AN: Rated M.
Sorry for the delay with this chapter, this week got away from me a little bit :P Thank you to Southsidesister (darvey_love) the most amazing beta ever! And (NAhavenbb) for so many inspiring ideas :) xx
Chapter 2
Donna slips in the earrings Harvey purchased for her birthday. Although technically she bought them, the fact doesn't sway her smile as she slides her finger down the gold. When she'd picked out the exquisite set, the idea of them together was just a fantasy ghosting her mind. Now, he's still a terrible gift giver—that hasn't changed since exchanging vows—but she no longer has to question how he feels. He makes a point of showing her each day, with gestures that mean more than pieces of jewellery—even though the sparkle does enhance the glow she's feeling.
Taking a deep breath, she scrutinises herself in the mirror, again. She's dressed with confidence, but there are still nerves fluttering in her stomach. Tonight is about more than winning over clients or impressing people of a certain stature. The event is one she organised, the first real step towards a career in public relations for the arts, and the evening marks the start of a journey she's been waiting years to undertake. Law was a field she wound up in, and she doesn't regret a moment of the time she'd spent working in the corporate world. She and Harvey had set out to achieve something great, and they did. His achievements had marked her own, but now she's ready to pursue her own goals. In just over an hour, she needs to shine as brightly as the stars of the production, charm the press, and make sure the play and its cast become headline names; a task she feels instantly more capable of when a sharp intake of air interrupts the stillness in the bedroom.
She catches Harvey's gaze in the mirror, her cheeks warming as his eyes roam over her dress. The long-sleeve gold lace is form-fitting and the low-cut is risque, more NYC than Seattle, showing a vast expansion of cleavage that's bold, yet tasteful. Her designer described the Gucci piece as edgy elegance, racy but rustic, and she smooths down the lines, throwing her husband a smile. "Too much?"
He regains his composure, covering by quirking his lips as he stalks towards her. He's had years of practice trying to pretend she didn't steal his breath at every function or gala, daily practice, when she'd turn up to the office, taunting him with outfits he wasn't allowed to undress with his eyes. Now he can, he doesn't want to hide his thoughts, skimming his palms seductively over her hips. "How can it be?" he murmurs, inhaling an intoxicating scent of vanilla and jasmine. "You're missing half the dress."
She shivers as he pulls her closer, feeling his smirk press against her neck, and she folds her fingers over his wrist with a soft snort. "Is that a complaint?"
"You look beautiful," he assures, the word not doing her nearly enough justice. She's stunning and sexy, ethereal, yet commanding, and he's still in awe of the fact she agreed to marry him, torn between wanting the world to know it, and keeping her all to himself. There's no doubt she's going to turn heads tonight, but she deserves the success. A chance to make a name for herself doing what she loves, and he lifts his head, meeting her reflection in the mirror. "You're going to upstage the talent."
"Who says I'm not the talent?" she teases with a grin, raising an eyebrow.
He considers her almost seriously, before giving away the charade with a wink. "I can definitely see you as a showgirl."
His chuckle hums across her skin and she slaps his arm playfully. "I really married a sweet-talker." There's sarcasm beneath the tone but also amusement shining brightly in her gaze. She doesn't think she'll ever tire of bringing up the fact they're married, and judging by the wide stretch of his mouth, he won't either.
"That's your fault," he quips, brushing his lips against her ear. "You knew I wasn't a gentleman when I proposed."
He catches her out, but she doesn't miss a beat. "Who says that isn't why I love you?"
She bests him with the remark and a comfortable silence falls between them as he dips his head, unable to describe the flow of warmth filling him. If someone were to keep a tally of how many times they say out-loud they love each other, she'd be ahead. The words usually slips out of her mouth first, late at night, or following a laugh when she calls him an idiot. He's never been particularly comfortable expressing the sentiment, but it expands in his chest as a reflex now. Sometimes he glosses over a response, other times he whispers it back, but tonight he speaks with his hands, delicately stroking her arms as he breathes a kiss against the nape of her neck, ghosting his lips across her skin. She rarely wears her hair up, the exposed area demanding his attention, and his fingers twitch with the urge to release the braided tresses, wanting to experience the best of both worlds.
