There wasn't enough scotch in the world to take the edge off his anger. He poured himself another tumbler full and banged the decanter down, the glass bottles clanking against each other. Let them break; let them all crack open just like him. He took a large swig of the scotch and stood, glaring the wall of his living room. There would always be a wall in front of him.

The air in the house was stale and close, the rain having done nothing to alleviate the humidity. He couldn't breathe. A fan sat near the bookcase, old and metal, breaking every safety code in the book. He turned it on in a vain attempt to dispel the heat. Tugging at the knot in his tie, he poured his frustration with the evening into the piece of silk, throwing it at a chair, missing and not caring. The collar of his shirt dug into his skin and he undid the top buttons, rubbing his hand around the back of his neck as he cursed himself. He had ruined it once again, pushing too far, too fast. He would lose her, the only person who truly understood him. If only he had held back and given her more time. The fan continued to drone on, ineffectual against the heat. He paced over the area rug, kicking at its upturned corner. Damn, this world of secrets, of broken relationships and fractured hearts, the inability for any of them to heal and find peace.

The doorbell rang. Who the hell could it be at this hour? What bloody catastrophe had befallen the world now? All he wanted to do was wallow in the sorry state of his life. The doorbell rang again. He couldn't hide - the lights were on. He banged his scotch down on a side table and stormed to the door, flinging it open.

Ruth stood on his doorstep, her eyes wide with surprise. He stared back at her, a surge of anger rising and then evaporating as his eyes ran over her. Her hair was wet, a damp strand plastered to her cheek, the bottom of her dress was soaked, the fabric clinging to her leg. They stood looking at each other, the rain whispering behind her. A car sloshed through a puddle, bringing her back to her purpose.

"You forgot your jacket," she said.

"How did you get here?" he asked, not entirely convinced she wasn't a figment of his imagination.

"Taxi." She followed his eyes as he peered over her shoulder. "I sent him away."

He remained motionless, unsure how to proceed. She held up his jacket, offering it to him.

"I hope I haven't ruined it."

He looked down at the garment in her hand; his mind slowly coming to accept the reality of her appearance, and perhaps the chance that there was more to her comment than concern for his jacket.

"I'm sure it can be salvaged."

He reached out and gently tugged on the coat, drawing her into the house along with it. As soon as she crossed the threshold, she released her hold, her fingers moving to nervously to play with the clasp on her purse. She looked around his entryway, casting her eyes everywhere but on him.

"You could have waited and brought it into work," he pointed out.

She nodded. He tilted his head at her daring to hope there was another reason why she had turned up on his doorstep.

"Why didn't you?" he pressed.

She glanced at the door as if deciding whether to leave, her body rocking towards it as her feet stayed firmly planted on the floor. She turned back to him, still not meeting his eyes, and inhaled a shaky breath.

"I didn't want to be alone," she whispered.

His chest constricted at her words. Was that the only reason she had turned up on his doorstep, a bid to outrun loneliness? He looked down at her as she turned the purse over in her hand. Who else did she have? Whose name did she call when the terrors of the night became too much? He wanted it to be his name, he wanted to be the one to protect her, he wanted that, and so much more but if all he could have was her presence here tonight then that was what he would take. A few nights ago, she had kept him company, not wanting him to be alone; he could do as much for her. He hung his coat on the hook and then reached out, stilling her fingers on her purse, slowly releasing it from her grasp, placing it on his hallway table.

"A drink then?"

He gestured toward the living room and she walked through, cautiously leading with her head. He looked around the room, seeing it with her eyes. The aged leather couch, cracked and worn, showing the signs of Scarlett's tenure in the house. His favourite chair, with its threadbare arm, a pile of books on the table beside it. The morning paper still scattered over the dining table, along with an empty cup that he had forgotten to wash. Browns and blacks, lines and angles, singularly devoid of colours and curves. The house of a bachelor. Her eyes travelled to his tie lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. He walked over and picked it up, tossing it on a chair.

"I have no sparkling water so you'll have to make do with my sparkling conversation."

The quip garnered a small smile from her and he crossed over to the table where the scotch sat. He poured her a drink and topped off his own. If he had broken his vow to forswear hard liquor, he would take her down with him.

"Please sit," he said, bringing the drink over to her.

She chose a seat on the couch, sliding along the leather to a spot in the corner, her fingers gingerly rubbing the smooth fabric. From force of habit, he gravitated to the chair where he normally sat but stopped himself in mid-motion, deciding to sit on the couch with her. He draped his arm over the back of the seat, keeping a calculated distance, far enough away so that she was still out of reach. Always out of reach. The leather creaked as she sat back and looked around the room.

