Before we begin, please heed the Rules of the Game:
Tension. Angst. Betrayal. Remember how heavy and painful the first half of Season 3 felt?
We'll get much more of that.
Banter. Mischief. Affection. Remember how fun the early seasons and start of Season 4 were?
Don't worry, we'll get some of that too.
Scenes of a sexual nature. That's "sexual", with all the concomitant trigger warnings… not necessarily "sexy".
Well… somewhat sexy.
Motherfucking language. Be prepared to hear everyone, even Jessica, beyond the confines of cable TV censorship. Sometimes beyond English.
Perspective flipping. Harvey and Jessica are the only narrators of this story. Only one side is told at a time, but there's no warning for when you'll hear from whom.
Speaking of which—
Unreliable narrators. These are broken people who play by broken rules.
The Big Apple. Since this New York-based show was lamentably filmed in Toronto, this fanfic is a love letter to the real New York: baconeggandcheese, De Blasio hate, Bergdorf Goodman's, and all the rest.
Canon divergence. Please note the (non-exhaustive) timeline and plot exceptions below:
Timeline: there's a time leap here of several months after the end of Season 3. I'd love to get all particular, as "Suits time" is more compressed than "real time"—but for simplicity's sake, consider this fic starting early 2014. I intended for the outside-world references to align with this timeline as well, but if you notice any major anachronisms, then please let me know.
Plot: Completely canon-compliant through the end of Season 2 and mostly through end of Season 3, after which it builds some things entirely new. May incorporate elements of subsequent seasons, but does not follow those arcs. Key divergences:
- Jessica never gave Mike an office in Episode 3.1 "The Arrangement". However, she did offer him something else.
- Mike never accepted Jonathan Sidwell's offer in Episode 3.16 "No Way Out".
- Quentin's death happened during the time leap, rather than in in Episode 3.12 "Yesterday's Gone". Harvey was not named co-executor on the will.
- Please ignore the establishment of Jessica's backstory in Seasons 6-7. That felt hastily retconned for the sake of the actor's departure (*sob*) and new spin-off. Chicago is awesome, but Jessica Pearson and deep dish pizza? I don't think so.
- I don't believe the show ever stipulated this, so here's my headcanon: while Jessica went straight through to law school from undergrad, Harvey did not. Therefore, they are further apart in professional age than actual age (versus 10+ years between Harvey/Mike and Daniel/Jessica).
- Harvey still came clean to Jessica in Episode 3.6 "The Other Time" about plotting with Darby to overthrow her as Managing Partner (MP). However, their heart-to-heart conversations in 3.7 "She's Mine" and 3.8 "Endgame" never happened. No rooftop reconciliation, no late-night emergency whiskey-fueled strategy sessions. No apologies. They still got the work done, because they're professionals. As the English would say, they "keep calm and carry on."
Well… somewhat calm.
Humans being humans. Insecurities? Bowel movements? Yeah, humans have those.
This is not one of those Jarvey fics where Donna is the enemy. Nor is she preternaturally perfect. She's… Donna.
Harvey and Jessica aren't nice just because we like them. In fact, I daresay we might like them because they aren't that nice.
Speaking of humans…
Author fallibility. I do try to (re)construct this universe accurately! That said, should you find any perceived errors or inconsistencies, then please feel free to flag it for me. And as always, I welcome any and all constructive feedback in reviews!
Legal disclaimer. Lastly—I'm literally writing fanfiction, so this disclaimer is pretty expansive. If you recognize anything public—a company, landmark, person—real or fictional—then I don't own it. The characters, ideas, and storylines unique to the show Suits are not my intellectual property, but rather that of Aaron Korsh (thank you sir for your masterpiece) and AMC. You can thank the supreme talent and hotness of actors Gabriel Macht and Gina Torres for how vividly Harvey and Jessica have already been brought to life, with which I had nothing to do either.
Rather, I wrote this because I adore Suits yet strongly contest the handling of Season 2 & 3's Harvey/Jessica conflict. Think of this fic as both my tribute and my critique, for which I will only ever earn a grand sum of $0. My fucked up mind and I take full ownership of that and everything else here.
