It's past midnight when Donna hears the knock at her door and she isn't surprised by it, necessarily. More just shocked that he has the gall to be here at all. He hasn't even really given her the time that he normally does to nurse her wounds — it's just all anger right now. He has to know that.
He's here anyway.
She hesitates in front of the door for longer than she should — longer than he deserves, maybe — and eventually when her heart starts hammering so fast that she thinks it might take her out, she gives in.
It's always this. Always this door. Always apartment 206, right there embossed in brass, and always him.
206 and Harvey. Harvey and the door.
She doesn't have time to say very much at all when she finally pulls it open, half because of the way he's painted seven shades of desperation and half because of the way he's so beautiful, even now. This could be something, surely. This could be him turning up at her apartment with a bouquet of roses, hey sweetheart on his lips, candlelit dinner waiting two rooms away. She's let herself dream of it so often, if only because of how close they seem to get with each almost. There's time, she tells herself.
"Donna," he murmurs, and she has to remind herself that she's fucking furious right now because, otherwise—
"What are you doing here?" She wants to add his name to the end of the question so badly, but she knows him enough to know what that does to him. Just the act of her saying it out loud.
"I'm so sorry," he whispers, a voice so coloured with real actual apology that she comes closer to forgiving him than she ever has so fast before. She wants to ask for what, but she knows that's not fair. She's not sure either, is the issue. For all of it. For eleven years.
"Harvey," she says, gentler than either of them deserves right now, and she watches the way his hands start to shake. She loves him. She loves him and she's told him. She loves him and it isn't enough.
Very, very slowly, she steps in close to him. It's an invitation, but the man is terrified, flinching backwards like she's wielding a weapon.
"Harvey."
When her hands start to shift up towards his face, she lets them. This isn't something she can control.
He starts to say something, and she knows intuitively exactly what's about to fall from his lips, and she realises very quickly that she isn't actually ready to hear the words right now. Not yet. Not yet. Her hands come to either side of his jaw, her thumb pressed quick to his bottom lip, and the warmth of it silences him for just enough time that she can say, all-too-frantic—
"Do you want to come in?"
Something familiar (something hurt?) flashes across his gaze, and for a moment he doesn't say anything else at all. But he nods. She feels the murmur of it where her fingers are pressed to his jawline.
It is enough.
He follows her in, toes his shoes off, takes a seat at the kitchen counter and watches as she pulls a bottle from the fridge. He doesn't say anything, which is strange, and by the time she's poured two glasses it's been five minutes since either of them has said a word and her hands are shaking so badly that she comes uncharacteristically close to spilling the wine.
She takes a breath. Turns to face him.
"I'm angry at you."
Infuriatingly, Harvey just nods. There's an expression written into the set of his jaw that she can't quite parse — which is weird — but he's here, still. He's not retaliating, or flinching, or standing to leave.
"I know." His voice is soft. "I know. You have every right to be."
She does. He's a dick. He's been stringing her along for eleven years.
"I don't—" Donna exhales. "I don't need your permission. Obviously I have every right to be angry. You don't need to spell that out." I'm not fucking stupid, basically. She's trying to be forthright but it's just coming out petulant, except the words seem to be wringing Harvey dry anyway.
"I'm sorry."
He never apologises. And yet. (Is it enough? Is it ever enough?)
"So you've said."
"For everything."
Donna hates that.
"You keep saying that word, Harvey. 'Everything'. Are you— is that it, then?" She's being cruel, and she can see the way the confusion is playing across his features, and she doesn't care. "You're sorry for everything we've ever done? All of it?"
"No—"
"You can't have it both ways. You can't treat me the way you do and then just—" Pause. Breath. Pause. "Jesus, fuck, I don't know. I don't forgive you. I don't want to have to forgive you."
Harvey looks utterly bewildered. Which, hey, fair enough. She's going to have to test the waters in lawyer-speak like they're in some courtroom.
"The… the fact of your apology makes this — what we're doing — wrong."
Donna lets the words settle. As if they're even a little bit coherent. As if adding what we're doing means that either of them have ever had a choice in this. She steps back from the counter, away from the wine glasses, away from him. Her pulse is racing at a mile a minute beneath the skin of her wrists: if she gets this wrong now then that's it. She's throwing a Hail Mary, and they both know it, and if he doesn't catch it this time then he never will again.
