The moment his lips touched hers Harry's heart began to sing, a wild, exuberant hope rushing through him as he held her tight, as one of her hands snaked up to cup his cheek, holding him against her as her full lips parted and his tongue surged into her mouth. Yes, she had whispered, and he had known in that moment that she was answering every question he had ever laid before her, was without reservation throwing her lot in with his. So many times over the years Harry had tried to talk her round, had been granted the smallest taste of what life might be like with Ruth by his side only to feel her slipping from his grasp, but for the very first time he felt in her ardent response to him an answering desire from her for the very same things. This was more than a kiss, more than a momentary lapse in judgment; he had told Ruth quite plainly what it was he wanted of her, the dreams he harbored for their future, and she had answered him, unequivocally, yes.
There was no thought in his head save for her, the heat of her, the softness of her, the way she offered up every piece of herself to his hungry kiss. There were questions still to ask but they paled in significance compared to the one Ruth had just answered. Where they would go, what they would do, what they would say to those people in their lives who deserved an accounting from them; none of it mattered, really, for the most important thing was that now they would face those obstacles together. Whatever came next, they would be united in their response to it, and so he did not spare a moment to think of anything else. He only held her, broad hands pressed hard to the slope of her back, and kissed her with everything he had.
It had been so long, so very long, since last he'd held her in his arms. Before the tribunal, before Albany, before Ros's death and his subsequent disastrous proposal; it all felt rather like something that had happened in another life, now that once more Ruth was wrapped around him. And it seemed that much as he felt himself overwhelmed, swept away on a tide of desire and desperate need, Ruth was likewise powerless to resist the call of her own heart, for her hand slipped round to cradle the back of his head, fingertips threading through his sparse hair, the yearning in her touch communicating itself so eloquently to him.
There was nothing for it, then, but to take a shuffling step forward, and then another, and then another, Ruth following the dance he had begun without hesitation until they were both of them collapsing onto the bed. Their lips parted, but only for a moment as they rolled together, as Ruth hooked her leg over his hip and drew him close, reaching out to touch his face once more, her expression awe struck, reverent, delighted.
"I have missed you," she whispered as her fingertips traced the lines of his face. "So much."
"My Ruth," he answered, pulling her closer so that he could feather kisses along the line of her jaw, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, the creases at the side of her mouth. "I have ached for you."
And he had, had every moment of their separation felt the loss of her manifesting as a physical pain in his chest, had spent two years walking the streets of his beloved London as no more than a shell of his former self, one half of a whole that had seemed until that moment to be shattered beyond all hope of repair. Not so any more, however, for Ruth was holding him, cradling him close and whispering words of love and devotion in his ear. Perhaps it was rash, to fold themselves together amongst the tangled sheets of that anonymous room when they had not yet made any plans for their next steps, had not even begun to discuss the course they ought to take, but it felt so right that Harry could not stop to question the wisdom of his decision. His hands slipped beneath the heavy fabric of her jumper - his jumper, in truth, though he would gladly gift it to her if only so he could see her wearing it all the time- intent on finding the heat of her skin. And find it he did, her back soft and smooth as silk beneath his palms, and she gasped and he groaned and once more they found themselves locked in a heated kiss.
Six years earlier…
You, Harry. I want you.
Those words echoed loud as gunfire in his mind, as he lost all restraint and kissed her with everything he had, felt her molding herself against him everywhere they touched, their hearts beating in time to a rhythm of desperate yearning. His lips were tracing the elegant lines of her neck, one hand clasped hard to the swell of her bum, holding her tight against him while she sighed and wound her fingers through his hair. He had made no attempt to hide his desire for her and she had made no attempt to pull herself back from him, and he knew that in that moment she would follow wherever he led, would give him anything he asked of her. There was nothing in the world he wanted so much as to press her back against the wall and lose himself between her thighs but before he could he knew there was one question he had to ask.
"Your mobile," he gasped against her skin.
"Left it in my room," came her breathless answer.