Therefore, without further ado…
Let's play.
Y las traiciones te marcan
Y nunca te olvidan
Y cambian la vida
Y si no te fallan en la entrada,
te fallan en la salida
– "Culpables", Karol G and Anuel AA
These versions of violence
sometimes subtle, sometimes clear
And the ones that go unnoticed
still leave their mark once disappeared
– "Versions of Violence", Alanis Morissette
1. The Unveiling: Part 1
A/N: This chapter and the next will loosely reimagine that infamous drinks scene in Episode 4.1.
In true Suits style, please enjoy some references to Fight Club, Basic Instinct, Batman, "Hot for Teacher" by Van Halen and "Don't Stand So Close To Me" by The Police, and more. Quotes from Kings of Leon's "Closer".
{Stranded in this spooky town
Stop lights are swaying
and the phone lines are down}
The deep inhale Harvey took upon finally entering his apartment gave way to a jerky exhale when he caught a whiff of something floral. Musky.
Since when did…? No. He paid his housekeeper well, but not that well. Besides, he knew that scent. As he hung his coat and set his briefcase on the entryway settee, his eyes fell upon a lavender Prada tote.
"You know, I don't recall ever giving you a set of keys."
"I don't recall ever needing your permission." Her voice rang clear across the living room. As he entered, the crackling fireplace illuminated Jessica emerging from his bedroom wing. The fuck was she doing back there? And how the hell had she gotten in?
"It's my apartment."
"Bought with my money."
She didn't seem in an acerbic mood, despite the galling comment and burglary—the corners of her mouth were upturned, and light sparkled in her large brown eyes as she approached. If anything, this looked like a very good mood: perhaps the first he'd seen of her in a while. So he swallowed his ire and decided to quip back: "Ours."
"Well, that's why I'm here. We couldn't let yet another month go by without celebrating, could we?"
Sure, they had offhandedly discussed celebratory name partner drinks. Almost a year ago.
What was this really about? Her form of apology for initially doubting how he and Mike handled the Derringer case? A thank-you for winning the firm $20 million despite her fuck-up?
He looked hard at her. To her right, two snifter glasses and a bottle of Glendronach Single Malt sat atop his counter. His eyes flitted briefly to his liquor cabinet, but he already knew that it wasn't from his collection.
"1971 vintage," she offered to his unasked question.
His eyes met hers again. They felt unexpectedly soft, like a pleasant memory. His lips parted.
It wasn't that this was uncharacteristic of her, per se… Jessica always could be incredibly thoughtful. And generous. Sweet, even. As well as ruthless, charming, cold, and vicious. It was just that this particular Jessica was one he hadn't seen in so long.
Since…
His back stiffened. "You couldn't have texted me?"
"I wanted to surprise you."
"You hate surprises."
"I hate receiving them," she clarified. "Giving them is fun."
She met his gaze carefully before waltzing back to the whiskey. "Well?"
"Thank you," he returned, not yet sure of what else to say.
She smirked as she opened the bottle—or smiled; it was hard to tell these days—and started to pour. Neat. Handing him his glass, she raised hers.
"To Pearson Specter," she said.
"To Pearson Specter."
Their glasses clinked.
Fuck, it was good. Scented silk flowing down his throat. Dried figs… cloves… bit of black pepper and smoked sherry wood on the nose… then a buttery taste as it warmed his throat… caramel finish. His eyes fell shut for a moment. Jessica really knew how to spoil a man, he mused.
When she wasn't busy ruining him.
"I'm glad you like your gift."
For a second, he caught another flicker of it. That look. That same look he'd caught her giving him months ago as they both watched the maintenance workers re-hang the last burnished gold letter of his name on the wall, this time right next to hers. She'd only locked eyes with him for a moment, but it was enough for him to see what would take a lifetime to decipher. Not that he wanted to. It had unsettled him.
"So. How does it feel?"
Her question jerked him back.
Loaded question.
"Right."
"Right?"
"Everything always feels right standing next to you."