"Don't you dare." The warning falls out in a breathy whisper as she claps his elbow to stop it lifting. "This took me over an hour." She asserts herself, biting the smile she's trying to force back. "You're not messing it up in five minutes."
He smirks, seeking her out in the mirror, again. "Who says I was going to?" She fixes him with a look, one that thwarts his intentions, and he chuckles. "All right, I was."
"I know." She gives into the grin she's been hiding, reluctantly pushing his hands down. Tonight, fashionably late isn't on the agenda. "Come on, pretty..." She pats his arm. "Let's go show me off."
She moves to pull herself free, but he turns her around before she can fully escape. "Hey, you're going to be great."
He squeezes her gently, not an ounce of hesitation behind the assurance, and she stretches up to capture his mouth, tasting the hint of scotch that's on his breath and breathing it in. He must have had a drink while he was waiting, and she wonders if there's a part of him that's feeling nervous as well. It's her night, but as supportive as he's been throughout her changing career, flashing lights and cameras aren't really his scene. He prefers to make a name for himself through his cases, letting attention come to him, and she lands back on her heels, tugging at his lapels. "Thank you, Harvey."
He smiles, reaching out his arm. "After you, Mrs. Paulsen-Specter."
...
...
Harvey's pride doesn't falter as he watches his wife throughout the evening. She runs the lavish party like she was born to be in the spotlight. Although there's a team of people working behind the scenes, she has tabs on every one of them while she interacts with the cast and press, leaving him to mingle. In NYC, at a client shindig or the charity events Jessica used to force him to attend, he had a clear goal, to represent the firm and drum up an hour into another round of small talk, he seeks refuge at the bar, replacing his champagne with a double Macallan, neat. The drink goes down quickly, and he thinks about stepping out to call Mike—anything to counter his boredom, but he doesn't want to be absent when Donna finishes up.
He wants to share the evening with his wife, a task that's made difficult by her being pulled away every time they steal a few moments alone together. On more than one occasion the interruption has been in the form of a tall blonde, Ewan or Eric—something—Ryder. Donna had introduced him as the lead actor in the production, and he's tried to be civil, but after several more drinks and forced conversations about things he doesn't have a clue about, with people who are self-confessed theatre snobs, he needs a break. He was an athlete in college, right up to the point he'd injured his shoulder, and the only literature he'd read afterwards were textbooks to get him through law school. He's completely outside of his comfort zone, and draws out his phone, searching for the nearest exit.
He slips out into the night, the cool air refreshing as he dials Mike's number.
"Let me guess, you're bored already?"
Mike's voice crackles across the line, making him feel like an ass. He wants to support Donna, but honestly, he doubts she'd even noticed if he left. "I tried," he defends. "You have no idea what these people are like."
"Pompous, arrogant, self-absorbed… remind you of anyone?"
"I am not pompous," he fires back, leaning against the wall outside with a sigh. "You don't get it, Mike, she's…"
Happy. That's the word pushing at his lips but the truth he won't admit to. In all the years he's been working with Donna, she's never seemed so engaged and he can't help but take the switch personally. Like he's been some sort of place holder in her life, filling her time until something better came along. She's always claimed she wanted more, and he doesn't know where he fits in this new world of hers that's all glitz and glamour. He'd rather be at home, curled up on the couch and watching Survivor, not here having to bluff his way through topics about playwrights he's never heard about. But he doesn't want to be left behind either. "She's doing an amazing job," he finally breathes, shoving his free hand into his pocket to shield himself from the icy wind.
There's a beat of silence while Mike no doubt considers the unspoken weight beneath his words. The man isn't as perceptive as Donna, but they've been friends for long enough that he doesn't have to spell every little thing out.
"Then don't ruin this for her."
Mike answers with the one piece of advice he wasn't searching for—not because his best friend doesn't understand, but because he does. He knows he's letting his insecurities get the better of him, he just doesn't know how to stop them taking hold when he feels like he's been holding Donna back all this time. "I should head in."
