A/N: Final warning for M-rated content...and for H/R shippers!

So, for once, I don't. Instead, we head out into the brisk Autumn night air, hail the first cab we see, and I tell the driver to take us to a small but luxurious hotel, known for its absolute discretion regarding its guests (I had also personally debugged it a week ago for a visiting delegation from…but that hardly signifies – all that matters is that I know it to be clean in every sense of the word, and conveniently close by). We don't touch in the cab, which only serves to heighten the already charged atmosphere between us. When we arrive at our destination, I hand the driver a generous tip with the fare, and damned if the man doesn't wink at me with a knowing grin. At another time, I might have given him a piece of my mind for such cheek, but as it is, I nearly find myself grinning back as I exit the cab. I hear Ruth mutter something under her breath about "spook taxis" that sounds like a half formed thought, but I pay it no more mind as we enter the understated elegance of the hotel foyer and ask for a room, plus chilled champagne - Pol Roger, from a very good year indeed.

We nearly fall over each other getting into the room as I impatiently swipe the keycard through the lock, with Ruth pressed in between me and the door, her hands exploring beneath my dinner jacket in a way that makes me gasp for breath, her mouth curving into a smile as I kiss her again and push the door closed behind us with my foot, as she sets the champagne in its silver ice bucket on the bedside table. The room is opulently decorated in warm tones and the bedside lighting is dimmed. With trembling fingers, we divest each other of our outer layers, her coat and my overcoat sliding to the floor in seconds. We send our shoes flying into corners as we toe them off impatiently, then we stop and stand just inches away from each other, trying to adjust to the speed with which things suddenly seem to be moving. Ruth's fine skin has a rosy flush to it, from excellent French wine and excitement, and it highlights her eyes, which are huge and glowing as they did on the night that I drove her home. Her dark hair is loose on her shoulders and her dress both covers her with absolute propriety, and shows every curve. She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. "Are you sure about this?" I hear myself say, shakily. Please let her think the cause is passion, and not sheer nerves. In answer Ruth steps forward, reaches up, and slowly and deliberately removes my tie, then unbuttons my shirt with the same care. At the last button she looks up at me, says, "I'm sure," and my heart soars. She's sure...how extraordinary! I want to pinch myself to check that I'm awake.

Every dream I've ever had of us has ended like this. But there is something to be dealt with first, something that might bring proceedings to an abrupt halt. I sit hastily on the edge of the bed, only just registering the deep softness of the goose-down duvet, as my legs seem to have given way at the thought, and she sits next to me, sensing the shift in my mood. I study the intricate pattern of the antique Persian carpet beneath my feet as I speak, in a voice so soft I can barely hear myself. Apparently Ruth is having difficulty hearing me too, because she leans in towards me as I nearly whisper, "I'm not…I don't…I mean, my fiancée was the only one, and that was a very long time ago…I don't want to disappoint you…but she said I'm not very good at…at this." I can't bring myself to look at her, sure I'll see the same look of disdain and contempt on her face that Sarah had once directed at me as she reeled off the bitter list of my inadequacies and failings, the myriad ways in which I had managed to disappoint and disillusion her. Ruth slides off the bed, and I think, That's it, she's on her way out the door, why wouldn't she be, when I realise that she is standing in front of me. I risk an upwards glance, and see that she is neither contemptuous nor disdainful; her face is full of compassion and understanding, affection and kindness. She seeks out my hands and takes one in each of hers, holding them firmly as she speaks. "I don't believe that, not for a minute," she counters gently, "you're a sensitive, loyal, generous person with a very kind heart, and those are the most attractive qualities I can think of in a friend, or, or a lover." I look up at her, and my eyes must go wide in amazement, because she laughs and says, "As for the rest of it, I don't claim to be an expert either, but I think we'll manage to work it out as we go. Malcolm, let's just enjoy this."

And with those words, the world around me swims out of focus as she leans down to kiss me. For the oddest moment, I feel as though I am outside my body, watching us as I have so often had to watch strangers enact scenes just like this, from the safe distance of the surveillance van…