Now she granted him a different look, this time a familiar one. All sparkle and mock rebuke: her usual response to his flattery, double entendres and other assorted bullshit. His breath felt lighter knowing they could still slip so smoothly into old patterns amid new ground.
"Then let's sit."
Jessica always knew how to blur the lines between an insult and an invitation. She had already started moving before he even gestured to the pair of couches. Shaking his head with amusement and irritation in equal measure, he followed her.
She flowed elegantly onto the first one across from him: upright and legs crossed; the hand holding her glass rested lightly on her bare left knee. Her gaze drifted to the right through the panoramic glass and out onto the lights of Midtown West. She didn't say a word.
Harvey sat on the other and cleared his throat. "I had an encouraging conversation today with Jayne Hardwicke," he started, but she waved him away.
"We don't need to talk about work right now." Her eyes still hadn't moved from the window.
Then what the fuck did she want to talk about?
Finally, her eyes turned to meet his. "It's fine, I trust you." She smiled slightly and took another sip.
Harvey's stomach did another sinking twist. The same one that had plagued him ever since that first conversation with Darby, which seemed to have grown in size and intensity over the past year into what felt like an early-stage ulcer. He quieted it with a nod to her and deep gulp from his glass.
Her eyes had returned to the window. She took another sip; so did he.
He'd sat and drank in silence with Jessica on plenty of occasions after work. Comfortably. Those were some of his fondest memories.
This was not one of them.
"I'm thinking of selling my condo," she said finally.
"Wait—what?" However he'd expected her to break the silence, this was far from it. "Why? That place is amazing, you've had it—"
"For ages, I know." She shrugged, still looking out the window. "I'm thinking it's just time for something new." Her eyes fell on him again. "Sometimes you outgrow places."
He had no idea what to say to that, so he just nodded again and drank. The silence fell over them again like a scratchy blanket.
"The bathroom is perfection, though," she mused aloud. "It'll take ages to get a new place remodeled that well."
What the fuck was she talking about?
He shrugged. "I wouldn't know. I've never seen it."
She frowned at him. "What are you talking about? Of course you have. You've been to my place plenty of times."
"Well not nearly as often as you break into mine." That earned him a tight smile. "But while you've helped yourself to a full tour, I've never seen this supposedly magical bathroom you're talking about."
"So you mean to tell me that in—what, in 12 years of visiting my apartment, that you've never used the bathroom?"
"No, I don't mean to tell you that. I have used a bathroom, but you always make me use the half bath or one of the guest baths."
"Oh, do I now?" she was smiling now in thought, clearly amusing herself with recollections of her own cleverness.
Psycho.
"Yep. Always said you don't want my filthy little hands—"
"Touching my things," she finished with him in unison. She watched him in amazement, mouth still parted in a silent laugh. "So in all that time, you really never snuck into my bedroom or private bath?"
Harvey shrugged and drank again to cool the warmth in his cheeks. "You didn't want me there, so I didn't."
She was giving him a curious look now. It made him uncomfortable.
"I mean I've seen your private bath once. In your old place, on Columbus."
"Oh, the Almeida…"
"12E," he added without thinking. He immediately busied himself with pouring each of them another glass.
"And why did—"
"You told me to come in, remember? You needed help cleaning yourself up that day after that widow punched you in the face."
His last few words hung in the air for a full few seconds before Jessica burst out laughing. He slowly let the chuckles tumble from himself as well until they were both bent over at the memory.
"Oh my God," Jessica gasped through peals of laughter. "Mrs. Wheaton, wasn't it?"
"Fucked you right up, didn't she." His eyes stung with mirth. "You said she jumped at you 'like a squirrel', right?"
"I still have the scar!" She tugged at her neckline of her lavender silk top to demonstrate, and he tried not to stare.
"Goddamn… that was something else…what was she so mad about again?"
"Lower settlement than promised." Jessica gasped for air. "And I guess the death of her husband." An incongruent giggle escaped her, followed by several more. She dabbed at her eyes. "Oh my God…"
"Didn't you need stiches?"
"I gave myself those stiches, remember?" She coughed. "Well of course you wouldn't. You nearly fainted when I started in with the needle. Like a little bitch."