"Your house is far cooler than mine," she said.

"It's much hotter upstairs."

The rim of his glass froze at his lips. It was only an observation but in the languid air of the living room, it sounded more like an invitation. On the other side of the room, the fan hummed, moving back and forth, as it watched their conversation, waiting for one of them to fill the loaded silence that his comment had created.

"I'm sure the heat will break soon," she murmured into her glass, avoiding his eyes.

"I'm sure it will." He took a large swallow of scotch and looked down at his glass, concentrating on it rather than on her.

Her fingers played with the hem of her dress, finding an irregular dark spot and stopping to trace over the pattern. He followed her motions, mesmerised by the path her fingers were taking. Ever so subtly, she shook the hem of her dress, catching the air from the fan in an effort to dry it. Willing himself not to imagine what lay beneath the fabric, he ran his hand over the back of his neck, slipping two fingers under his collar , lifting it to catch the faint breeze. Closing his eyes, he drew a steadying breath, invoking a silent promise to himself. He would not make a move, nothing would happen tonight, he would merely sit and listen.

She crossed her legs, droplets of rain dripping from the sole of her sandal. "I'm sorry, my shoes are wet. I should have taken them off before I came in. Do you mind?"

"Of course." His voice was tight and he cleared his throat, dropping his tone a register. "Not at all."

Her fingers slid along her foot, unclasping tiny buckles, revealing shell painted toenails and the merest glimpse of a pale arch. This could prove harder than he anticipated.

"It was a wonderful production this evening." She slipped her feet from her sandals. "It was very well done."

For a moment, he contemplated steering the conversation in a different direction, but she had left him an opening, and that, along with the heat and the whiskey and her bare feet with their delicately painted toenails, created a heady concoction, pushing caution to the back of his mind.

"I was able to translate what you said to me at the restaurant when you quoted the lyrics in Italian."

Tilting her head, she absently played with a tendril of hair at the nape of her neck. "Were you?"

Finding a damp strand, she pulled it straight and continued to run her fingers through the rest of her hair, momentarily distracting from his original thought. His fingers curled around his glass, imagining the touch of her hair. He drained his drink and set it on the table.

"I was listening for it tonight, watching the surtitles."

"Ah," she nodded, taking a sip of her scotch as she looked away. "And what do they mean?"

A ridge of leather piping ran along the back of the couch and he played with it, studying his fingers as they moved over the seam, debating whether he should go forward, knowing that once said his words could not be taken back. The temptation was too great. Keeping his eyes on his fingers, he spoke.

"Soft kisses and gentle caresses."

There was a sharp hitch to her breath and he watched fascinated as the rise and fall of her chest became more pronounced. He had done with words what he could not do with his hands. The promise he had made to himself was slipping away. It was late, she was in his house, on his couch, one small move, and he could touch her.

"Why did you quote that to me?"

She opened her mouth to speak but no words came out. He was prepared to wait, sitting with her on the sofa the entire night if need be. She placed her drink on the table and spoke without looking at him.

"I don't know why I said it. It's just a lovely phrase that I remembered. That's all they are now, just a memory, soft kisses and gentle caresses."

His heart sank. It was not the answer he had expected. He steeled himself, thinking that her next words would be about her life in Cyprus.

"But we're not allowed to be soft, are we?" She drew a deep breath. "I miss that part of myself."

It took all his self-control not to pull her into his arms and tell her how much he had missed her. Instead, he let his fingers ease along the back of the sofa, close enough to feel the heat from her shoulder. She was wrong, she was still soft. Of course, at other times she was stubbornly hard and unyielding, full of confusing contradictions that no file could ever explain. He flexed his fingers, achingly close to her shoulder, yearning for contact but deciding better and folding them back into his palm. So many of the fractures in her life were because of him. There must be some way he could help her, comfort her.

"What can I do?" he asked.

Her eyes found his, haunted with the sadness she had shown him in the restaurant, lost, looking for direction.

"Hold me."

His chest split open, her words cutting into it, piercing the softest part of him that had lain forgotten and unused for such an achingly long time. The muscles in his arm twitched with instinct and he quelled the impulse to grab her, his lungs heavy with the effort to breathe. He wanted to touch her, feel the skin that lay under her dress, press his lips against it. He couldn't, it wouldn't be right, she was vulnerable, and he was close to the edge. The slightest breath and he would be over.

"If I held you," he whispered, "I wouldn't be able to let you go."

