oblivion.
And then he found it, and she broke around him with a wail, her arms clutching him to her fiercely, her legs locked tight around his waist, her tight inner muscles clenching him over and over until he could hold back no more, and with a roar he followed her over the edge, shooting hot and wet deep inside her.
When Harry came back to his senses they had shifted somewhat; he was lying on his side, his back braced against the back of the couch, Ruth curled in his arms. Her legs were tangled with his, her arm was draped around his waist, and her nose was pressed into the soft skin of his throat. The mindless urgency had left them, and in its place he found only a bone-deep sense of contentment. Her hair tickled his nose, and the softness of her skin warmed him through and through.
"I didn't mean to do that," he murmured. He felt he had to say it, felt he needed to reassure her that however mind-blowing it had been, he had not come here with sex on his mind. Or, at least, not only sex.
"Didn't you?" she asked, tilting her head back to look at him, her blue eyes soft and uncertain, and he realized how incredibly foolish it was, to say such a thing to Ruth, when she was lying naked in his arms.
"Christ, of course I did, and I want to do it again, at the first possible opportunity," he corrected himself quickly, watching as a slow smile bloomed across her face. "I only meant-"
"I know what you meant," she interrupted him, raising herself up enough to brush his lips with her own. She collapsed back against him, and he held her that much tighter, pulled her in as close as he could manage.
It occurred to him that he had, rather foolishly, declared his love for her in the heat of the moment; if he hadn't been so bloody tired, he might have worried about what effect that confession would have on her, on them. As it was, though, he was too exhausted to worry.
"We should move," she said softly.
He hummed; he knew she was right. Will would come home, eventually, and it wouldn't do for him to find the pair of them naked and sweaty and blissfully post-coital on the sofa. Still though, he did not release his hold on her; perhaps they should move, but he wasn't entirely sure that he could, and even if he somehow managed that feat, the thought of being away from her, even for a moment, was intolerable.
"Stay with me?" she asked, her face still nestled in close against his skin.
Harry smiled.
"Always," he answered.