"Hey!" he protested as she dissolved yet again into giggles. "I did not faint. I was just disgusted at the sight of—"
"Blood? Little bitch?"
"No, of your ugly face."
She stared at him for a moment and then burst again into laughter. So did he. Somehow, commiserating aloud over the very insults and dark thoughts of bodily harm that lurked deep within him on their worst days had cracked through months of permafrost.
Jessica managed another swig without choking on her last few laughs. "Well." She tapped her fingers daintily against her jawline. "How's my face now?"
Perhaps it was the lazy warmth of exquisite scotch or just finally sharing a genuine moment with his friend again, but he couldn't muster up a retort. He smiled. "Perfect."
She grinned. He hid his in another sip.
{Skies are blinking at me
I see a storm bubbling up from the sea}
When he returned from the bathroom, he found her prowling along his library wall and thumbing through his collection. A small flare of annoyance whipped through him. Even Donna knew better than to touch those without asking.
Hadn't she done enough stalking before he arrived?
"Even your books are about jazz," she remarked. She turned towards him with an anything but guileless expression. "Does it hurt not to have any musical talent of your own?"
He gave her a sarcastic smile as he pushed his suit jacket aside and settled back into the couch. Unfortunately, his stack of witty rejoinders must have also gotten flushed down the toilet. It was the Glendronach's fault.
"Fuck you, Jess."
Her mouth mocked his ineloquence without saying a word. It was infuriating.
"You're not special, you know. Everyone can play the piano, even my nine-year-old niece."
"You can't."
"Yeah, well, unlike you, my parents couldn't afford to send me to finishing school."
"They offer adult lessons, you know."
"I don't want to learn the piano anymore."
"I meant finishing school." She resumed her position on the opposite couch. "Your dining etiquette is atrocious."
Harvey glared at her. Their return to banter was an improvement, but he couldn't help the part of him that still wanted to wrap his hands around her throat and squeeze.
Self-satisfied, she sank deeper into the cushions. His eyes caught the hem of her skirt riding up.
He shook his head. "As if I'd want to. Guys bred like that turn out to be insufferable pricks—"
"A type with whom you are entirely unfamiliar, of course."
He ignored her but for the slight tightening of his jaw. "People like Stephen. Darby. That weird big-eared guy with the cat."
Jessica gave a light laugh. "Etiquette is not just for the English, Harvey." She stared off through the window again. "That is one thing I miss about having Edward around. He did bring a certain level of class to the operation."
"Yeah, murder and terrorism are a real class act." The words leapt from his mouth before he had assessed their risk, and he knew without looking that they'd landed them back on shaky ground. "I don't know why you care so much about that kind of shit, anyway," he said bitterly. "You sound like my old civ pro professor."
The fireplace crackled in their silence. "Julian?"
"Yeah, that pri—" Harvey stopped. Something in Jessica's tone and the pause before she had said his name made him look up at her through narrowed eyes.
'Julian'?
"Since when are you on a first name basis with that asshole?"
"It's been over 20 years since law school, Harvey. He and I are professional peers."
"Which is why you still call Henry Gerard 'Professor'? And even that dipshit Andrew McKutcheon after he left to teach at Columbia? Nerd like you? Bullshit," he declared. He scanned her posture and perfectly arranged expression until it hit him. "Wait—no." He drew back. "Oh, you've gotta be kidding me. Why didn't you ever tell me about that?"
Her face barely moved, but he could swear he detected a sparkle somewhere in there. "Because it's none of your business."
Oh, for fuck's sake.
Professor Hawthorne?
Of course. Julian M. Hawthorne IV, Harvard's "god" of civil procedure, would have been just her type. Tall, handsome, blue-blooded, and old as fuck. Indeed, one of the biggest shocks of Jessica having ever been married was that her ex-husband had actually been born in their same generation.
The biggest shock, of course, being that she had ever been married.
He wasn't sure whether he wanted to laugh or scowl. "So you're telling me that you. And Professor Hawthorne. Have…"
She didn't roll her eyes at his lewd eyebrow waggle. Instead, she looked amused… and something else? One eyebrow arched slightly as her gaze dared him to continue.