"If you love me then I need—" she's panicking, shit, "I need you to tell me. I need you to tell me and I need you not to apologise for loving me like it's some crime."
Recognition breaks like a sunrise over Harvey's face. Donna welcomes the dawn.
"Because I love you, Harvey."
I love you. I love you. I love you. The shock of saying it feels like firing a fucking shotgun. There's gunpowder in the air, residue on her fingertips, a ringing in her ears which seethes even louder than her own heartbeat. She knows him better than anyone else in the world. She knows, because of the way his index finger is tapping one-two, one-two against his thumb, that he's counting out his own heartbeats — that he's terrified.
He gets up, this ghost of a man, bracing himself against the countertop like any slight tremor could knock him to the floor. Donna can only watch as the world tilts on its axis — he's walking towards her. He's not running away. Harvey stops maybe a foot apart from her, and it's still too far but his entire body is shaking and the space between them is a tripwire and if she were to try and step into him right now she's worried he would just drop dead. The air hums. She can see his pulse jumping in the hollow of his throat, and he's right here: she's had this dream before. He's more beautiful than she knows how to say out loud, and the question is do you love me, and oh, Jesus.
Of course he does. Of course he does. It's written all over his face.
"I'm scared, Donna." Tears in his eyes. Words on his lips. The fury in Donna's chest finally dies, replaced only by an ache beneath her ribs which wants so desperately to reach out to him that it physically hurts. He takes a shaky breath. "It's not— like this. With other people."
With you it's different.
Confession. Revelation. She gives in. Donna steps forward, finally curving into him, smoothing her hands upwards over his back, holding on for dear life. Her head comes to rest in the space between his neck and his shoulder and he's here. Harvey only returns the embrace: he's shaking still, arms around her, breathing in-out-in-out quicker than she knows how to calm.
"It's always been you," he whispers, and Donna shudders an exhale out against the material of his suit.
"I know." She doesn't open her eyes. "I know. I know."
The silence takes over. She holds him. He holds her back.
When he speaks again he speaks through tears, and his voice is so quiet, and the world stops turning.
"I love you." He pulls in a breath, trembling under the weight of it. And he wants to say a million more things, she must know that — did you always know or would you have forgiven me or am I too late, Donna, tell me I'm not too late — but nothing comes, because nothing can.
In the end, what slips forth is just repetition: I love you I love you I love you over and over into the silk of her hair. She can feel the relief as it cards from him in waves — every heartbeat is another step towards her. Every second that passes, the two of them unmoving, feels more like the beginning of something than anything else between them ever has.
She pulls away, endlessly gentle, when he finally pauses, and when she looks at him there's this shine to his irises that she hasn't seen in years. She loves him so terribly. He loves her the same.
"I don't want you to leave," she murmurs, like it's easy, because it is.
"So I'll stay," he returns. Like it's easy. Because it is.
Very suddenly, unfathomably fast, the warmth in the room has ticked up a notch. Or ten. There's that shine to his irises, sure, but there's also something else there, deeper, etched soft into the catlike languor of his blink.
A darkness. A want.
"I think," Donna says, very slowly, even though they haven't even done anything yet, even though literally nothing at all has actually physically occurred, "I want you to kiss me."
Harvey's floored. He searches for something (anything) to say, reeling hopelessly for a few moments too long. He finds her name.
"Donna."
He always finds her name.
She inhales, her chest rising with her breath, and for a moment, they're both perfectly still. The word hangs in the air between them, dangerous, a new lustre to it which shines unfathomably bright in the shadow of her apartment.
When she pulls away from him, he's almost not surprised. He flinches — even if he expected a rejection, it still hurts — but then her hand tightens on his instead of letting go. He frowns down at her as she pushes past him and heads away from the counter, except before he can ask where she's going, she tugs him after her.
He stumbles a little but hurries to follow. Her strides are long and purposeful, even more than always, but the pads of her feet are so quiet against the marble that it's hard to believe she's even here at all. For a terrifying, delirious moment, Harvey figures that he must be dreaming. The facts are these: she's holding his hand, and she's not letting go, and she looks so perfect that he thinks it might knock him over. The fear is this: he's had this dream before. Dozens of times. The dream where the apartment is dark and her hands are warm and her pulse jumps at a mile a minute beneath his fingers. The dream which he does not tell anyone. The dream which starts with the promise of something unspeakable and ends with her head in his lap.
