I
The ride back to Bozeman is quiet. The two of them lost in their own thoughts as they watch the countryside fly by, snow-covered mountains rising up on either side of the highway, the setting sun painting the sky in shades of pink and purple. There's a light flurry of snow whipping around them, but it's peaceful, almost beautiful. In another life, it could be romantic.
But this is not that life.
Donna drives surprisingly fast given that they're on a winding, mountain road. Harvey knows better than to say anything, and instead he just hangs on for dear life, hoping she knows what the hell she's doing. Even as he silently prays she won't kill them both, he finds it fascinating to watch her behind the wheel, completely in charge, pushing their limits, and – quite frankly – being really goddamn sexy in the process.
To some, an uncanny ability to keep a car flying down a treacherous road through a mountain pass probably isn't a turn on, but for him, it is. He likes the way she leans into the curves, the way her hands grip the steering wheel with a calm determination, the way she floors it on the straightaways, wind whipping through her hair and painting pink across her cheeks. And he especially likes the way she shoots him the occasional cocky little smile, as if she's daring him to say something, to tell her that she's driving too fast, or too recklessly. But he stays silent because fuck that noise; he's enjoying the view.
Eventually, the highway levels out, and the city of Bozeman stretches out before them. It isn't much to write home about, but right now, with the sky full of golden hues and the streets blanketed in a fresh layer of snow, it looks like something out of a postcard. Donna brings the car to a halt at a red light, glancing over at him.
"Hungry?" she asks.
He hasn't eaten since breakfast and he's starving, but he's more distracted by how impossibly green her hazel eyes look as she grins at him, fresh from the thrill of the drive. He was so sure he'd tire of this relentless torrent of new feelings, but the onslaught is still going, and he's floating, enamored with every passing millisecond, like a junkie strung out on his best trip. And in this moment, a different form of hunger gnaws at him, his stomach aching for contact, connection, skin-to-skin touch, and she's... hell, he doesn't have words for what she is, for the things she's making him want and feel and fuck, he needs to get a hold of himself.
Donna wags her eyebrows as she waits for his reply, and the light shifts color, causing the gold flecks in her eyes to shine. He wants to lay himself down in those summery eyes, luxuriate in their warmth. For the thousandth time today, he has to remind himself that she's his enemy, that she's taken by another man, and that she is impossibly far out of his reach, that whatever this thing between them is – isn't. Can't. Shouldn't.
"I could eat." He shrugs, trying to school his features into something approximating casual, aloof interest, anything besides the desperate pining he suspects he wears.
Her grin grows wider and she pulls away from the stop light, cruising smoothly along Main Street until she finds a parking spot close to their hotel. They both climb out, taking in the surprisingly lively nightlife. The sidewalks are crowded, with groups of people drinking and laughing outside several of the bars. Christmas lights adorn nearly every storefront, and even though it's technically not even November yet, the streets have a cheery, festive vibe to them.
Donna tugs on her coat, fumbling a little with the buttons, her bare hands obviously chilled by the evening air. He resists the urge to reach out and help her, watching as she struggles. By the time she finishes, her nose is already red from the cold. He doesn't comment on it, but he does give her his scarf and takes the opportunity to revel in the closeness as he loops it around her neck, securing the fabric beneath the edges of her coat and enjoying the instant little blush it brings to her cheeks.
Their eyes meet and hold. It's a snow globe kind of moment, the sound of muffled conversations and laughter surrounding them, the glittery flakes dancing in the air, the world frozen, waiting, holding its breath. Harvey quietly curses this stupid, charming town and its Christmas decorations and this cozy goddamn mood that's growing between them. With almost no effort at all, she's managed to make him forget about everything else: his focus, his morals, his self-preserving mindset. He's thinking like a lovesick puppy, putting his needs aside for hers, feeling weak and vulnerable and god, he fucking hates it. The very last thing he should be doing is letting her soften him up.
He pushes back against it, forcing some distance into his voice when he asks, "So where to?"
He's certain that her smile falters, though only for a heartbeat, before slipping back onto her face as she adjusts the scarf. "Not sure. I thought we could explore a bit, see if anything catches our eye."
He considers objecting for half a second, wanting to seize any control that he can, but the words die on his tongue as Donna gives him another one of her looks, complete with a suggestive uptick at the corners of her mouth. Then, without another word, she turns and leads him down the street, weaving through the crowded sidewalks.