I see Ruth's eyes, pupils large in the subdued light, watching me, as her hands rid me of my clothes; first she peels off my starched white dress shirt, followed in quick succession by my vest, socks, and trousers. Next, she turns her back, lifting her hair off her neck in a graceful gesture to allow me to unzip her dress, which slides down and pools around her feet. She turns back to face me, still in her lingerie, and my breath catches in my throat at her beauty. I still can't believe it, that she is here with me, and doubt washes over me as the reality of what is happening sets in. I stand up, wrapping the duvet around me, and take a couple of shuffling steps away. I need to think, to look at the situation with a clear head. This is all moving so fast...Ruth's eyes cloud over as she realises the moment has passed, and self-consciously, she pulls the top sheet off the bed and drapes it around her shoulders, holding it tightly closed at her throat. "Malcolm?" her voice is small and uncertain as she approaches me. I take a couple of deep, steadying breaths, and say, "Why me, Ruth, and why now?" She stops short, staring at me in puzzlement. "I would have thought that was rather obvious…what are you getting at?" she replies, all her earlier boldness fast disappearing. "What I mean is, if Fortescue had asked you out tonight, where would that have left us?" Ruth frowns, a slight crease appearing between her brows as she considers her reply. "Am I some sort of…of consolation prize? Is this what all this is about? Or is it just that you're curious to know what it would be like, with a man of my age?"

Her swift slap stings my cheek –I didn't see that coming!and then she is upon me like a Fury, eyes flashing, voice low with rage. "Bugger John Fortescue, and bugger you too, Malcolm. I went to supper with you because I wanted to, not because I was feeling sorry for myself, or for you. I liked the way you made me feel in the church, and I thought you liked being there with me, too. I thought there was something special between us…do you really think we'd be here otherwise?" Her chest is heaving in a most distracting manner as she gets her breath back after this outburst. Oh, but she's splendid when she's angry! is my last coherent thought, before events take an extraordinary turn.

We stare at each other for what seems like forever, but which must only be a couple of seconds in reality, and then we simply fall towards each other, tangling ourselves in our improvised draperies in our haste. We share an urgent kiss, and then she is pulling her silk slip up and over her head, eyes alight now with a completely different kind of passion. My heart races in anticipation…oh my heavens, there are her breasts! I touch them shyly, at first, and then with more ardour as the nipples blush deep rose and become erect, and as Ruth makes a small moan and embraces me closely, her hands running through my hair as we kiss, I know what to do next. I gather her into my arms, and carry her to bed, lying her tenderly on the crisp hotel linen and sliding in beside her.

My hands venture up her body next, finding tiny, sensitive places on her neck and behind her ears, as her noises of appreciation confirm, and the seashell scent of her growing arousal rises like incense around us. In reply, her hands swiftly rid me of my boxers, and begin to work their magic as she covers every inch of my skin with tender touches; and as for the little paunch that appeared, unbidden, sometime in the last ten years, or my thinning hairline – I no longer feel keenly self-conscious about these things, for Ruth simply accepts all of me, as I am. Her hands slowly move lower, to find that I am more than ready for her. She takes hold of me shyly, as I gasp her name, then growing bolder, she teases me for a moment with a slow, spiralling movement that nearly tips me over the edge, before she switches tactics and concentrates on tracing arcane patterns on my chest - crop circles and Celtic chevrons, by the feel of it, her fingers barely grazing my skin as they move.

I prop myself on one elbow and look at her, really look at her, as she lies next to me. Her skin glows ivory in the soft light, deepening to the colour of rich cream in the hollow places under her collarbones and at the base of her throat. She is made entirely of gently curving lines, her breasts surprisingly full on her small frame, her belly flat but soft, her back sinuous with tiny muscles flexing and flickering under the skin as her fingers move slowly from my chest, down to my stomach, following the faint trail of ginger hair bisecting my abdomen from the navel down. I venture to look a little further downwards, past the soft curve of her belly, and as I see the dark hair between her shapely thighs, my breath catches, and the rapid hammering of my heart makes me feel slightly dizzy. She reads the urgent need in my eyes, and she slides towards me, asking, "Ready?" and smiling encouragingly. It's going to be all right, I'm going to be all right, is my final thought before pure physical sensation overpowers my higher cognitive functions as Ruth obliterates my insecurities and my self-doubt, along with every awful thing Sarah ever said, when she begins to respond to me, drawing me deeper within her body, yet letting me set the pace in recognition of my inexperience. I try to hold out for as long as I can, for her sake, but when I begin to shake from the effort, she says simply, Yes, now! Afterwards, I am spent, utterly, but to my surprise, she begins a little movement of her own, which becomes a compelling whole-body rhythm; then she says, with another very direct look, "I could do with a hand here", but I can only gaze at her blankly, too overcome with endorphins and euphoria to comprehend, so she deploys her own instead, increasing her pace until she suddenly stiffens, then arches her back with a cry like a wild bird, the sound of her pleasure almost stopping my heart with excitement; and I think that I may have quite possibly died, and gone to the heaven that is being in bed with Ruth. We fall asleep with her snuggled into my side, one of my arms wrapped around her shoulders, her head resting on my chest; I just manage to draw up the duvet over us both before happy exhaustion claims me.