He looked at her hoping she could read the meaning between his words, any further explanation escaping him, unable to articulate what he wanted, what he needed from her. They were beyond colleagues, beyond friendship. Unable to face him, she kept her eyes lowered to her lap, twisting her fingers as she spoke.

"I don't know how much I can give you."

Powerless to stop himself, his fingers moved to touch the curve of her shoulder, heartbeat accelerating as he felt the hardness of bone beneath the smooth satin.

"Tonight?"

Her head tilted a fraction, her cheek not quite touching his hand on her shoulder. His fingers moved back, coming forward again to slide underneath the cap of her sleeve. Cautiously, he inched closer.

"Tomorrow?"

She gave an involuntary shiver as his fingers drew circles on the delicate skin of her arm. Her eyes remained closed a war of thought playing over her face. He dipped his head to her ear.

"More?"

He stopped his movements, waiting for her to step into the moment with him. The air was thick with anticipation, her breathing all but stopped as she sat completely still. Sliding his arm over the back of the couch, he raised his free hand to her face, tracing along her jaw and turning her towards him. He caressed her cheek, his thumb coming to rest on her bottom lip, finding the spot she had shown him in the restaurant. Her lips parted and her breath flowed warm over his hand, the tension easing from her body, her eyes remaining closed to him. He trailed his fingers down her throat, to the notch of her clavicle, following the dip of her neckline, glancing over the swell of her breasts to the line between them, every touch taking him further away from his resolve. The cadence of her breathing quickened, her breasts straining against the bodice of her dress, yearning for the touch of his palm. Blood pumped through his veins in primal response, skin taut and nerves tingling, his breath shallow. His voice lowered huskily as he teetered on the edge of control.

"I need more, Ruth."

She looked up him; all the previous sadness had vanished, replaced by a look of unadulterated longing. In the end, it didn't matter what she gave him, he was caught in her web of push and pull. He wound his fingers into her hair, as he had imagined that day on the embankment and brought her head closer to his. She swayed into him, her lips brushing against his, soft and fleeting. He held back. Sensing his reticence, she opened her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said, laying her hand against his chest in a gesture of apology. "If you don't want to..." She stared at his throat; her fingers moving up to absently run along his collar.

"I want to." He reeled her back in. "I want to very much."

His fingers clutched her hair, bending her head back as he pulled her towards him, finally surrendering to his endless fascination with her lips. Soft kisses and gentle caresses, he silently intoned, delicately tasting her, using all of his restraint to fight the urgency that was building inside of him. He moved over her mouth asking, searching, granting her the smallest spaces for breath as he inhaled her scent. Her hand fell to his thigh, fingers drawing across the muscle of his leg. His concentration faltered as his focus narrowed to the spot where her hand lay, his muscles twitching, straining with arousal, aching for her touch. So tantalisingly close that the thought of sinking into her overwhelmed him, breaking through the barriers of his control. He crushed her body against his, demanding more. She twisted into him, mouth open with want, her tongue flicking against his lips. He eagerly responded, thrusting his tongue into her, hot and probing, leaving no space for breath. The smooth satin of her dress beckoned him and he ran his hand over it, around to her back, gliding up the ridge of the zipper, his finger dallying with the catch at the top. Each breath becoming more erratic, harder to control. It would all end too soon; she would pull away as she had done before leaving him with only the memory of this kiss. To his amazement, she didn't pull away but pressed harder against him. Emboldened, he slid his hand down to her hip, skimming over her thigh as he gathered the folds of fabric between his fingers, delving under the damp hem, feeling the softest of skin.

Too fast, too fast.

"Tell me to stop and I will," he murmured against her lips, his hands still moving.

"Why would I tell you to stop?" she asked between kisses.

"There should be more dinners..." His lips grazed across her cheek, "and conversations..."

Her hand rose to touch his face and he started at the feel of her fingers, inching away to look at her.

"What we would we learn?" she whispered, her thumb coming to rest on his bottom lip, the spot where she had indicated his tell. "No one else can ever know us the way we know each other."

His fingers dug into her sides as he recognised the truth of her words. She did not know all of his secrets, would never know the darkest corner but she had plumbed his depths far deeper than anyone else had. Waiting was for the young, for those who had time not for those who walked beside death.

