They make it into her bedroom, somehow, Harvey's hot mouth trailing across her neck, up to her cheek and down by her ear where he sucks and bites. Donna chokes on a moan, tugs at his hair in an attempt to shift his focus from marking her face to getting her naked.

He gets the hint, holds her as she steps out of her pants, flinging them across the floor; she helps push his down, too, feels him rock-hard against her hand and whimpers, actually whimpers. His lips still don't leave her face, not even when she tries to get her camisole over her head, so she lets him take over, which, God, is what she's been waiting for all these years.

And this time, he does. Harvey's in control, in her bedroom, and fuck if she's not ready.

The flimsy silk is dragged down her shoulders along with her bra, the wire cups digging uncomfortably into her ribs, but she hardly cares once his lips close around her naked nipple. It's wet and warm and just what she likes; but right now it's not what she needs, so she gingerly pries his head up to kiss him fully, wrapping a leg around his hips.

He propels them backward, she hits the wall with a thud and her lamp rattles while he grinds against her, panting and pining and petting her curves. She lifts her hips to wiggle out of her panties, then shoves his boxers down — because he's too distracted, too fixated on the newly bared skin by her waist and okay, she can't blame him, because suddenly he's there in front of her after thirteen years, just as big as she remembers and she's actually dripping down her thighs, now — and finally, finally, skin meets skin in the most intimate way and she shivers, he groans, and he pushes inside her, takes her against the wall.

He barely stops to adjust, moves slowly at first, burying deep so his belly brushes hers, all the way in and all the way out. Her nails claw at his back, thighs burning, heart pounding, and then he's pumping so hard her bedroom shakes along with her brain and her own desperate cries echo in her ears.