"Done the…"
It arched higher.
Fuck, why did he sound like a teenaged virgin? Or worse, Mike?
"So you two slept together."
"Well." She brought the glass to her lips again. "As I recall, there wasn't a great deal of sleeping."
Harvey snorted. "You're kidding, right?"
The mischief twinkling in her eyes answered him.
"No shit." Van Halen and The Police songs started mixing chaotically in his head. "When?" Where? Why?
How?
Jessica took a delicate sip from her glass. "At an alumni event on campus when I started doing recruitment for the firm. Well after graduation," she added unnecessarily. "I earned my A."
"I'll bet you did," he retorted, still processing the information.
The images.
"I would never let sex compromise success, Harvey. Some of us actually studied hard in law school."
Her words entered his ears, but his mental filter was too clogged with unbidden footage of them going at it in Hawthorne's office. Had they done it on that weird purple velvet-tufted couch? Against the oak paneled walls? On the floor atop a stack of ungraded exams? On his desk? Over his desk? Facing each other? From behind?
However, the eventually completed processing of her words brought him back into his living room with a frown.
…The fuck did she mean by that?
It wasn't so much her words themselves as their tone. Jessica had given him shit about law school ever since he didn't make President of the Law Review like she so famously had 10 years earlier.
"Not everyone wants to be you, Jessica," he'd groaned into the phone.
"No one else can be. But clearly you can't even manage half," she'd thrown back at him. "Notes editor? That's for bitches. And Justice Scalia. That is the company you wish to keep?"
It was just banter. She knew deep down how hard he worked—obviously, he was goddamned good at his job. She wouldn't have picked him for her Number Two if he hadn't been.
So then what the fuck was with the tone? Her voice sounded almost angry, like…
In his confusion, he met her eyes.
…There it was again, that look.
Only when it lingered, perhaps caught in a current of Glendronach, could Harvey trace what disquieted him so deeply about it.
He'd never seen such calculation on her face.
Not towards him, anyway. Maybe in the early days when they were still trying to figure each other out, but at least back then he amused her. Irritated, more often, but still. He'd then come to enjoy a light of pride in her eyes when he achieved something big, even when mingled with all of the above.
But that day at the unveiling of the new wall, she'd looked at him completely differently. Not quite like she was appraising an enemy, but hardly like greeting a friend. Like he was a stranger.
A dangerous stranger.
He swallowed hard. "Listen—"
"If you will excuse me."
His heart sank before he realized that she had set off in the direction of his bathroom, not the elevator.
He let himself release a sigh. Fuck, the core strength it took not to unbalance himself with her these days…
He supposed he couldn't blame her. For all her bullshit in front of Mike about tigers and liking it rough or whatever, and their unspoken détente to help Ava, jail Stephen, and oust Darby, he knew better. Loyalty meant as much to her as it did to him And regardless of how seriously fucked up her actions were, he had to admit that he never would've forgiven him if he'd stood in her shoes.
Honestly, with the image of her face that night on the rooftop swimming once again before his vision, he could barely forgive himself.
His stomach panged. Maybe now was the time for them to fix this. Alcohol was the best lubricant, right? Potential talking points began whizzing through his head, each one unfortunately worse than the last, until the sound of a door opening silenced them.
Jessica's heels clicked across the wood until muffled once again by his area rug. He watched her face cautiously—but the smile she gave him upon reclaiming her seat and drink looked as clear as the blue sky over the Hudson. The day after Hurricane Sandy destroyed half of Manhattan.
Goddamn, this tightrope was exhausting.
Things had felt normal for a while. After all, with the British Invasion behind them, they had a firm to run. In the one statement she ever spared on the subject the one time he'd dared to bring it up, the past was "in the past"; he "never went through with it"; it wasn't like he'd "killed six people", and she was just happy they were "back on the same side". "Back to work? Partner?" she'd offered with a smile as warm as ever, which he'd been all too grateful to accept.