Donna, he murmurs (her name again, always her name, always that anchor), because the fear is threatening to drown him, and she turns to look at him and she looks so much like salvation that he almost starts to cry.
"Don't laugh,"he says, except he feels the sentiment leave his mouth rather than hears it. He expects her to smile, at least, or smirk at him in that way she does, but nothing comes. She doesn't move. He wants to kiss her. He wants to marry her. He wants, more than anything, to go back to the start. "Am I dreaming?"
I need you to tell me. I need you to tell me that I'm really here.
An expression which looks a lot like heartbreak takes hold of her features, and she steps into him so close and he thinks he might just die right here until she takes his head in her hands.
"No. No. I'm real. You're here," she whispers, and the words sound like surrender. Her eyes are filled with tears. "You're here, Harvey. I am too."
"Swear it."
Her fingers tremble against his skin, and Harvey understands very suddenly that this has to be real, because none of his dreams have ever thought to feature either one of them so plainly terrified as this. He reaches up with one hand, covers her fingers with his, feels the way she sighs at the contact. He's never felt so wholly desperate in his life.
"I swear." She swallows, and a trepidation which Harvey has never seen before starts to settle itself across her face. He wants to tell her that it's okay, but the words just don't come. He wants to tell her everything, really, except very suddenly all at once she's tipping her head up towards his and he's leaning down to meet her and they're both hurtling over this precipice and he thinks jesus christ finally and then she's kissing him.
She's kissing him.
She kisses him the way she always does, so distinctive that he can't be dreaming, hands floating almost unthinkingly to the cropped hair at the back of his head. He sighs into the feeling: partly because it's perfect and partly because he has imagined this exact thing so many times before. More than imagined. Fantasised. She could walk away right now and never touch him again and he would be happy to just sit with this memory for the rest of his life.
One of them murmurs bedroom, he's not even sure who, except nothing really changes and they're still making out like teenagers in her hallway and he has to break away before something truly unholy becomes of this marble floor.
The fear in her eyes as he shifts away is bone-shattering. He's so quick to shake his head that she almost laughs, but not quite. They've been here before — she knows this. They both do. They've been here before, of course they have, except this time they also know that if he walks away then he will not come back.
Possibly the worst part of this is that Donna would still follow him. Every time.
"I'm," he says, wholly breathless. She snickers.
"I know."
"I know you know. Just—"
"Go on."
"Donna."
She's teasing him. Even now.
"Sorry. Floor's yours."
"I want to take you to bed," he murmurs, sudden and quiet and so rushed that she wonders if she's misheard him. Even still, she feels her stomach drop to her ankles. Christ, she wants him.
"Okay," she says, and it feels so fucking simple. So utterly weightless."Okay." She inhales. Exhales. Almost starts to cry. "So take me."
The interior of her apartment is mostly as Harvey remembers it, though he doesn't really spare a single glance at the intricacies of the decor. He keeps his eyes fixed on Donna — her legs, her hips, her shoulders — too afraid to even once look away, but then they're two steps away from her bedroom door and all of a sudden there's just no denying it.
The door is wide open. Donna veers toward it and slows as she crosses the threshold, glancing quickly around the room as though she's suddenly concerned about its appearance. Harvey doesn't care, and he's nearly ready to pray out of desperation, and anyway the only thing out of place is a discarded t-shirt to the left of the bed. His breath catches very suddenly on the realisation that it's his t-shirt. The one he lost, months ago, the one she said must've gone missing at the laundry. If he thinks too much about the implications there then he will pass out, so he moves on. Tries to. Until she follows his gaze, eyes hooded, and nods once as if to say yeah. Yeah. Obviously. He's going to die.
Donna steps forward, tugging him after her. Once they're inside, she lets go of his hand and turns back towards the hallway. He stares at her as she reaches out to shut the door, his heart pounding in his chest and his dick throbbing inside the confines of his trousers, and suddenly he can't wait. He can't wait for her to shut the door, he can't wait for her to lock it, he can't wait another second to feel the length of her body arched against his.
He lunges. He wraps his right arm around her waist, pulling her back against him, and lifts his left up to the door to slam it shut so that he can use it for balance and leverage. Donna stumbles, pitching forward and then catching herself with both hands on the closed door. Her huff of surprise fades into a moan when he presses himself against her. She drops her head and bends a little at the waist, her arms still outstretched and palms glued to the door so she can press her ass back into him. He thrusts against her. It's absurd — grinding fully clothed against each other when they're alone and free to do as they please, like teenagers all over again — but it feels so good he can't make himself stop.