Mouth hot on hers, he pushed her back against the leather of the couch, the only sound their panting breaths and the hum of the fan. The weight of his body pressed her deeper into the cushions as he moved on top of her, bumping, repositioning, sliding between her legs. Her thigh pressed against his hip as she crooked her leg to accommodate him, the material of her dress slipping down, exposing an expanse of creamy skin. His hand gravitated to it, sinking into her flesh, his fingers searching, circling, dipping under a scrap of lace. She gave a sharp inhale of surprise and he took his hand away, stunned by his own audacity. He moved his attention to her throat, over her chest, suffused in a wonderful flush. His hand brushed along the smoothness of her dress, skimming her ribs, molding her breast, his tongue finding the valley between them, pulling at the neckline, still needing more. She arched into him and a sudden rush of noise overwhelmed his senses, all thought halted as the blood moved to his groin, pulsing against her thigh. If she did not pull away, he would have her here on the couch, sliding along the leather.

Too far, too far.

"How far can we take this?" he asked, breathless.

She looked towards the door, and he eased onto his elbows, expecting that the night would be over. She turned back to look at him as she spoke.

"How hot is your upstairs?"

It took a moment for her words to sink in. Grabbing her by the hand, he pulled her from the couch, dragging her behind him as he moved to the stairs, walking with the same singularity of purpose that he had possessed at the theatre.

The sultry heat of his bedroom enveloped them like a veil and he hurriedly crossed to the window. The casement, long closed and swollen with moisture, creaked as he raised it. A breeze stole in, gently stirring the gauze of the curtains. He turned back to her.

"It will be cooler if we leave the lights off."

She stood by his dresser, her features blurred in the darkness, no more than a silhouette. Let this not be a dream. As he approached, he saw her fingers running along the edge of a glass tray stopping to examine a small leather box. He held up his wrist, revealing the silver band of his watch. She hesitated before bringing her hand up to the metal links, her fingers brushing his pulse as she carefully unlocked the clasp. She slowly drew the watch from around his wrist and let it drop into the tray. He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out his mobile.

"See, I do turn it off."

She tilted her head in question. He shrugged.

"Let the world burn around us."

He held it out to her and she laid it on the tray alongside his watch. She moved to step away from the dresser but he reached out and captured her arm, winding her around so that her back was flush against him. Bending his head to the slope of her shoulder, he seared his mouth into the curve of her neck, his hands rising over her ribs to cup her breasts. His lips found a tender spot behind her ear, his palms circling the tautness of her nipples through the material. She leaned back and he pushed into her, growing hard as he felt the swell of her backside against him. She whispered his name in a soft plea, her hands rising to cover his and she tried to move them away, the intensity of the embrace overwhelming her.

He let her go but only by half. Keeping her partly against him, he left enough room for his hand to run up her back. He found the metal clasp of her zipper and slowly drew it down the length of her back. The act held a certain intimacy to it, far more potent than the physical, that he was somehow removing her shell and by doing so, revealing a part of himself. Running his fingers over her exposed skin, he found the clasp of her bra, fingers clumsy with desire unable to release it with one hand. He gave up, content to trail his fingers down her spine, causing her to curve away from him as she shivered beneath his touch. His thumb worked over the muscle at her shoulder, his hand spread wide over the crest of her shoulder blade. This creature, so small that had loomed so large in his life. He stood transfixed, not believing that he had been allowed to go so far, her hair tickling his nostrils as he breathed her in, reminding him of the reality of the situation. He took a step back coming up against the edge of the bed. He sat down, the implication of their actions hitting him with their full weight. He held her hand looking up at her as she stood before him, swaying, knees brushing his, the shoulder of her dress falling in seductive dishabille.

"Ruth?" His was voice hoarse.

"Mmm?" She bent towards him, her fingers tenderly running over his face.

"We can't go back from this."

Her fingers stopped, and she brought her face close to his, eyes black in the darkness. "There's nothing to go back to."

He pulled her down onto his lap, burying his face in her breasts, praying to any god that would listen that she was doing this out of want for him and not to forget another man. His hands ran up her back, spreading the dress apart, hands skillfully relieving her of her bra. He cupped her breast, the flesh filling his palm, closing his eyes at the feel of her. With one arm around him for balance, she pressed her hand on his chest, his heart hammering beneath her palm as her cheek rested against his. She placed gentle, feather-like kisses along his jaw and nimbly found the buttons of his shirt, releasing them one by one, fingers far more dexterous than his. Her hand roamed over his chest, finding the memory of muscle beneath the flesh. Had she imagined him as he had thought of her? Had she spent sleepless nights, wondering, aching?

"Has anyone ever told you that you have a magnificent chest?" she whispered against his ear.

"No."

"Well, I'm telling you."