Still, he couldn't help sometimes feeling a chill: like the drift when passing by a cracked window in winter. She rarely lingered anymore to commiserate after meetings; fewer exchanges of knowing looks. Banter felt mechanical, like a truck sputtering down a hill more from gravity than gasoline. Almost no work meetings outside the office, least of all social calls. She worked as much as ever, probably even more these days—but every time he walked past her office at night, it was empty.
Except now, here she was. In his apartment. On his couch, where she'd spent the evening not only avoiding work, but also drinking and laughing and smiling and reminiscing with him, even almost…
Well, no. That would be interpreting a step too far.
Jessica stretched her arms high and catlike into the air and threw her head back with a throaty sigh. Harvey's eyes fell on her chest.
… Would it?
"I'm starving."
She really was full of surprises tonight. So did this mean she was staying or leaving?
"I dunno… guess we could do Serafina? It's just downstairs."
"I hate Serafina."
Drunk Jessica could sound a lot like a teenaged brat. But he kind of liked the rare times she got like this. He could imagine her as a girl: the pretty Park Avenue Princess stuck in her tower yet wielding her sword-tongue to cut every suitor down to size.
"Fine then… We can walk to Sushi of Gari… Marseille…"
She wrinkled her nose. "No, I don't want to walk. It's cold outside. I'm comfortable up here."
"Clearly," he muttered.
She rewarded his chancing of resumed banter with playfully narrowed eyes. He grinned. "We could always order something."
"No, it'll take too long. I want food now." She jumped up to punctuate her point. "I know! I'll cook us something."
Okay, this night was too much. Was Jessica Pearson now offering—well, demanding, but nonetheless—to cook him dinner in his own apartment? After breaking into it? Bearing gifts, insults, and tales of lewd escapades?
To be fair, he wouldn't have minded her cooking. She knew how to do that as well as everything else she ever touched. She'd had him over by hers for a few dinner parties back in the old days before she'd taken full reins from Hardman, and they were surprisingly good. "The total package," he'd called her after tasting her perfectly medium rare strip steak à poivre. Sadly, duties of running the firm solo must have taken their toll; the invitations dwindled over time before grinding to a halt.
She looked at him in bewilderment. "What, are you not hungry?"
He shrugged. "Mike and I had some Thai before I left."
From the corner of his eye as she strode over to his kitchen, he thought she bristled. "So that's what took you so long. I thought the kid was working with Louis now?"
How long had she been waiting in his apartment? What had she been doing here?
"Temporarily. And even Louis lets him eat. Sometimes." He watched her pry open his fridge door and then shut it with a scowl. "Hey, it's not my fault. You couldn't afford any food with that fancy scotch?"
"No, I just didn't realize I was in business with Tyler Durden. Thought you'd have something in this kitchen other than… mustard…" cabinets clanged as she continued rummaging "… peanut butter… chili powder… and a single banana." The last cabinet fell shut with a defeated thud. "How embarrassing. A house full of condiments and no food."
A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. "I eat out. And the banana counts as food."
The look she cast him hovered between pity, annoyance, and disdain. But then it softened, for she must have realized what Harvey was already trying to forget: that things hadn't been this bad before Scottie left. Thankfully, she knew better than to follow up about it. Harvey was struck with a rush of appreciation for their friendship. And how much he'd missed it.
After a bit more foraging, Jessica rose with a knife in hand and started smearing peanut butter… directly onto the banana? Fair enough, he didn't have any bread… shame, because actually he wouldn't have minded a slice of toast right about—
Harvey was entirely unprepared for what came next.
Jessica's tongue flicked out to catch a falling drop of peanut butter. But then again… and again… she lapped at the enormous half-coated banana like it was melting ice cream. Her head gently bobbed and swayed as she navigated the circumference.
He stared, transfixed.
…The fuck?
Her movements were so languid that at times, her eyes fell shut and her long lashes brushed her cheeks. But her head—and more hypnotically, her mouth—never stopped moving. At one point, a curtain of long dark hair fell before her face and obscured this unconventional meal from his view, until she tossed her head back and he found her lips once again latched onto the banana.
Her full… red… lips…
Wait, was this actually happening?