"Oh fuck, Harvey—"
Her hair has fallen like a curtain around her face, and he lets go of her just long enough to brush it out of his way. It's so beautiful. She's so beautiful. As soon as he can see her skin, he bends forward to latch onto her neck and suck hard.
She lets her head fall back against his shoulder and chokes on a moan. With her head tipped back, he can see straight down the front of her dress. He wants to touch her, so he just does. The shock of this freedom is almost enough to blind him. He slides his hands upward, over the curve of her waist, fuck, and higher until he's palming her breasts. She arches into his hands before he can second guess himself, and when he squeezes, she whimpers. The sound sends a jolt of arousal through him, and he squeezes her again. One of her hands flits upward to cover his, and when she guides his fingers to the metal zip that's nestled near her ribs, he freezes.
"Donna," he pants, leaning back from her neck in a daze. "Are you sure you—"
"Unzip the fucking dress," she interrupts, and his heart is literally about to beat out of chest.
He does as he's told, and the quick whir of the zipper fills the room. He has to bend forward to get the slider down all the way, and when he gets to the bottom, a quick jerk yanks it free of the clasp. Her dress falls open, falls down, and he immediately darts his hands around her to palm her newly bare legs. Her skin is warm and soft, and he can't stifle a groan as he trails his hands up her legs to the place where her underwear wraps delicately around her hips.
Feeling her isn't enough. He wants (needs) to see her. He grabs her hips and whips her around to face him, and the moment he drops his gaze to look at her body, he's stunned. She only stares at him. He stares back.
He's spent an inordinate amount of time fantasising about seeing her half-dressed, is the thing. He assumed all those fantasies would have prepared him for the actual moment. As it turns out, there is absolutely fucking nothing that could have prepared him for the sight of the love of his life in sheer black lace.
He steps back and gapes at her. There aren't words for how desperately he wants this. The bedroom is dark (neither of them bothered to turn on the lights), but it doesn't prevent him from seeing her breasts through the fabric. He's seen them before, obviously, but his memory pales in comparison to the real thing. She's so beautiful, so gorgeous, and he can't seem to get himself to move. He's frozen, breathless, terrified.
"Okay?" she murmurs.
There's confusion in her voice. He snaps his gaze up to meet hers, and it's impossible not to notice the shadow of insecurity lurking in her eyes. He realises in a flash that she's misinterpreting his sudden inability to form a coherent sentence, and he shakes his head.
"You're exquisite," he breathes. "You're the sun." And it's a ridiculous thing to say — he's a grown man, not a novelty Valentine's Day card — but it's the only thing he can say. She just is.
"Donna." (He always finds her name.)
Her expression shifts toward shyness, and even in the darkness of the room, he thinks he sees a blush staining her skin. He steps toward her and lifts his hands to her face and kisses her, murmuring the word beautiful over and over like some kind of hymn. An interlude for the occasional holy shit, maybe. Good god, he's loved her for so long.
She pushes impatiently at his jacket. He drops his hands away from her face so he can shed it, and then slips his hands beneath the open sides of her dress to clutch her naked waist. Her skin is warm beneath his palms as he guides her backward against the door, pinning her in place and then dropping his mouth to kiss his way down the column of her throat.
"God, Harvey," she says on an exhale, tipping her head back to rest against the door with a soft thud.
He hums into her collarbone, tracing the line of her clavicle with his tongue, and then ducks his head lower. She tangles her fingers in his hair, and when she tugs just hard enough to remind him that everything feels different with her, he breathes a strangled sound into the valley between her breasts.
He wants her closer, so he reaches down to grab her thighs and lift her into his arms. She wraps her legs around him eagerly. He boosts her up high enough to bring her chest level with his face, and then closes his mouth around one of her breasts. He takes advantage of how thin the sheer fabric of her bra is and rolls her nipple between his teeth and tongue, and when he bites down gently, she whimpers and arches toward him. It's everything. It's not enough.
"Can you— fuck, oh my god—" she's losing the ability to put sentences together. Not good. "Touch me. Harvey, please." She feels him still. She thinks maybe he actually says a prayer under his breath.
