the devil's in the details, but you've got a friend in mewould it be enough if I could never give you peace?-- taylor swift

He's harried and exhausted, Mike's impending trial casting a dark cloud even in the clear night. Donna sits beside him and they're sharing comfort, nursing scotch, diving through the past five years of Pearson Specter Litt records in search of anything opposing counsel might use to bite them in the ass.

His arm brushes hers every time he sips his drink and it's electric, pulse thrumming, and his weary bones ache to bury themselves in her touch. And it's not fair, he thinks, that her dress is hardly encasing her breasts — and really, if she didn't want him to look, why wear the damn thing?

He remembers the other dress, the other time she came back to him. How she bounced and swayed and he couldn't leave his desk for a full two hours.

If possible, this one is even better, less open but more enticing — he'd always preferred leaving a little to the imagination — her tits pushed up towards his face, deliciously tight.

As though she can sense his eyes on her, she wets her lips, steadies a hand on his thigh and she must feel how tense he is, muscles clenching under her palm. From arousal or stress or the combination of both, he doesn't know.

In a flash she kneels in front of him and his legs spread to accommodate her of their own accord. They don't say a word, but their eyes say enough — pupils black as night and zeroed in on each other. It's enough to know that she is doing this for him and not for them, and he wants the them but he also knows the last time he tried, he burned them both, and so he allows her take the reigns tonight.

Gentle fingers undo his pants, draw down the zipper and pull him out of his boxer briefs, working him up to full mast before maneuvering him between her breasts, coating her in his essence. The tip sinks into the snug valley of her cleavage and he hisses, shamelessly ruts against her chest for more friction. Just when he can't take it anymore, pulsing in her hand while he seeks her waiting lips, she frees both breasts and fucks him between the globes, holds him there, ducks down to swallow the head in her hot mouth.

And he's coming, not even three full strokes between her, manages to swipe his thumbs across her taut nipples while his hips buck towards her face and his semen drips off her chin.

There isn't much he can do besides fall back against the worn leather, deflated, confused, satisfied but yearning for more. He doesn't do more than stare while she wipes her chin with the back of her hand, tucks him back in his pants and takes both their empty glasses to the cart, dress wrinkled, hair disheveled.

He's still blinking stupidly when she turns around, and he sits up, clears his throat and offers a gruff "thank you."

Donna tilts her head with a small smirk, eyes swimming with genuine affection and guilt punches in his gut, because she gives him everything and what exactly does he give her?

But she kisses his forehead, tells him to go home, get some sleep, she'll see him tomorrow. There's no longing in her gaze, not that he can decipher — just an underwhelming resolution, acceptance, peace. Peace with herself, with them, he doesn't know.

He wonders what it all means.