Suits 7x10 Alternate Ending

Rated M.

His lips tingle with the taste of her, confusion and desire rendering him silent as Donna's apology washes over him like gravel wrapped in handmade silk.

I'm sorry, Harvey. I just had to know.

She leaves his orbit, stealing his gravity and taking it with her, and he swings around catching her wrist.

He's supposed to let her run from the mistake she just made, because that's what the kiss was; a mistake—her fault, but his fingers clasp more firmly around her small bones, and widen the field for blame.

He should let her go, but her fearful eyes refuse to release their hold, either.

She's probably scared of how he's going to react, knowing infidelity has fucked him up and subsequently plagued his entire life. And she has a right to be worried. He's livid as hell, his heavy breathing laboring between them. But his silent desire revolts louder than his anger. Which must translate as an invitation. Because she takes a hesitant and curious step forward.

He subconsciously lets his arm drop with her hand still attached, and he thinks maybe the act wasn't all that subconscious when she innocently (or not-so-innocently) brushes the bulge in his trousers, the brief contact showcasing he's not exactly standing on any moral high ground.

Five months of being in a relationship, sex on goddam tap, and he's throbbing like he's been living in a fucking monastery, but that's no excuse to let the situation spiral. He's turned on, he's human for Christ's sake, but when the hesitation disappears from her gaze—deliciously moist lips quirking as she rests her knuckles lightly against the fabric—he breathes in sharply, his silence once again interpreted as a summons.

Her fingers cup him with a teasing stroke and fuck, maybe he did call her forward, because he grows impossibly tight; the sensation of her touch jolting up to invade everything and everywhere all at once. And despite all of his ethical codes, he still has the audacity to wonder if it's justifiable to not encourage her, but to also not stop her either—bend the rules just enough so the blame can still rest with her tomorrow.

An asshole move.

But when she lets go to close the blinds and lock the door, giving him ample opportunity to change his mind, he internally argues that standing still is the same as protesting. And when she pushes him back, his knees buckling and his ass hitting the taunt leather of the couch, it's almost acceptable that he's giving in, so long as he doesn't reach out and haul her into his lap—an urge he has to physically fight when she saunters away from him.

He clenches his fist with a deep breath, forcing away thoughts of running his hands under her dress and squeezing her thighs as she grinds on top of him, losing his sanity in a sane way and not having it obliterated by distance. But her eyes flutters over her shoulder, warning him that these are his rules but her game, and he should sit fucking still before he ruins it. A command he begrudgingly obeys as she reaches behind her, sliding down her zipper and revealing a flash of red lace that makes him groan, loudly.

The material pools at her hips and she turns around giving him a full view of her bouncing breasts as she shimmers out of the fabric, and he swallows hard, feeling dizzy when she opts to leave her heels on.

He shifts, trying to draw air back into his lungs as he lavishes her with his gaze, and he knows it's definitely crossing a line to think she's the most beautiful woman he's ever had the privilege to see bound by lace. His mind knows the thought is wrong, but his heart and the pressure aching in his groin don't receive the same communication when she leans over, her glossy hair spilling forward as she climbs on top of him.

She loosens his tie so he can finally breathe again, popping the buttons down his shirt, and if he wasn't still desperately clinging to the notion he's not the one in charge and is somehow absolved from guilt, he would shrug out of his blazer rather than risk getting heatstroke. But instead, he lolls his head back as she traces her nails over his bare chest to the edge of his trousers.

A sound he doesn't recognize coils in his throat as she releases him, her thumb spreading the pre-cum that's already escaped, teasing it around his hardened member that swells out of its own volition. He can't be held accountable for bodily reactions, not when she's stroking him and—fuck.

He grunts as her tongue swirls over his nipple, her hand continuing to pump him, and he blindly reaches for her waist, not sure what this is, whether it's for her as well, but he justifies breaking one rule, warning her to slow down with his bruising grip. She lets him go, pulling aside her panties, and when she sinks on top of him, everything feels too much and too real, and his heart leaps into his throat, blocking the strained emotion that he wants to bury into her hair as she rides him into oblivion. Because he is an asshole, but he also loves her so much sometimes it fucking hurts, and he thinks, if he can hold out, let her get off, then maybe he can somehow redeem himself.

Maybe this won't end up destroying them.

And maybe I let her fuck me but I didn't cum won't devastate his relationship.

He thinks all of those things as he jerks his hips, trying to ease the fire burning through his groin—just a little—so he can save himself and them.

But then she's rubbing herself, whimpering into his neck, and it's the sound she makes right before she orgasms, which he recognizes, because it's been imprinted in his mind for thirteen fucking years, and all he wants to do is be there with her, in the same moment, where he loses all rhythm and drives up into her, because no matter how deep he is inside her it will never be close enough.

Then he snaps—jerking up until she cries out and takes him with her, and he shatters in every way a person can in the throes of euphoria, because he's happy and content and fucking selfish, because come tomorrow, he's still going to blame this on her and call it her mistake.

She made him someone he never wanted to be; the kind of man who is capable of loving with everything he has, when the man he wants to be is someone who makes it to the end in one piece.

If he ever truly had Donna, and then lost her, he's not sure he could survive.

So, he tells Paula it was just a kiss, asks his girlfriend to move in with him, and pushes Donna away—propelling himself into a fantasy which he knows is safe, but unfulfilling, and honestly, maybe he doesn't deserve more than false comforts, but Donna does.

She deserves everything.

As long as she's happy, then he can deal with everything else.