He stands outside, leaning on the low garden wall, the soft breeze coming in over the water and caressing his face like a tender lover. He closes his eyes and imagines her fingertips sliding across his skin and her lovely voice murmuring his name. He sighs heavily and shakes his head, bringing himself back out of his fantasy into reality. This isn't helping, Harry, he thinks and makes an effort to compose himself.
It's become more and more difficult over the last few years to exercise his self-control and maintain his cool mask of indifference, and there have been a number of occasions lately on which the cracks in his armour have emerged for all to see. It was one such occasion that had precipitated the events that had lead Erin to insist that it was time for him to take some leave. He shudders briefly as he remembers how close he'd come to killing a man in a fit of rage. If Dimitri and Calum hadn't been there, or if Erin had reported it to his superiors... He sighs heavily and resolutely turns his thoughts elsewhere, letting his eyes settle on the moonlight reflecting off the water, taking in the beauty of his surroundings, and as he raises his eyes to the sky, gazing at the stars twinkling in the heavens.
The weather has been unseasonably hot over the last few days. He's wearing just a short sleeved shirt and light trousers, and in his hands he cradles a glass of wine. His mind drifts back to their last encounter and he has to fight hard to control his wondering thoughts. It won't do for him to be upset when she arrives any more that it will do for him to be aroused. He slides his hand into his right pocket and fingers the edges of the postcard, his lifeline in times of need.
"Hello, Harry," her voice breaks into his thoughts, and for a split second, he fears he's imagined it, but when he turns towards the sound, she's standing before him, a vision in blue that takes his breath away. The glass he's holding slips from his fingers and falls to the ground with a dull thud, the contents spilling onto the soft earth, staining it a dark red. Neither of them notice this, however, as they stand a few feet apart, drinking each other in.
"Ruth," he murmurs in a hoarse voice and reaches his hand towards her, but his mind catches up with what he's doing, and he quickly pulls back, letting his hand drop to his side with a soft sigh.
Perhaps she sees the pain in his eyes because she steps forward and murmurs, "Don't," as she reaches for his hand and takes it in her own, sliding her fingers over it and lifting it up to her face. He watches her in wonder as she presses his palm to her cheek and slides her fingers between his, covering his hand with her own as she pushes it against her damp cheek, her other hand gently encircling his wrist.
She's crying he realises suddenly, and it spurs him into action. "Don't," he murmurs huskily. "Don't cry, Ruth." But his words seem to make matters worse, and she begins to weep in earnest, sobbing uncontrollably against his hand. "Shhhhh..." he says quietly and pulls her towards him, and to his surprise, she doesn't resist, but allows him to guide her into his arms. Her arms wrap around him, sliding up behind his back and holding him tightly to her as she buries her face in his chest and cries into his shirt. His right hand slips into her hair, cradling her head against his shoulder, and his left arm snakes around her waist. She fits so perfectly against him; he always knew she would even though he's never been allowed to hold her as close as this before. "Don't cry, Ruth," he murmurs again, tilting his head forward, his lips brushing against her forehead as he speaks. "You'll make me think that you're sorry to see me," he adds after a moment in an attempt to lighten the mood.
"No," she exhales in a soft, almost laugh as she struggles to control her sobs. "They're tears of happiness," she adds after a bit, once her breathing has quietened a little. He smiles at that and twists his head round further to look at her. She lifts her head from his shoulder and murmurs, "Sorry, I'm ruining your shirt."
He shrugs slightly as he begins to pull away from her, not sure if holding her close like this is okay now that she's no longer crying. To his surprise, however, she murmurs, "Don't," and tightens her arms around him.
"Ruth?" he whispers uncertainly as he looks down at her luminous eyes. She sniffs a little and he immediately reaches into his pocket and offers her his handkerchief, which she accepts with a soft thank you. Then she releases him for a moment as she dries her eyes and wipes her nose before gathering the handkerchief in her left hand and turning towards him again.
"I've missed you, Harry," she murmurs softly and steps forward, lifting herself onto her toes as she rests her right palm over his heart, pressing her lips against his gently.
He's so surprised by this that he doesn't react even when she repeats her motions a second time. It's only when she begins to pull away, saying, "I'm sorry," that his brain registers what's going on and he jerks himself into action.
"Don't," he says quickly and wraps his arms around her, pulling her against him once more, bringing his mouth down on hers, and kissing her back, softly at first and then more deeply as he feels her respond. What little of his self-control remained in this beautiful setting has blown out to sea, and what began as a gentle kiss, soon progresses into much, much more. Her hands glide over his back sensually as she kisses him ardently, passionately, moaning softly as her left hand runs up his back and her fingers tangle themselves in his hair. She must be able to feel his arousal now as he pulls her against him with one hand across her lower back and the other behind her neck, his fingers tangling themselves in her silky, chestnut hair, but to his surprise and delight, she doesn't pull back. His mouth traces her jaw line to her neck, and he trails kisses down it to her shoulder as his right hand slides round and cups her breast through the thin material of her dress. She moans his name this time, and it pushes him over the edge; he can't hold back any more. "Tell me to stop, Ruth," he murmurs against her skin. "Tell me to stop because I don't think I can on my own."
"Don't stop, Harry," she sighs. "Don't stop."
"Oh, God, Ruth," he growls and steps to his left, guiding her away from the house and further into the shadows. There's a blanket on the ground here, one he'd used earlier in the day to take a nap under the trees and forgot to put away. He stops by its edge and runs his hands over her sides once more, his lips capturing hers in a fiery kiss. He wants to make love to her, to make her his, to have that exquisite memory to cling to in times of need, a memory that will eclipse all the painful ones he's dwelt on for so long. She wants it too, he can feel it, and yet he suddenly and quite unexpectedly finds that he can't. An overwhelming fear that she wants this for all the wrong reasons, that she's just looking for sex, that she doesn't love him any more, has taken hold in his mind and he cannot continue. He has to be sure that this means as much to her as it does to him.
"I need you to tell me something, Ruth," he murmurs against her neck. "Why me? Why now? Am I just...?" He tails off unable to complete the thought and hating the vulnerability in his voice, but the fear that he's simply her rebound is too much to bear.
He feels her stiffen in his arms, so he pulls away from her slightly so he can see her face. "Are you just what?" she asks in a level voice.