He's all encompassing. Broad shoulders, form-fitting, expensive clothes and perfectly coiffed hair. Radiating raw masculinity.
She knows she should be listening to him telling her about his day, for it being the sole reason she followed him into the bedroom when he got home minutes ago.
But she can't help it. He's home and he's hers and he's fucking sexy as hell. And so her mind goes blank when all she can do is watch him.
She watches how he gracefully shrugs his suit jacket off his well-built frame, revealing his broad shoulders, the hollow of which is perfectly made for her head to rest on when she snuggles up to him on the couch, or when they lie awake after a night of passionate sex, relishing in the post-orgasmic bliss without a care in the world.
She watches as he makes quick work of the row of buttons on his vest until he can shrug it off and then carefully hangs it in the closet next to the matching jacket.
Another layer of fabric gone, revealing a much better sight of his muscles working under his pristine white shirt, making her heart skip a beat.
She watches his attractive, long fingers untie his shoes and place them in their designated spot beside her heels. It makes her smile involuntarily, this mundane symphony their footwear creates, a simple yet touching reflection of their separate lives becoming one.
She watches how he removes his tie next. Her attention drawn to the way he rolls it, neatly tucking it away in the drawer containing all his ties sorted by color, and style. Then she watches him remove his cufflinks and put them in the small box on the dresser.
And damn, those delicate fingers, perfectly manicured, that can do things to her and reach spots inside of her she didn't even know existed before she met him. Those delicate fingers that she likes to hold onto with her own and that make her heart flutter just from one touch, on the car ride to the office, at dinner with their friends, or at night when lying next to him isn't close enough and she needs to touch him to find the reassurance of their reality.
She stares when he rolls up his sleeves, revealing his strong, tanned forearms, his biceps flexing under the tight material of his shirt.
She subconsciously licks her lips at the thought of those strong arms holding her close, or pinning her against the wall or the mattress.
She stares at him, drooling, fantasizing, thanking the god she doesn't believe in for bringing him into her life and for her own strength to keep him there - to fight for him, for them.
She should probably be embarrassed because Harvey's physique is by far not his best quality. He's smart and funny and generous and confident, has a strong sense for aesthetics and an even stronger one for justice, he would do anything for the people he loves … and she could go on with this list forever.
But still, these strong arms and shoulders, these skilled fingers, his puppy dog eyes and full lips, the dimples in his cheeks when he smiles his signature smile, the prominent jawline and this tasty little ass of his … it's all a part of him as well, driving her nuts. It's what makes him the full package for her and so she allows herself to admire him, to be affected by him, to crave him.
For she knows how goddamn lucky she is to call this man hers. The one who combines all her most favorite attributes, inside and out.
"Are you even listening?" His voice pulls her from her thoughts. And she must have zoned out completely, because the next thing she knows is he's standing right in front of her, only inches apart, eying her with a quirked eyebrow.
"What? No … yes, of course, I …," Donna struggles with her words and her cheeks are flushing bright red. How is it that Harvey still manages to make her all flustered and nervous after all these years, she wonders.
Shooting her an amused smirk, Harvey closes the remaining distance between them, looping his arms around her tiny frame. The cocky tilt of his head tells her that she's trapped.
She sighs as her hands come to rest on his chest. "Sorry, I got distracted," she admits sheepishly, her eyes darting downwards.
"By what?" Harvey teases, searching her gaze. She believes he knows exactly what.
"You," Donna admits, tracing a finger along the collar of his shirt.
"How come?" God, he seems to be enjoying this way too much.
"Well," Donna considers, fluttering her eyelashes at him. "I mean, you're handsome. And sexy as hell. And you're mine. And I should probably not stroke your ego even further, but it's true. Made me forget all about what you were talking about. But who can blame me when you make dressing down after work so enticing?"
A mischievous grin spreads on Harvey's face, and he bathes in her confession and the shiver her low voice sends down his whole spine. "It's not my fault I have an audience," he teases, leaning in for a kiss that leaves Donna breathless.
Breaking the kiss eventually, Donna quirks an eyebrow. "Now, where were we in your thrilling tale of court drama?" she inquires while her fingers play with the short hair on the back of his neck.
Harvey chuckles. "I was just getting to the juicy part," he replies, his hands exploring the curves of her waist, soon turning their attention to a different kind of storytelling.