He pushes off the door and turns toward the interior of the room. She clutches his face, bringing his lips back to hers, and strokes her tongue into his mouth as he carries her toward the bed. They've done this dance before, so it isn't hard to hold her against his chest as he climbs onto the mattress and then crawls his way toward the centre. He doesn't bother to turn their bodies because he doesn't care that they're sideways on the bed. He only cares about her.
"Okay," he murmurs, utterly reverent. "Jesus, yeah. Okay."
He lowers her down gently once they're in the middle, careful to cradle her head even though the surface beneath her is soft. He's so hard for her his cock aches, but he wants so desperately to savour this moment that for a second he doesn't really move at all. Finally, though, he shifts sideways and settles on the bed next to her, eager to unhook her bra and get his mouth on her bare skin, but she closes the space between them immediately.
A desperate sound trembles in the back of her throat. Her hands grapple at his shoulders, her fingers digging in as she rolls toward him. It takes him a second to realize that she thought he was pulling away from her. His heart skips a beat — he still can't believe she wants him, let alone wants him this much — and then he surges toward her, pressing one knee into the bed between her legs and pushing her down into the mattress with a searing kiss.
She arches beneath him, moaning so obscenely loud that Harvey almost blacks out above her. He kisses her like a drowning man, planting one hand on the bed next to her head and then slipping the other up to wrap loosely around her throat. He squeezes gently, just enough that she'd react if she was still afraid of this, but she bites his bottom lip and then sucks it into her mouth lasciviously instead of flinching. He groans. Her fingers tangle in his hair. She rolls her hips, rubbing against his leg the way he knows she loves, and his fingers flex and then tighten around her throat.
"Fuck," he breathes into her mouth.
"Harvey," she breathes back. He feels one of her hands slide downward over his abs, and then suddenly she's palming his dick through his trousers. "Say my name."
"Donna," he chokes.
She cups him in her hand, squeezing him the same way he's holding her throat, and he has to stop kissing her because suddenly he can't breathe.
"Again," she whispers, into the miniscule space between their mouths.
"Donna," he gasps. He thrusts into her hand, his body trembling with arousal. "Holy shit. Donna."
She flashes a grin, and it's the sexiest thing he's ever seen.
"There you go," she whispers.
The final thread of his self-control snaps. He collapses onto her, half draped over her body, and reaches down to grab her hand before he embarrasses himself and comes in his trousers. He pins both her wrists above her head and ducks forward to kiss her, but even through the haze of lust, a question looms.
"Tell me this is okay," he murmurs, squeezing her wrists.
"More than okay." She lifts her head to nip at his bottom lip, and then rolls her hips against his. "Don't stop, Harvey. Don't—"
He kisses the rest of her command from her lips, and she arches beneath him with a moan that shoots straight to his dick. He shifts his grip on her wrists to his left hand, careful to hold her loosely enough that she can break free if she wants, and then skims his newly free hand down her body. He pauses at her chest, squeezing her breasts and tweaking her nipples until she's writhing and whimpering beneath him, and then he glides his hand lower.
When he gets to the top edge of her underwear, he traces it. She shudders and lifts her hips eagerly. He dances his hand lower and then lingers, brushing his fingertips over the sheer black fabric as he gentles his mouth on hers.
She follows his lead, but her patience wears out quickly. When she lifts her hips into his hand and lets out a low, desperate whine, he gives in. He pushes the damp fabric of her underwear aside, pausing just long enough to let the tension drag into an almost audible hum, and then strokes his fingers over her.
She sucks in a breath and tips her head back. He leans away so he can watch her. The sharp angle of her jaw is shadowed by moonlight, and her hair is fanned around her like a halo ablaze. He's never seen anything more beautiful. He's gentle with her, stroking her slowly until she pushes her wrists impatiently against his hand.
"Please," she murmurs. "Please, Harvey. I need—"
He slips two fingers inside her and curls them before she can say another word. Her mouth falls open and her back bends into a curve. He sets a slow but insistent rhythm, and when he picks up the pace after a moment or two, a moan shudders through her.
"Look at me," he commands gently.
Her eyes flutter open. She's gorgeous, her pupils blown wide with desire and her chest flushed and heaving, and he tilts toward her like a drowning man in search of rescue.
"Tell me this is real," he whispers.
She tugs her wrists free of his grasp, curls her hands around his face, and pulls his mouth down to hers.