Surely not. He'd had too much to drink. Probably so had she. She was just hungry. … And this was her idea of a snack…? But…
The only sounds in the apartment came from her as she now did what he could only describe as kissing the banana… or… trying to suck off the peanut butter… Did she know she was moaning? Was she really just that hungry? Was the peanut butter that good?
This could not be…
On another woman, such a gesture would be cheap. Cartoonish in its coquetry. But not with Jessica. Because with her, it wasn't even happening. So it wasn't a gesture—right? Surely not? Some mindfuck as usual—
Right?
Was she really that hungry?
Why was he thinking about Professor Hawthorne?
Just when he started to reason that this had to be about more than just hunger, her mouth finally opened over the tip.
At that moment, they locked eyes.
Only then did Harvey realize his mouth had fallen open. But he didn't move, and Jessica didn't break eye contact as she bore down halfway on the sodden fruit.
Oh, fuck.
Goddamnit.
Okay. She knew he'd always found her attractive. How could he not? He had eyes and a dick. She'd only ever taken it as a joke… half the time he feared that's how she took him. At least sometimes. Other times, he wondered…
He watched her work the mash in her mouth until she slowly swallowed and wiped some peanut butter from her lips with a red-painted nail. Which she then sucked into her mouth, releasing with a soft wet pop. Her face was completely inscrutable.
"What, do you want some?"
Oh, fuck no. She was so full of it.
Well. Two could play that game.
"Depends. Do you come with the banana?"
A single brow arched in a silent challenge as her mouth made its way down the rest of the fruit. A knot twisted deep in Harvey's stomach, rooting him to his seat.
Finally, Jessica rose with a smirk and tossed the spent peel into his trash bin. His eyes followed the curve of her ass in that tight red skirt before she made her way back from the kitchen. "Don't you worry about how I come, Harvey. Worry about buying yourself some groceries."
Harvey rolled his eyes, but he shifted in his seat to let a pillow fall onto his lap. His pants felt a bit tight and he'd be damned if he let her know her little dinner theatre had any effect.
Especially since she was just toying with him as usual.
It was one of her favorite forms of torture, even if it had been ages since she'd deployed it. A veritable Geneva Convention violation. Unfortunately for him, every judge in the Hague would let Jessica go free, if only to watch her leave. One time in his second year as her associate, she'd delivered her verbal punishment for an unsatisfactory memo at a barely two-inch distance, breathing her displeasure directly into his ear as her chest brushed his before marching him back to the bullpen. He'd had to cover himself with a stack of folders and refuse to leave his desk for hours, not even for food or the bathroom. Perhaps that had been her aim all along, as he'd completed the revision in record time.
He couldn't tell if she was a hedonist or a sadist.
Not mutually exclusive, he supposed.
But fuck it; she was being nice tonight. Mostly. And with the several-thousand dollar bottle of scotch resting between them at her treat, it'd be selfish not to let her have her fun.
And downright foolish when she looked so good having it.
Goddamn, did she look good tonight. Her caramel skin glowed in the low light, which highlighted the brown undertones in her hair. Were those new? He thought he'd seen them before, but he also remembered times when her hair was jet black. It just felt like he hadn't seen her, really seen her, in so long. She was moving so slowly as well… such that every movement of every curve felt magnified.
She'd finally come so close that he could smell her perfume hovering over him. For a wild second, he thought she'd sit on his lap—but no, she slunk over to her side and once again faced him. She then raised her legs, one after the other, to cross atop his coffee table. Her unbroken stare into his eyes tightened that knot in his stomach, even as it reminded him slightly of his childhood cat pissing on the floor to mark its territory.
"Well, aren't you making yourself comfortable."
She shrugged. "No one's stopping you from doing the same. After all… it is your apartment."
He gave her a once-over before sliding out of his vest and undoing his cufflinks. The heat of her eyes on him as he loosened his tie and the top few buttons on his white shirt brought a smirk to his face. He relished the thought that he could also make her uncomfortable. Of course, she beat him again, since it wasn't like she had a lady boner to hide. He'd check the couch cushions for dampness after she left.
Not that he wanted her to go anytime soon.