"Harvey."
His name stops him from hanging up and after another pause, Mike's voice fills the line again.
"Donna doesn't do anything she doesn't want to."
The assurance helps put a block on the panic curling in his chest, the statement blanketing a wide spread of fears. She's stayed by his side for a reason, married him, and he takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly. "I'll see you tomorrow."
This time he does hang up, slipping the device away as he stares pointedly towards the illuminated green exit sign. He'd rather drive to New York for a mudding session with Louis than subject himself to more tedious conversations, being continuously reminded that his knowledge is inferior to that of the company which he's in. But this is what Donna wants to be doing. It's her dream, and he's been dragging her down his own path long enough.
He can save face for one night, and he forces himself back inside, heading straight to the bar to help get him through the rest of the evening.
...
...
Donna smiles broadly as Ethan makes a joke about the cameras while they're having their picture snapped. Despite her insistence, he'd dragged her into the shot, citing her as the reason he'd been discovered and the woman behind the scenes, and while she knows neither is true, the press seem to be lapping them up, so she plays along, slapping his arm and reeling off a rehearsed spiel about show dates and what they can expect from the director and cast.
As soon as the lights stop flashing, she sighs in relief and drags Ethan by the cuff of his sleeve. "Only one of us is supposed to be in the spotlight tonight."
"Then you should have rethought that dress," he quips, backtracking when she shoots him a glare. "Okay fine," he concedes, "but you know everything I said back there was true. This is your night too. Why not enjoy it?"
Her cheeks flush with the compliment, and she gives a second's pause to actually hear what he's saying. When she was working for Harvey, it was her job to hide behind the scenes, but law is a giant leap compared to the industry she's in now. The people asking questions aren't hidden on the other side of phones or meeting requests. They're here, in the flesh, looking to her for answers. Is the show going to sell record seats? Do they have enough time to get everything ready? What makes this production stand out against the others?
She'd delivered every answer without faltering because she'd planted them in the first place, but taking recognition as a public figure wasn't something she'd been expecting—even though Ethan's grin is telling her to stop being so goddamn humble. "You're a bad influence."
"Hey, you made me," he jokes, when really he's just trying to give her the attention she deserves. He may have landed the lead role and been coined the star in all the press releases, but if it weren't for Donna, he might not have even gotten an audition. Couple her help with the work she's put in to make tonight a success and he can't see any reason why she shouldn't take credit for the achievement. "I know you're loving it."
He nudges her, and she can't resist giving in. Maybe she's not used to getting recognition on such an elaborate scale, but he's right. She worked hard to pull this together, and she glances around the room, her gaze suddenly widening when it lands on a man wearing a tailored ruby suit, commanding attention with his mere presence.
Ethan catches her sharp intake of air, turning his head to where she's staring wide-eyed. "Is that—"
"Graham Grotowski." She swallows her disbelief, but there's no mistaking the famous flamboyant director. He's standing in the flesh, a small posse collected around him, and suddenly she's flooded with the nerves, the feeling not one she's accustomed to.
"How the hell did you get Grotowski here?" he asks, not sure who he's more star-struck by in that second; the man stirring a crowd or the woman who had managed to draw him to the event.
She'd invited the famous director whose plays preceded him, not expecting the message to go further than his management team. The rumour he was passing through town wan't concrete but she'd reached out on a whim, using all her Donna charm, and for him to actually show up—
"Donna, breathe," he urges, reminding himself to do the same. Whatever she did, it's his job to go make an impression, and there's no way he's going up alone.
"You're right. I asked him to come, he's here… no big deal." She takes a breath, squaring her shoulders, trying not to think about the fact it is a big deal, a fucking big deal. Anything he says to the press is a holy grail to the shows starting on Broadway, and she swivels, scrutinizing Ethan's appearance.
"Seriously?"