He grinned and resumed his kisses, needing no further explanation. She had come to him in the still of the night without her mobile, with the express purpose of seeing him without anyone the wiser. Perhaps she had come knowing this would be the inevitable result; perhaps this was what she wanted all along. It was enough for Harry to know that she had done this thing, and while as her boss he knew he ought to chide her for this breach in protocol as her lover he gave thanks for it. They had time, then, time enough to enjoy one another, and though they would be exhausted come the morning it was his hope that they would be rejuvenated as well, that they would be all the better for having healed their wounded hearts.
Though a baser part of him rejoiced at her words and urged him to press her back against the wall some sense of chivalry prevailed, and so he did not lead her there but instead to the big empty bed behind them, and Ruth went with him willingly, the warmth of her hands against his cheeks, the back of his neck, dancing along the breadth of his bare shoulders telling him in no uncertain terms that she was as invested in this as was he. There was no grace in it, the way they tumbled into that bed, but there was grace in the way she held him, the way he felt when she cast one leg over his hip and drew him in close against her. Every line of her face, every fleck of color in her glorious eyes, every detail of her was so clear, so brilliantly, beautifully on display for him that for a moment he could only look at her, utterly swept away by how lovely she was.
"You are so beautiful," he told her, his words a reverent whisper even as his hands slipped beneath her soft, floating blouse, intent on the warmth of her skin. At his touch she arched further into his embrace, tightened the grip of her thigh around him.
"I'm sorry," was her answer, and some of the confusion he felt must have shown on his face for she leaned forward and kissed him once, softly.
"I'm sorry for doubting this. Us," she explained. "I'm sorry for running."
He hummed and pressed himself closer to her, guided her to tilt her head back so that his lips could once more explore the column of her neck.
"Just promise me you won't run away from me again," he all but begged her.
"I promise," came her breathless answer.
Between them they managed, somehow, to strip the clothes from their backs, each article falling in wild disarray around the bed, utterly forgotten the moment it was dispatched in favor of exploring the skin revealed in its absence. It all came back to him, as if by muscle memory alone; without a thought he sought out each place he recalled so fondly, knowing without need of words where to touch her, where to kiss her, how to hold her and leaving her gasping in delight. The tender skin behind her ear, the thundering pulse at the base of her neck, the unbearable softness of the curve of her breast; with each passing second he discovered her anew, sought to bring forth the soft sounds of her pleasure even as her own hands danced across his skin, pressed him closer to her, lit him up with longing for her.
But then, oh then his fingertips dipped between her legs and she gasped, the leg cast over his hip curling, drawing him in even as she turned her head, let her gasping breaths paint the curve of his shoulder where she nestled now. They surrounded one another completely, twisted and tied together with bonds no man could break. The sound of her voice, her gasping moans and awestruck whimpers led him on until the clamoring of his own body grew too loud to be ignored. Perhaps the rhythm of his fingertips against her center faltered, or perhaps she possessed some inexplicable, otherworldly understanding of him, but even as his own arousal began to peak she reached down between them and wrapped one hand gently around his hardness.
He was unable to contain his groan of longing, and though she kept her face tucked into the crook of his shoulder where he could not see her still he could feel her smile where her lips brushed against his skin.
"Please, Harry," she whispered.
He could never deny her anything, this beautiful woman he loved more than his own life, and so they worked together there, Ruth's hand guiding him in until at last he felt himself plunging into her wet heat, felt the shiver that coursed through her own body, felt the slightest rasp of her teeth against his skin.
"I love you," she whispered, and in that moment he was lost, for finally he knew those words to be true. She loved him, and he loved her, and they allowed themselves to be consumed by that love, rocking together as two ships tossed about on a stormy sea, the lilting sound of her cries as intoxicating as the wash of waves upon the shore. Higher and higher they built one another up, her hips pressing into his in a rhythm that left him breathless. They remained right where they were, twined together on their sides, so close, every sensation reduced to the immediate, to heat and wet and the slide of skin on skin and the softness of her hair beneath his hand as he cradled her there against him. A high-pitched, needy sort of whine left her, and then she gasped as at last the relentless plunge of his cock inside her and the unbearable intimacy of the moment swept her away. There was nothing he could do in response but carry on, thrust into the delirious spasms of her release until he found his own, nestled in her embrace.