He gave a small groan at her words. More, he needed more. Every piece of her. Mind, heart, body. He twisted her around, pushing her onto the bed, splayed across the sheets in a tangled mess of half shed clothes and overreaching limbs. His mouth sought her breast, lips sucking hardened peaks, tongue teasing, savouring each one in turn. Hands fumbling with need, he divested her of her dress, unravelling the satin from her body, the fabric sliding through his fingers. When he reached the lace he had discovered earlier, he paused and his fingers curled around the elastic. The skin of her shoulder burned against his mouth, and he closed his eyes, coherent thought vanishing.

There was no going back.

Slowly, he slid his hand under the lace, his fingers spreading her heat, wet with desire, slipping into her. The supple bow of her body grew taut as she moaned and pushed into his hand, hips undulating against him. She gripped his shoulders, clutching at his shirt. Her fingers once nimble, fumbled with his belt, tugging at it and then abandoning it with frustration, settling instead on stroking him through his trousers. He groaned against her skin, tearing the scrap lace from her legs. Untangling herself from him, she rose to her knees, and he held his breath, wanting to stop and worship what knelt before him but her fingers were insistent, tugging at him. His shell was harder to remove, buckles, and buttons, an arm caught in a shirtsleeve, a foot in the cuff of his trouser. As she pulled at his clothes, he pushed against her, mouth and hands impatient for sustenance causing her to teeter half off the bed. He caught her, dragging her back from the edge, pulling her into him.

"You okay?"

"Yes," she said, catching her breath.

His hand gripped her arm tightly, hoping that he always be there to pull her back from the edge.

Arms wrapped around her, his heart frantically beat against hers, from lust and adrenaline and a host of emotions too complicated for him to define. He wanted to tell her that he loved her but the word felt inadequate, trite, to shallow a vessel to contain the overflow of feelings he had for her. His mouth was against her ear, words uttered without thought.

"You must know how I feel about you." It was all he could manage. She nodded. "Say you feel the same about me."

"They're just words, Harry," she whispered. "We're more than that."

He pressed his face into her neck, his mouth greedy on her throat; overwhelmed by a hunger so deep it carved down to the base of his spine, a void of longing that only she could fill. His lips moved over her skin, retracing the path over her breasts, sliding his tongue along the delicate depression between her ribs, the muscles of her stomach fluttering in anticipation. Resting at the crook of her hip, the velvet of her thigh against his cheek, he drew his fingers over her, dipping in and out, discovering her secrets, his tongue coaxing pants of pleasure from her. She writhed beneath his mouth and he held her hips, content to fill her desires until his need overwhelmed him. Drunk on the scent of her, he dragged himself up her body, sliding against her skin, lingering to taste the trickle of salt between her breasts. He hovered over her, hard and hungry, teasing her with the tip of his erection. He would make her wait, make her want him as much as he wanted her. Her fingers dug into his hips and she whispered his name, and that was all it took, he was lost, all his will power vanishing in an instant. He could deny her nothing. She opened before him, and he sank into her, her softness stretching around him as he filled her. This was a dream; no reality could ever match this.

They moved together in a languorous thrall, waves of pleasure rippling through them, each intent on savouring the experience. Her breath fanned against his cheek, soft pants turning into ragged gasps, wanting more but resisting as they tried to hold off the edge. He tilted her hips, sinking deeper, her legs wrapping around him as they bucked against each other with ever-increasing desperation. Coarse hair against satin skin, lithe limbs against muscle, their bodies matching the heat of the room, melting into each other, fusing as he plunged into her. Wave after wave, he rolled into her, intent on driving out the memory of any other man, each thrust coming harder and harder, seeking out her deepest core, the one secret she kept hidden from him. Her nails dug into his skin, her body rising to meet his, straining to match his intensity. Time wound in on itself and her breath all but ceased, muscles taut, quivering with delicious tension, held in fragile suspension as he drove into her. She broke around him, the last piece of her shattering in an exquisite moan. She fell away from him but he would not let her go. His hand sought hers, fingers winding, clutching, grasping, holding onto the moment for as long as he could, fearing to give himself over but wanting to join her in release. All control lost, his body taking over, one thrust, two, crashing against her, drowning, he shuddered, clinging to her as if she were the only thing left in the world, and with one last thrust, he came, collapsing on the sanctuary of her shore.

Robbed of all his strength, he lay on her, the erratic tattoo of his heart beating in answer to hers, lips pressed against her shoulder as her fingers stroked his hair. He eased off her, lying on his stomach, his hand possessively on her breast.

There were no words for this.

His breathing slowed, his heart calmed, and the sweet call of oblivion beckoned him. He closed his eyes. Finally, peace.