They wander aimlessly for a while, taking in the sights. It's a relatively small town, but there are still plenty of bars and restaurants to choose from. Harvey spots a few that look promising, but Donna keeps going, clearly on a mission. When she finally comes to a halt in front of a western themed establishment called the 'Bar with the Barn Door,' he can't help but shoot her a skeptical look.
"Seriously?" he asks, glancing up at the neon sign flashing above their heads.
She smiles. "What? It looks fun."
He raises an eyebrow. "I think that's a pretty charitable description."
"C'mon, where's your sense of adventure?" She turns and saunters into the bar, leaving him little choice but to follow.
The place is busy and loud, and it definitely has a local's vibe to it. The walls are adorned with mounted deer heads and vintage rodeo posters. To their left, a mechanical bull bucks and twists, while a group of cowboys laugh and egg on the rider. On the right, a dance floor is packed with couples line dancing to a frenetic country music beat.
"Still think it looks fun?" he shouts in her ear.
She laughs and shrugs off her coat, taking his hand and tugging him through the crowd, toward the bar. As they weave between the bodies, her ass presses against his crotch. An instant, and now completely impossible to ignore, wave of arousal sweeps through him. Before he can stop himself, he grips her hip, pulling her closer, the friction driving him absolutely fucking wild. She pauses, half turning toward him, her hand covering his. God, the way she looks at him. There's no judgment in her eyes, no moral outrage. There's only heat and longing.
They stay like that for a moment, their bodies pressed together, staring into each other's eyes. And then, abruptly, she slips away, leaving him wanting. For a second, he's sure he sees a hint of apology in her expression, a flash of guilt. But it's gone too quickly to be sure.
They reach the bar, managing to grab two stools at the counter, and Donna orders them each a glass of whiskey. Harvey takes a sip, the liquor warming him from the inside out. He looks around the bar, taking in the rowdy patrons, all of them rugged and callused, drinking beer from the bottles and cackling loud enough to drown out the music. His Tom Ford jeans and cashmere sweater feel suddenly ostentatious and out of place, and he's almost certain the cowboy sitting to his left is giving him a look, an upturned brow that screams 'who the fuck are you?' He wonders briefly if this is what the average citizen of Montana feels like when they come to New York, a foreign and uneasy feeling among the skyscrapers and concrete jungle, a sensation of being completely and utterly in the wrong place.
Donna, on the other hand, seems perfectly at ease. She swivels in her barstool, surveying the crowd, her expression happy and carefree.
"So what do you think?" she asks, grinning.
"I think I feel like a vegan at a cattle auction," he says, only half-joking.
She laughs, nudging him playfully with her shoulder. "Relax. We'll get you a cowboy hat and leather chaps, and no one will be the wiser."
Harvey shoots her a mock glare, his lips twitching with amusement. "Don't even think about it."
"Oh, I'm thinking about it," she says, waggling her eyebrows. "Big thoughts."
"Yeah?" he asks, leaning into the innuendo, unable to resist. "Like what?"
She looks him up and down, her gaze lingering on his crotch. It's obvious that she can see his arousal beneath the denim, the fabric pulled taut across his hardening cock. It's an entirely shameless appreciation, her gaze as hot as her hand had been on his, urging him into a desire he should be fighting. Instead, he shifts slightly in his seat, opening his legs a little wider, giving her an unobstructed view of what she's doing to him.
She shakes her head, smirking. "I think it's best we don't go there."
He smirks back. "Just going to leave me hanging?"
"I'm leaving us both hanging," she says softly, her eyes locking onto his.
There it is again – the implication of mutual unfulfilled, undeniable desire. It floats between them, tugging at that thread of connection that's drawing tighter with every breath. He wants to hate her for it. For being able to lure him into all of this emotional weakness, for coaxing every soft, sentimental, desperate emotion from his chest. But mostly, he just hates himself. Because he knows better. Because she belongs to someone else. And because she's doing things to him, making him want things that are forbidden and impossible. And there's no fucking way to stop it, not when she's looking at him like that.
Her smile fades and she averts her gaze, taking a long drink of whiskey. He does the same, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest.
The moment passes, and they fall back into their usual banter, bickering over the music and their surroundings, with Donna continuing to take every opportunity to coax him out of his comfort zone. And somehow, despite his lingering reservations about this place and its honky-tonk clientele, he finds himself enjoying it more than he expects. Maybe it's because she's clearly having fun, or maybe it's the alcohol that's numbing his discomfort, but either way, he finds himself loosening up, feeling less and less out of place with every sip of whiskey.