"It's real," she breathes against his lips, half-gone already. "It's always been real."
He speaks four languages, but he can't find the right words in any of them to describe the feeling that's unfurling in his chest. He kisses her instead, increasing the speed of his fingers and rubbing his thumb over her too, and she whimpers into his mouth. He keeps going, reading her reactions and doubling down every time he pulls a new one free, and he's got her right there — she's right there — when she decides that she wants more.
She opens her mouth to say something, but his thumb rubs a tight circle over her and she chokes on the words as her hips jerk again. She can feel him grinning into her neck. Bastard. His fingers stroke a little faster between her legs, and she digs her nails into his forearm so hard she wonders if she'll puncture his skin even through the fabric of his sleeve.
"Harvey," she whispers.
He stills instantly against her, eyebrows furrowed as he shifts up.
"Your mouth," she says helplessly, by way of explanation. "I want your mouth."
He actually stops breathing. She doesn't have to say it twice. He slips his fingers out of her and she mourns the loss, but then he's kneeling before her and draping her legs over his shoulders and she has to set her palms on the mattress beneath her to hold herself steady.
She lets her head fall back and her eyes flutter closed. His arms are curled around her legs, his fingers digging into the flesh of her thighs, and when he unwinds his right arm and slips his hand up to join his mouth, a gasp echoes through the bedroom. His fingers curl inside her and rub, and another whimper echoes. She looks down at him, her mouth open as she struggles to breathe through the pleasure that's devouring her whole, and he glances up and meets her gaze. She buries a hand in his dark hair and tugs. He seems to take that as an invitation to somehow be even better at what he's doing, and the whimpers she suddenly realises are hers melt into a full-throated moan.
"Fuck, Harvey, baby, that's so good, that's so—"
He doesn't let up. The pet name is so unlike her that in any other situation she'd probably stop and dissect that, but not now. Not now. He's always been smug about how good he is with his fingers, and he wasn't wrong, but his tongue is so wickedly talented she wants to build it a shrine. She murmurs something, maybe, I'm close or at least some unholy noise which conveys the same sort of sentiment. She can feel herself hurtling toward the edge, the white-hot tendrils of an orgasm coiling tighter and tighter within her, and then she comes so hard her coherency shatters.
He works her through it, drawing it out deliberately, and she can't breathe. Even once the peak has passed she still struggles. Her thoughts have been replaced by a steady hum of static. Her entire body is trembling. She's wrecked. Completely, utterly wrecked.
It feels fucking fantastic.
When she finally manages to grasp the ability to speak again, she takes stock. She's propped up on one hand, and the other is still fisted in his hair. He's still between her legs. His hands are wrapped around her hips, and he's lapping at her almost lazily. He's watching her. She blinks a few times, still waiting for her brain to finish rebooting, and when it finally does, she smiles.
He smiles too, his eyes alight with pride and something softer, something that she thinks might be affection. It makes her want to kiss him, so she does.
He tastes like her. He's smiling against her lips, and she wonders why they ever tried to resist each other. He feels as inevitable as the passing of time.
He leans back from her mouth, but he doesn't go far. He kisses the tip of her nose and then presses his forehead against hers, and she lets out a contented sigh.
"Oh my god," he murmurs. And then her name. "Donna."
She laughs and starts to tug his shirt free from his slacks. "You're telling me."
He grins. Once his shirt is untucked, she starts on the buttons. He ducks forward to kiss her again. His mouth is a little more insistent this time, and she arches into him as she undoes a button. He skims his palms slowly up her thighs, and then up her torso until he's palming her breasts.
"Admit it," he whispers against her lips. "I'm the best you've ever had."
She hums like she's considering it but undoes another button instead of replying. He sucks her bottom lip into his mouth. Her body is still buzzing from her orgasm, but that doesn't prevent her from aching for another. His mouth shifts down to her chin, and he trails a line of open-mouthed kisses along her jaw. She undoes the final two buttons on his shirt and then, even though she's very much enjoying his tongue on her jaw and his hands on her chest, she pushes him backward just far enough to look at him.
She runs her hands across his chest, and then slowly traces them downward over the ridges of his abs. He lies utterly still, letting her explore as he watches. It feels softer than she ever would've given him credit for. As though they've been like this for a lifetime.
(And— haven't they?)
