Donna Roberta Paulsen
Exhausted, Harvey lolls his head against Donna's bed frame, his droopy gaze traveling over her naked back and down to the voluptuous curve of her ass beneath the sheet, where a smug smile reinvigorates him.
He hadn't been flirting with her all these weeks just for fun. He knew their budding chemistry would lead to mind-blowing sex if she wavered on her rule, and he doesn't even care that he wound up here on a technicality.
They both quit the DA's office.
Any way he looks at it, their reign there is over, and the sting that she's no longer his secretary has been soothed by whipped cream and her tongue in, oh so many places.
He curls his toes and then stretches out the kinks and the desire to slide his knee between her thighs and have one more taste. As much as he wants to, he doesn't have another round in him, and in the quiet candidness of his mind, he thinks that watching her sleep is like a breath of fresh air.
So was ordering Chinese in between their vigorous lovemaking and listening to her laugh while she filled him in on ridiculous office gossip he never knew he cared about until tonight.
He feels content, cocky, and the best version of himself as he moves to slide down and give his head a proper place to sleep beside her. But then he stops himself. Staying over in another woman's bed is a first for him, and just like Donna, he has his own rules: order and control that are even more important now that he's jobless and needs to focus on his next goal.
Only, the women he typically goes home with know he won't be there in the morning. Due to his haste, whipped cream, chow mein, and a level of comfort that blindsided him, he doesn't know what Donna's expecting.
Panicking and formulating a flimsy excuse, he feels like an asshole for waking her.
"Donna — "
"You have to go," she murmurs groggily. "Pay me back for the Chinese later."
She rolls on her side, trying to pull the sheet with her. "Move... I'm cold."
His worry lulls into a soft chuckle as he frees the bedding, and she cocoons herself next to him — his ego back in full swing but taking the hit. She isn't like most women; that's become clear, which means she deserves better than most men.
Scooping the blanket off the floor, she's already snoring softly when he tucks her in then he follows the trail of his clothes, dressing himself as he goes.
She'd paid for dinner because his pants had been thrown carelessly aside, and when he's fully clothed, he seeks out her purse, opening it to throw in a fifty. Except, the wild red curls and bright smile on her driver's license throw him for a loop. She's younger in the photo, less polished, but just as captivating and endearing as she is now.
He swipes his thumb over the plastic pocket, realizing that they've worked together for three years and he doesn't even know her birthday.
Donna Roberta Paulsen.
06/12/1972.
As bad as he is with details, he commits them to memory, closing her purse and stuffing the note back in his wallet.
Like she said, he can pay her back later.