The next few hours pass in a blur, the two of them trading jokes and stories and insults like it's the most natural thing in the world. They talk about Reed and the upcoming trial, law school and the cases that have elevated their respective profiles, Harvey's collection of records and Donna's preference for the piano, her love for Halloween, their favorite food trucks in Manhattan, and all the mundane and existential topics of life in the thick of New York City courtrooms. They talk like old friends, like two people who have spent years together, getting to know every inch of each other's hearts and minds. It feels familiar and easy and completely new at the same time. And Harvey finds himself wondering how they could ever go back to New York and just be opposing counsels again. How could they ever be anything other than this?
As the evening wears on, the crowd in the bar grows even larger, and the dance floor becomes packed with couples twirling and two-stepping across the wooden planks. The mechanical bull seems to be a popular attraction, and Harvey watches as one cowboy after another takes a tumble from the bucking beast. Eventually, they move from the bar to a booth in the corner of the room, the best vantage point for watching the chaos unfold. He orders an elk burger and she gets some kind of quinoa salad that she ends up hating. He teases her about it relentlessly – who comes to a Montana bar and orders quinoa? – until she's scooting over to his side of the booth and stealing half his burger and fries.
"This is actually really good," she says, chewing thoughtfully. "You know, I always do this. I convince myself I want the quinoa because it's the smart choice, but then I end up feeling deprived and unfulfilled. And the next thing I know, I'm eating a cheeseburger."
Harvey leans back in the booth, his arm draped across the back of the seat, taking another sip of his whiskey as he watches her. She's nestled comfortably beside him, their thighs touching, her hair brushing against his shoulder. "So why don't you just go for what you really want?"
"Because it's greasy and terrible for me and I feel guilty about it later." She looks over at him, her expression soft. "And once I get a taste of it, all I want is more."
Her words land between them, their subtext obvious.
She shifts, angling herself toward him. He licks his lips, suddenly nervous. He wants her so much it hurts, his chest aching with the weight of it. But it isn't just physical. It's something bigger, deeper. Something infinitely more frightening.
"Elk is actually quite lean," he says, trying to deflect from the whirlwind of emotion threatening to engulf him. "Full of protein and Omega-3s."
"Is that so?"
"Some people even consider it a superfood."
She laughs, reaching up to stroke his cheek, her palm sliding over the shadow of his stubble. "You're such an idiot."
He grins. "You're the one who just ordered a $22 salad at a cowboy bar."
"True."
The way she's touching him, the fondness in her voice, it isn't casual or carefree. It isn't playful banter or meaningless flirting. It's reverent and tender and real.
He swallows, his breath coming faster as she leans in, her eyes searching his, a silent question in their depths. He's trying so hard to do the right thing, but his resistance seems to crumble to dust every time she turns those vibrant hazel eyes on him, reducing his convictions to rubble and casting them to the wind. And he knows that despite all his denial, despite his better judgement, despite the monumental amount of fucking trouble it will cause, he's already lost. He'll give her whatever she wants, as many times as he can, for as long as she lets him. Because he's goddamn a fool, and she's somehow managed to captivate his stupid, romantic heart. And god, he fucking loves her. And she's going to ruin his life.
"Tell me to stop," she whispers, her breath hot against his neck.
He doesn't. Because he wants the chaos that she brings, craves her destruction. Because loving her is inevitable, as certain as the sun setting, the sea rising. And he might as well throw himself over the edge, crash against the rocks and wait for the waves to pull him down. There's no sense in fighting it.
"Tell me we can," he says back instead, his throat tight, his voice ragged. Because he wants it all – the chaos, the passion, the disaster of their lives colliding. He's done pretending otherwise.
Her eyes close and she sighs, her face tilted toward his. For a moment, it feels like the whole world stops, the music and the clink of bottles fading away, until it's just the two of them, hovering on the verge of everything they both want but can't have.
Harvey closes his eyes too, savoring the feel of her hand against his cheek, her body pressed against his side, the whiskey warming his veins.
"We can't," she says softly.
"I know," he replies, even softer.
They stay like that for a long moment, her hand on his face, his arm around her shoulders, until finally, reluctantly, he pulls away, opening his eyes. "Donna–"
"Excuse me, ma'am?"
They both turn to see a tall, burly cowboy standing beside their booth, his face flushed from alcohol, a wide smile stretched across his features.
"Sorry to interrupt. But aren't you Senator Harding's fiancée?" he asks Donna. "The one from those ads? Don..."
"Donna." She smiles, moving away from Harvey slightly. "Yes, that's me."
"Knew it! My buddies over there thought I was full of it, seein' ya here and all. But I said, 'no, it's her.' Saw that red hair, and I was certain."