Eventually, once she's mapped every inch of him that she can reach with her mouth and her hands, she pushes him farther away from her. He heeds her unspoken request and shifts backwards. She looks him up and down, and then leans back to rest on her hands.
"Take off your shirt," she murmurs.
He grins. She arches an eyebrow at him as if to say I'm waiting, and that seems to do both of them just fine. He shrugs his shirt off, his eyes never leaving hers, and drops it into a puddle of fabric on the floor.
"Shoes and socks," she orders. It's ridiculous that they're even still on.
He obeys. He pulls his shoes off quickly and tosses them aside, and then his socks follow soon after. When he straightens again, there's an eager glint in his eye. She wants to tease him about it, but she can't even bring herself to. The issue: she wants him just as much. Has done, for just as long.
Donna shifts forward on the mattress and into his space. He stares down at her, and she tilts her head back to hold his gaze while she unbuckles his belt and then pulls it from the loops. She chucks it carelessly to the floor once it's off, the metal buckle hitting the tile with a clank, and then reaches for his waistband.
"I've dreamed about this," she murmurs as she undoes the button on his pants.
He swallows. "You have?"
"Obviously."
He blinks at her in surprise. She unzips his pants, and the sound echoes through the room. She hooks her fingers into his waistband, smirks as she catches the band of his underwear too, and then tugs. His pants drop down to his ankles, and as he steps out of them, she steps back to look him over.
He's just so beautiful. She could scream.
She stands, steps toward him, wraps her hand around his length. He sucks in a breath and stiffens. She uses her other hand to urge him forwards until he's sat at the edge of the bed, until she's standing in front of him. He stares up at her, his pupils blown wide with desire. She leans down to kiss him, slower than before, and his body seems to shudder.
"You're good with your mouth," she murmurs, leaning closer to him.
He grins, probably about to say something obnoxious or arrogant or both, and she squeezes him gently. He chokes on his response. She smiles.
"You're good," she repeats. "But I'm better."
She drops to her knees.
It'd be a lie to say she hadn't already thought about doing this. Most days. Maybe all days. Donna has thought about this so insanely often that she basically already has it in the bag: she's definitely going to blow his mind.
Among other things.
She teases him for a while just because she can, and because she wants to learn him. She takes note of what makes him inhale sharply, and what makes him groan, and what makes his hips jerk toward her. By the time she stops teasing and starts to swallow him inch by inch until he's buried as deep as she can take him, his breathing is ragged.
She sets a steady pace. His hand fists in her hair again. When she hollows her cheeks and sucks harder than she has yet, he hisses out a curse. She glances up at him. He's watching her through half-lidded eyes, his mouth hanging open. She digs her nails into his hips and keeps going. He tightens his hand in her hair, pulling a little, and she moans because she likes it.
That seems to shove him toward the edge.
"Donna," he pants. "I'm close."
She appreciates the warning, but she doesn't stop. She doesn't want to.
He sucks in another breath, gasping her name for a second time, tugging so helplessly at her hair that for a second she does stop. In a flash, before she can even really process it, he's pulling her up his body, rolling them both over, pinning her arms above her and kissing her like this is their last day on earth. Good lord he's attractive.
"Want it like this," he murmurs against her, and the words strike a chord so deep in Donna that her hips cant up towards him involuntarily, dignity be damned.
"Okay," she husks, "fuck, okay, please," voice raw with need, then he's finally sliding into her and it feels like she's about to explode. She fists a hand to his bicep, her whole body still, undone by how good it feels.
They're both close already, so close, and when his thrusts start to pick up the pace Donna hears herself get so loud that it's almost embarrassing. It's harder — faster — than it ever has been, and it's ridiculous how incredible he is at this, ridiculous how much it turns her on when he murmurs these litanies of jesus christ donna, what the fuck, you feel so good, against the shell of her ear.
He's everything. He's everything, everywhere, all over her, his lips brushing her face, her neck, her chest, thrusting into her over and over until she's practically blind with the feeling.
She pushes her hips up to take her even deeper, and oh that's so good, and a noise tears itself free from her throat so unholy that she worries for a minute about the downstairs neighbours hearing this through the floor. He asks if it's okay, if that's what she likes, and she can only dig her nails into his shoulder as a reply. He swears, speeding up just a fraction until she's delirious with it.