She tips her head to the side with a smirk. "What? We know I look fantastic. Here—" she shrugs his jacket down, leaving his hair as it tucked away in the messy man bun he's sporting. He'd opted for suave casual, sans tie, and she runs her finger up popping the second button of his shirt, taking a quick step back. "There, perfect."
"Alright. Let's go wow, Grotowski." He extends his arm with a grin. "After you, Paulsen."
...
...
"Which is your choice of the classics, I lean towards Baraka myself, but you seem like more of a Faulkner man…"
Harvey's attention drifts back to the older couple at his side, specifically the lady who had grabbed his arm seconds before he saw Donna heading off with wonder-boy in tow. He doesn't know if it's the alcohol that's fixating his gaze, but every time he glances across the room, the little shit has his hands all over her, laughing at something he can tell from here isn't funny.
Don't ruin this for her.
Mike's voice rings in his head but the Whiskey in his system counters the warning. Since he entered back into the stuffy room he's felt a migraine building, colourful lights flickering at the edges of his vision, not helped by the press still flashing photos or the large crowd filling the room. He's paid his dues on the sidelines, and he placates the women he's been speaking with, landing his empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter. "Actually, I'm more of an Ian Fleming fan," he quips, forcing a smile. "If you'll excuse me."
He picks up another champagne on his way over to Donna, not for himself, but feeling the need to have a reason to approach his wife. In all his years competing against rival law firms, he's never felt this much on the outs, but he tempers his frustration, this time heeding Mike's warning.
"Sorry to interrupt," he says carefully, resting his palm against the small of Donna's back and handing her the glass.
She takes the drink, sensing the tension radiating from his tight grip, and she smiles apologetically, hoping he can understand why she's had to leave him alone for such long stretches. Momentum has been pulling her in every direction, and she does feel guilty, but she's networked enough of his events in the past—been left to fend for herself while he charmed clients and swanned around with Louis or Jessica. It's just one night, and she brushes his arm, giving it a light squeeze. "Harvey, this is Graham Grotowski."
The fact she doesn't introduce him stabs at his ego, but he swallows the hit, forcing his mouth to curve. "Harvey Specter."
Grotowski eyes the new addition to the group up and down curiously. The suit he's wearing is clean cut, expensive but no flare, and he quickly deduces the man isn't a part of the theatre scene. "Banker?"
Harvey stiffens, taking offence to what sounds like an insult. "Lawyer." He feels Donna's elbow dig into his side, warning him to be friendly—not point out he doesn't have a clue why they're all ferreting around someone who could pass for a dime store Santa. Presumably the man is important, and he makes a half-assed attempt to play nice, for Donna's sake. "No offence taken."
Grotowski tilts his head to the side, not caring for the comment. The man's demeanour is everything he would expect from a corporate body, but he likes the vivacious redhead, who has been an absolute delight, so he lets his reservations slide.
Harvey, however, isn't in the mood to be patronised any further, especially by a ridiculous, flamboyant suit-wearing prick. He's had his fill tonight, his temples are throbbing, and if he stays, he's going to wind up saying something he'll regret. Either to the puffin in front of him or the actor who's brash smile makes his headache feel a thousand times worse. He doesn't want to be the ass who abandons his wife on her big night, but she seems to be doing just fine without him, and he catches her gaze, subtly nodding away from the group.
"Excuse me one moment." Donna smiles politely at Grotowski and Ethan, trying to ignore her irritation as she follows Harvey a few steps, folding an impatient arm across her chest. "What's going on with you?"
"Nothing." He dips his head with a wince, expelling a slow breath. "A migraine, that's all."
She scrutinizes him carefully, ready to call bullshit until she notices the slight twitch under his eye. He's had them on rare occasions in the past. Too few times to be a problem, but real all the same, and her expression softens, concern washing over her annoyance. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah." He feels shitty for lying. Although, technically, he isn't. The pounding at the base of his skull is the main reason he can't bring himself to force any more pleasantries, though the little voice in his head scolds him for not trying harder. "I just need a dark room or something."
"Don't be ridiculous." She holds his gaze seriously. "You should go home, we'll be wrapping up here soon, anyway."