The stranger gestures toward a group of men at a nearby table who are staring avidly at their booth. They raise their beer bottles as if toasting Donna's presence, their curiosity making Harvey tense with an irrational defensiveness.
The cowboy takes his hat off his head, holding it over his chest and dipping his head respectfully. "Pleasure to meet you, ma'am. Lots of folks around here are in favor of your husband, uh, fiancé. Montana hasn't been blue since Clinton, but maybe that'll change now. From what I hear, anyway."
"I appreciate that," Donna says, her eyes darting toward Harvey before quickly returning to the friendly drunk in front of her. "And Wes would too. Thank you."
"My apologies for disturbing you, but it's a real honor. And…forgive my presumptuousness, but, well, it would sure mean a lot to us if you'd let us buy you a drink."
"Oh, that's nice of you to offer. But I'm fine, I don't need–"
"Now, come on. What kinda patriot would I be if I let Senator Harding's lady go thirsty in the heart of Montana? Wouldn't look right."
The linebacker sized rancher turns and waves to his group of friends, all of whom let out loud whoops and shouts of approval, insisting that yes, this really must happen, and they have to buy the future first lady a drink. There's little Donna can do to weasel out of this situation gracefully, so she smiles and accepts their offer.
And suddenly, they're surrounded by people who all seem to know her – or at least recognize her face from the political ads that are currently blasting across every TV screen in the country. They ask her questions about Wes, about his campaign, about how she likes Montana, and what she thinks of Bozeman. Donna handles it all with ease, but Harvey can see the tension in her shoulders, the tightness around her eyes. He can feel her discomfort, her reluctance to be put on display like this, and he feels a hot flash of anger. He wants to tell them all to back off, to give her some space. But he knows that wouldn't go over well, so he bites his tongue, his jaw clenched as he watches the exchange unfold.
As the night wears on, the alcohol continues to flow, and the crowd around them grows larger and more exuberant, everyone delighted to have the next president's fiancée in their midst. Harvey hangs back, remaining irritated and sullen, caught up in a conversation about baseball with a group of off-duty police officers and a pretty blonde named Ashley, who is half-way into his lap, running her hand through his hair, trying to convince him to join her on the dance floor. Her lust is as transparent as his disinterest, which she seems determined to change. She's not hard on the eyes, and her tits are spilling out of her top in a tantalizing fashion, but her giggle-laced babbling is irritating the shit out of him, and his attention is otherwise occupied, his eyes barely leaving Donna.
While he half listens to the inanities pouring out of Ashley's mouth and half watches Donna get coerced onto the dance floor by several overeager cowboys, all of them vying for a chance to put their hands on her waist and swing her around, he wonders when this fucking night started to feel like his worst nightmare. And just when he thinks it can't get any worse, he's being hauled up from his seat and pushed towards the mechanical bull, a cowboy hat jammed down on his head.
"C'mon, New York, show us how they do it in the big city," one of the officers says, clearly unfazed by his scowl.
He tries to shrug them off, but there are six of them – six sturdy cowboys who all seem keen to get him on the goddamn bull, and not very willing to take no for an answer. They are relentless, grabbing his arms and practically carrying him across the bar.
The crowd is already egging him on, chanting "New York! New York!" and slapping his back with their encouragement. Suddenly, a beer bottle is shoved into his hand and Donna is beside him, grinning at his public humiliation. "I hope you know how to ride," she says in his ear.
Harvey shoots her an irritated look, knowing she got him into this somehow. And he'd be pissed if it wasn't for the fact that her eyes are dancing with delight, and if he can keep making her smile like this, it doesn't matter how stupid his choices are.
"How hard can it be?" he says.
Harvey steps up onto the platform. He takes a long swig from his bottle, handing it off to one of the officers before swinging his leg over the leather saddle and settling down into position. He can feel the heat of the spotlights above him as he grabs hold of the reins, twisting them through his fingers.
He shoots a look over at the operator box, ready to get this over with. And he's surprised, yet not, to find Donna at the controls, a mischievous gleam in her eye as she leans over the microphone. She grins and speaks, voice teasing, her words turning into a soft purr.
"Ready, cowboy?"
Oh, he is so fucked.