Harvey presses his teeth into her shoulder, palms finding her sides, a pause in the frenzy as he pulls away just slightly to meet her eyes. Fuck. Then he slams into her, pulling her down around him, the shock of it so good that Donna forgets how to breathe.
Harvey, she hears, and it's her voice, all air, Harvey, oh my god, I'm gonna—
Every muscle in her body seems to contract at once then she's gasping for air, clawing at him, coming so hard that she half expects her heart to just stop in her chest. He follows a second later, rocking into her a final time — she's going to spend the rest of her life thinking about the noise he makes. Harvey buries his head in her shoulder as he comes, drawing her up against him, slamming into her over and over, fractals of white exploding into his vision.
Jesus Christ.
Finally (finally) once the aftershocks have subsided, he draws out of her, pride unfurling beneath his ribs at the sound she makes. He collapses onto the bed beside her. Boneless. Spent. He kisses her when he can finally breathe again, and it's so gentle compared to the toss of sheets around them, the way her pupils are blown black with desire; when she smiles against his lips it feels like the sunrise.
Donna reaches a hand up, presses it soft to his face.
There's a flush in his cheeks and across his chest, and he's staring at her like she's the eighth wonder of the world, and she knows she's good but she can't be that good.
Can she?
"Harvey?" she murmurs, once she's recovered enough to actually speak out loud.
He just stares at her. She thinks he's stopped breathing again.
She frowns. "Are you—"
He grabs her face and yanks her forward and devours the rest of her question. She huffs a little in surprise, but he's kissing her like his life depends on it and he's so infuriatingly good at it that she doesn't resist. She just wraps her arms around his torso and kisses him back.
"So good," he whispers against her lips after a while.
She smiles. "So good, huh?"
He murmurs some noise of acquiescence, apparently lost for words. She settles down onto the bed beside him, and he lifts his hand to curl around her neck and press his thumb against her bottom lip.
"Where'd you come from?"
There's awe in his voice, and warmth blossoms in her chest.
He lifts his gaze to hers, his eyes alight with an emotion she can't decipher, and she tilts closer to him.
"Doesn't matter. Here now." she swallows against the words. "That was…"
"The best you've ever had?" he offers, throwing Donna's own words back at her from earlier.
She can only smile. Doesn't even try to shut him down. Mostly because, by leaps and bounds, he's right. "Understatement."
She's used to his arrogance, but the shyly pleased smile that spreads over his lips at her praise makes her heart flutter. He really is sweet. And if the erratic beating of her heart is any indication, she is in so much trouble.
He leans forward and brushes his lips over hers, and she kisses him back as her heart continues to skip double time in her chest.
"Should we talk?"
Donna stills. It's maybe the first time ever that she's heard such a sentiment come out of his mouth.
"Probably. Do you want to?"
This seems to give Harvey pause, and she waits for his answer as if the anticipation isn't slicing through the bones in her chest. Because if he doesn't, if he doesn't even now—
"I think so." His voice is quiet, but steady. She breathes a sigh of relief. "Can we just," he shifts again, settling back against her many pillows, tugging the duvet out from under them and letting Donna curl into his side. Her head rests on his torso, and she isn't looking at him, but she doesn't need to. She loves him. Of course she does. How could this have happened any other way?
"What have you been so afraid of this whole time?" The question is huge, but she asks it anyway because she wants quite desperately to know.
A minute passes in silence. She can almost hear the wheels turning in Harvey's head. "Just." He pauses. Fatigue is muddying his words, slightly, the gravel of his voice scratched louder in this near-silent room. "You can never go back."
Donna, aching, splays her hand all the way across the warmth of his ribcage, letting his pulse thud slow against her palm. Her heart breaks for him. She loves Harvey more than anything, and she gets it. She gets it. She knows.
"You can never go back," she repeats, a murmur, and he nods like he's hearing it for the first time.
"Donna," he whispers, suddenly very guarded despite the rasp of sleep which colours her name. He's exhausted, eyes already closed, tracing patterns absent-mindedly across the skin of her shoulders.
"Mm?" Donna lets her own eyes drift shut, curling into him just a little more before they both fall asleep. She fits so perfectly against him that she wonders for a moment if maybe they were made for each other, and he's so entirely comfortable with the intimacy that she knows the truth instinctively — that this is the beginning of something real. He's not running away.
"Will you stay?"
This is to say: stay forever. This is to say, for the first time: I don't ever want us to go back.
"Always."
She stays.