Harry pours out some water from the jug and tries to drown out the effect of Dempsey's lethal eggnog, his contribution to the party that they've missed for the entire duration of his employment. For someone so extroverted, he's a surprisingly reluctant guest at this shin-dig, resplendent with Mr Kipling mince pies, a home-made yule log from Mrs Spikings all being eaten to the tunes of Bing Crosby. He'd excused himself by saying he'd have to be careful to keep his hands to himself around her. He's turned up anyway and there's very little chance of getting frisky whilst they are circling each other, whilst mingling like proper grown-ups.
It's low key festive, all the more lovely for the effort made, but two hours is as much as she can muster. She wants to go to dinner and she is hoping Dempsey will take her somewhere nice and then into his bed. She looks for him. He's unwrapping a Quality Street strawberry cream. If she leaves him alone, god knows where he'll end up. Fry is being persuaded to go to a strip joint by Dave and she doesn't want Dempsey anywhere like that.
She knows people are staring at them. They're all a bit slack jawed from the booze and there's a teasing call from Chas, which is picked up by a few others. Her newly returned status from leave has gained them both a 'reputation'. He's been gazing at her, and she's been tracking him since he retrieved her mug from his desk drawer and she sat down as if she'd never left. But she had, and they both knew the consequences. That was two months ago. She has been wired ever since.
Dempsey catches her eye and then glances up as she learns what he already knows. Bloody mistletoe. He looks apologetically at her before he chastely kisses her cheek. The room seems to grumble as if encouraging a fight and she's a bit annoyed too. Harry was rather looking forward to being The Couple of the year. The pair who get talked about for twelve months until someone else has a try at stealing the crown. They have technically been 'the couple' in absentia because nobody does electric like them. She feels the disappointment. She wants to claim their gossip. He can get the reputation of the man who 'oh-my-god, did you seem him snog her and that look he gave her afterward' and she could be 'Harry who seduced the sexy Yank, and kept him'. The half of the Met's golden couple who may or may not be fucking, shagging or, as she would like to put it, making love.
She's not sure where the urge has come from. She can't stand him. Actually, as she looks at his face, checks out his body and thinks back to how he's changed since that first assessment, it's not actually true. He's actually rather lovely and she gets butterflies when she seems him, feels like she's lost something important when he's not around. Harry scratches her neck, feels an irritated blush on her face as she looks at her shoes in embarrassment. Then she gathers herself, smiles, nods at the audience and takes his tie in her fingers.
There was a moment when she thought he might be reluctant, that all this teasing is just that and she isn't his type at all because he looks puzzled. Then he seems to pull it together too, his hands on her waist, spanning her frame as hers rest on his chest. He is telling her not to run away without words. She hears him inhale and then his lips land on hers, leading her into a kiss that she takes control of when she touches his lips with her tongue. She offers him the promise of more and enough heat to show the women in the room - that's now gleeful - that he won't be kissing anyone else like this again. If she was wired before, she's vibrating now.
Because she can, and it's Christmas, she meets his gaze, his hands earthing her. They seem to decide to smile, as if to show that they're old hands at this when that's so far from the truth. Poking him in the chest she teases him, 'You're coming home with me."
He does come home with her, forever. There have been two parties by the time they settle on a place of their own, away from his flat, and the ghosts of Camberwell Grove. Standing on the porch she finds the front door key and hopes he's there. It's the night of the office party but she's been with Freddy and Dempsey has been Christmas shopping. If he hadn't told her, she may have guessed from the scraps of paper on the carpet and glitter on the dining room table.
It's otherwise incident free. The grandfather clock is ticking, there is clean laundry in a basket waiting to go upstairs and the kitchen is spotless. In the living room, Dempsey has managed to fix the fairy lights on the tree and he's lit the fire. He's sat next to it, in a t-shirt and pants, his hair askew and looking at her like she is Christmas itself.
It's only a matter of moments between that look and finding herself stripped. He is laying bare-arsed on a rug and she's riding him. His hands move to the places she loves him to touch, his mouth is here and there and all over her. He's so deep inside her, that she feels him everywhere. He's so beautiful, on his back, watching her. Then his hands are on her waist, spanning her frame, her hands on his chest. He is telling her not to run away without words. As if she ever could.
He's holding her steady so he can fill her, playing with her until she comes. The fire is hot, his touch hotter still. Shadows from the firelight lick at her when she cries his name and she hears hers growled from his lips.
"That was unexpected." She rolls onto her back and sees him glance up at the ceiling. Bloody mistletoe. The same look she recalls but there's no apology.
"Right woman, right place. He grins and she takes his hand, holds it against her chest so that he might feel her heart and what he does to her.
"Good job I did take you home." Harry murmurs.