"I don't want to—"
"Harvey," she stops him, reaching her fingers out to settle over his wrist. "It's fine. Besides, you remember what happened last time?"
He chews the inside of his cheek with a nod. He'd refused to leave the office and had gotten into such a bad state, he'd ended up hurling his guts into Jessica's trash can. The moment hadn't been one of his finest, and he can feel himself heading in the same direction, propelling his mood to tipping point, but his eyes avert to the group behind her—specifically to the man who can't keep his goddamn hands to himself. "I can wait…"
"Stop."
She fixes him with a stern look, and he pinches the bridge of his nose, reluctantly giving in. "Message me when you leave, okay?" He leans down, pressing a chaste kiss against her cheek.
"I will," she promises, breathing out a sigh as he pulls away from her. He isn't lying, but she knows there's more going on, something she's not about to question here while she's working. They can talk about it later. When he's in a better head-space, but she still feels the separation when distance pulls them apart. .
He feels it too, the weight of inadequacy bearing down as he pushes through the crowd, slipping his phone from his pocket. There's a text from Mike which he ignores, scrolling past the message to find the number of the cab service Donna programmed in.
As soon as he steps out into the cold, he regrets the decision to leave, but stubbornness and the pain throbbing behind his eyes prevents him from turning back around.
Right now, leaving is the right thing to do—he just has to come to terms with why.
...
...
As the hours roll by, Harvey doesn't come to terms with anything, except the weight of scotch in his hand as he drinks through the symptoms of his migraine. They'd started to ease the second he'd shed his suit and bowtie, assuming Donna wouldn't be far behind him, but when she'd texted to say she was heading to an after-party, his fingers had shook with nervous energy as he'd turned his phone over on the table.
Now all he can think about is how she's out celebrating without him, Ethan-fucking-Ryder glued to her hip, and shot after shot hitting his lips only fuels the images spilling into his mind. He should never have left her. He should have swallowed his goddamn pride, and forced his way through the rest of the evening, and—
Fuck.
He screwed up.
Don't ruin this for her.
Mike's words come back to him again, and he tears a hand through his hair, conflicted by what to do, when he hears the jingle of her keys in their door. The sound propels him up, not caring how late it is. Since he arrived home, he's spent every passing minute wanting—needing—to see her, and when he lays eyes on her, his breath catches like it did earlier in the evening.
She's stumbling out of her heels, using the doorframe to prop herself up, and when she meets his gaze, he flinches at the way her scowl narrows.
"You're still up," she observes, having assumed when he didn't message, he'd taken some painkillers and gone straight to bed. Deciding he needed to sleep it off, she'd accepted an invite to an after-party with Grotowski and Ethan—celebrating with far too much tequila, and she stands up straighter, trying not to wobble as she takes in her husband's disheveled appearance.
"Feeling better," he mumbles, probably just as drunk as she is by now. Even though she'd said things were wrapping up, they obviously hadn't, and he bites the inside of his cheek, chewing at his annoyance. "Looks like you had fun."
Without him.
The blatant insinuation is a dig, but she's not going to be quilted for having a good time—celebrating everything she'd achieved tonight, in spite of her husband acting like an ass. "I did."
"Great." He inhales sharply, an apology on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows the guilt he's feeling, breathing out roughly. "With Ethan?"
She isn't expecting the accusation and bristles at the insinuation. "Is that a problem?"
He recognizes the tone, knows the question is a test—but he doesn't really care. They've always trusted each other. The company she was with tonight might have been weighing on him, but he's more scared that he'd let her down, even if he can't put the way he's feeling into the right words. "I'm sorry that I don't know the chorus to Cats or have a master's degree in twentieth century history."
The comment is a low grumble, one she could choose to ignore, but he doesn't move and neither does she—pissed he would dare try to blame his mood on someone she's come to call a friend. All he had to do tonight was show up, wear a smile and be pleasant. A simple task that was clearly asking too much. "This isn't about Ethan," she snaps, landing a firm hand on her hip. "It's about your ego… You could have made the effort to talk to him, but you didn't."
Because he was a pretentious little shit. The thought fires, but he doesn't voice it as he steps closer to her, his anger tunneling in a different direction to his dislike for the man. "How the hell was he supposed to make an effort when he was dragging you off somewhere every five goddamn minutes?"
"We were working, Harvey." She throws him an exasperated sigh, her energy draining at the pointless fight he's trying to pick, too tired to unravel why he's so angry. If he really is jealous, then standing here justifying there's nothing going on with Ethan is a waste of time. He's not going to pay any attention until he sobers up, and she doesn't want to play games. "If you have a problem with how I do my job, then don't come next time."
The next time hits hard—the realization that this is her life now knocking the wind from his chest, and when she moves to step around him, he reaches for her wrist in desperation. He doesn't want to get left behind. He wants to support her but they'd spent years in the same office and his feelings definitely weren't platonic. They'd raged beneath the surface whenever she'd been seeing another man, bothering him because he was afraid to lose her, and he makes a point of bringing up the obvious flaw in her argument. "We worked together for over a decade and I never—"
"What?" She tugs her arm free, shooting a glare at him. "Touched me… showed affection, any goddamn interest at all?" She doesn't regret the outburst, but shakes her head, lowering her voice. "Not everybody is a walking robot, Harvey. Friends can do more than we did."
"We were never friends." He declares the bold statement, his gaze possessively flickering over her. She's right. He'd toed a careful line… Flirting but never touching; admitting he cared but keeping her at a safe distance—neither of which meant he hadn't been tortured by his stupidity. He'd taken her for granted, but he isn't going to make that same mistake now.
She swallows hard as he steps forward, the dark dilation of his pupils closing in, and she hits the door behind her with a sharp breath. "No?" she challenges, her heart beating faster as his palm rests against the panel beside her head.
"No," he affirms, his frustration giving way to something else—the need for her to understand she wasn't the only one who used to imagine them being together. There are plenty of moments hidden in the recesses of his mind, suffocated by guilt every time he lets them rear, because he still wishes he'd come to his senses sooner, but she's never been just his secretary or friend. She's always been everything, and he pushes his lips over her hers, his other hand clinging to her waist as he dives his tongue in to deepen the intensity of the kiss.
She moans as his growing hardness pins her against the wooden frame, her body set alight by the desire pouring out of him. Whatever he's trying to tell her—she doesn't listen, selfishly driven by her own need until he rips his mouth away from hers, drawing out a sound that slips into a hitch as he sinks his mouth across her neck. He nips her skin, leaving it raw without the feel of his tongue to sooth the bruising, and she bangs her head back causing the door to rattle, but the pain doesn't register. Instead, his touch envelops her, scolding a blazing trail of fire in its wake that consumes everything else.
"You want to know how it felt, working with you, not being able to have you like this." He rumbles the question harshly against her throat, creating a pool of heat between her thighs.
"It drove me fucking crazy."
He grinds his hips forward with the explicative, and now she's listening—wanting to hear every pent up fantasy, all the times he thought about them being together, and she bites her lip, daring him to accept the challenge. "Show me."
The demand is breathy but commanding, and he catches her wide, glassy gaze that's swimming with too much alcohol. She's drunk, and he checks himself—a second to make sure this is really what she wants, but her leg hooks around his thigh with forceful intent and he's propelled forward, stealing her lips without a trace of shame. If she wants to know what it's like to be driven to the edge of her sanity, he's going to take pleasure from granting the request.
Her hands move to encourage him but he catches them with a smirk, pinning her wrists against the door and dragging his tongue down the crevasse of her exposed cleavage, swiping and licking the mounds straining against the confines of her dress. He'd been captivated by the daring display the moment he'd laid eyes on the gold ensemble, but after all the attention being lavished on her tonight, he's even more incentivised to claim what lies beneath, his arousal throbbing as she squirms with a silent plea for more.
He gives less than an inch, teasing her nipples through the lace, and several less than appropriate curses hover on the tip of her tongue, her spine arching to get more friction, but he stalls his ministrations entirely, clenching her wrists.
"Stop moving."
His voice is smooth and thick, like liquid honey, and when he lets go, she obeys the direction, pinning her palms behind the back of her head to remove the temptation of directing him.
Satisfied by the submission he rewards her by running his hands down to cup her buttocks and feathering his thumbs along the inside of her thighs, edging up to trace the damp line of her panties. She whimpers at the contact, the noise jolting his erection, and he strokes her languidly, but doesn't slip beneath the barrier. He withdraws, anticipating and silencing her protest with a bruising kiss before turning her around to face the door. He considers easing the tight pressure swelling in his trousers, but he wants to see her naked first—to revel in the view that's his and no one else's.
He teases down the zipper of her dress, caressing the opening with his hot breath, and she screws her eyes shut, regretting instigating a game when he could be inside her already. He's made his point, and when his hand snakes across her bare skin, cupping her breast with light pinches, she does the work for him, shrugging off the fabric clinging to her shoulders.
He lets her get away with pushing down the garment, but that's all as he uses his still clothed body to press her up against the door again, humour vibrating through his vocal cords. "Turn around."
He takes a step back and she follows the gravelly demand, exposing herself to his intense gaze that ravishes her with devotion. He's not looking at her like a jealous husband, but someone who would give her the world if she asked for it, and she reaches her hands back up over her head, urging him to finish what he started.
He doesn't need any more encouragement, the task of prolonging her pleasure waning under the desire coursing through his own tense muscles, but his ego takes the helm, and he slides his lips over her mouth as he hooks a thumb beneath the band of her underwear, rubbing and spreading her slick folds.
She bucks her hips, digging her nails into her palm as he moves down her body, kissing and licking until he finally sheds the last layer covering her modesty—his tongue drawing a map along the inside of her trembling thighs, meeting her heated core with lazy strokes.
Her breath comes out in a fast gasp as he toys with her, beads of sweat pooling from the pores of her skin as his fingers push and withdraw, stretching her walls and making her clench in a desperate effort to keep him inside her. When she physically can't restrain herself any longer, she drops her hand, twisting it through his hair and bringing his mouth closer to her painfully throbbing clit. He responds with the vigor she's searching for, pumping her harder, his mouth a frenzy until she's diving over the edge into a sea of white lights that make her head swim and her knees buckle.
He catches her with a firm grasp, his grip digging into her flesh as he flashes her a smug grin.
"You okay?"
She doesn't answer, sealing her mouth across his instead, and the smirk falls from his lips as she cups his hardness, prompting him to regret still being fully clothed. Although worth it at the time, the obstruction proves to be painfully suffocating, and he fumbles over himself, stripping down his trousers and underwear, leaving his ruffled shirt as is.
She doesn't argue the extra layer, bunching the fabric to get a better grip as he hoists her up, his hard member sinking into her wet heat. It doesn't matter that she just came. Her muscles welcome the intrusion, clenching around him in need of more as she digs her heel into his ass, rocking her hips to spur him on.
He growls at her impatience, needing to set the pace because he wants to get her off first, but she makes it impossible to focus. His thrusts turn chaotic, faster than he's able to control, and he's ready to be selfish, to blame her in the aftermath, when her walls suddenly spasm around him. She takes him with her, stars bursting across his vision as he palms the door to keep them upright, his breathing laboured as he finds her hooded and lust-fuelled gaze.
He knows he should say something. Apologise for being an ass or several other hundred things, but he doesn't want to face up to his fears if that means letting her go. He wants to stay this close to her and ride out the high he's feeling holding her in his arms. "Shower?" He quirks up an eyebrow, stealing himself away from reality by burying his head into the crook of her neck.
If she was sober, maybe she'd be the voice of reason—tell him that make up sex on a loop isn't going to resolve anything, but the tequila mixing with her endorphins wipes away any part of her brain that can connect to logic. He's not the only one who can play fast and loose, and they've got the rest of their lives to fight and figure out compromises.
Tonight she wants the same thing he does.
To be with him, and deal with the rest tomorrow.