II
It's petty, she has to admit, but after spending the last hour watching Harvey and his boobalicious, blonde friend making eyes at each other, she's ready to knock him off that damn fake bull. Or she was. But now that she actually has him up there and straddling it, her opinion has drastically changed. Because damn, does he look good up on that thing. His thighs are flexing as he grips the reins, his sweater shed and his biceps straining beneath the sleeves of his Henley, cowboy hat firmly in place, and her imagination is going to the sexiest of places. And he's probably going to fall flat on his back and land in a sloppy, mortifying mess any second, but right now she doesn't care. She's enthralled, practically drooling at the sight.
He lowers his chin, his eyes full of wicked intent as he looks up at her, a smirk playing on his lips. She watches as he adjusts his weight, angling slightly forward, and a sudden, fierce jolt of lust hits her center. And she feels ridiculous. Seriously, he's about to prove that he can't stay upright on a moving, mechanical object and yet, her panties are still trying to slide down her legs. Somehow, impossibly, he's even more attractive now than he was when he was playfully brooding in the corner, and she's finding it very difficult to keep her composure.
But she can't let him know how attractive she finds him, at least not here.
"Come on, red," a man calls from the crowd. "Take him for a spin."
"Go on, girl, let'em have it!"
She raises an eyebrow at Harvey, waiting for his signal, and when he nods, just a tiny tip of his head, she obliges, gripping the speed dial and slowly turning up the tempo. The bull moves forward, thrusting ever so gently, a slight back and forth bounce as it begins to lumber along. Harvey stays perfectly balanced, and a faint cheer goes up from the crowd. She turns the dial up a little further.
Harvey maintains his cool, shifting his hips and torso, matching the mechanical beast's rhythm. The crowd is growing more raucous, all of them laughing and cheering as they watch him. And Donna can't help but be impressed by his poise, his confidence, the way he seems totally relaxed in the face of imminent embarrassment. And god, his ass is nice and watching the muscles of his thighs shift beneath the tight denim is making her light-headed. In fact, she's pretty sure she just heard herself whimper.
She bites down on her lower lip, eyes glued to him as she adjusts the settings, daring him to falter. But he only grips tighter, leaning back slightly as the bull bucks more frantically, and the sounds of the crowd swells. People are egging them both on, urging her to speed things up, him to give 'em hell.
His eyes meet hers, and Jesus Christ, he looks delicious, hat tipped down, biceps flexing, smug-ass smirk planted firmly on his stupid, arrogant face, and her stomach lurches, a pulse of wetness coating her panties.
Damnit.
She slides her hand across the joystick, trying not to think of a much harder and thicker stick under her palm. She gives it a hard flick to the right, sending the machine spinning wildly before it bucks and tosses, and several people yelp. But Harvey rides it out, those sinful hips of his thrusting in all the right ways, thighs taut as he leans back even further, that hard, perfect ass grinding into the saddle, and then he's smirking again, arrogant as ever, and he is really going to make her come right here in front of the entire bar without ever laying a finger on her, if he keeps this up.
It occurs to her, then, that this trip was a terrible, terrible idea, one fraught with false images of cozy intimacy and deepening feelings that she can't possibly give credence to without destroying the beautiful fiction that she's built to shield herself from the truth. This is all wrong, absolutely catastrophic and fatal. To Wes, to her plans, to her career, her life. Everything she's worked for is dependent upon this man's total annihilation in court, and here he is, seducing her anyway, obliterating her defenses like a freight train tearing through her house of cards, throwing her deeper into her impossible fixation with him, this ridiculous and unforgivable ache between her legs, spreading wider, her desire consuming every last inch of her. It's a desperate, embarrassing thirst, her hunger for him, and she's already way out of her mind with it, spiraling and spinning and lost in this intoxicating moment, her nipples peaked and her clit swollen, needing and wanting and so painfully ready for him it's impossible to breathe. And oh god, she's going to have to end this because she's about to implode.
She yanks on the joystick again, and the bull goes full tilt. But Harvey holds on tight, gripping it between his legs as the machine whirs. He's leaning so far back that his hat falls off, and his face is grim with concentration, but those eyes are smoldering and they've pinned her, and her breath catches in her throat as he stares, her heart leaping with admiration and something she dares not consider. There's a collective gasp, the air in the bar thick with anticipation and excitement as his arms extend, thighs flexing and squeezing, every muscle straining to stay on.
Donna shoves the lever hard to the left, and the bull dives into a sharp lunge, violently pitching Harvey in the opposite direction.
He seems to fall in slow motion, suspended in mid-air for a heartbeat before landing in a winded heap on the crash pad.
The crowd goes ballistic, beer bottles and whoops breaking the stunned silence as Harvey struggles to regain his breath, shaking with exhausted laughter as he claws his way to his feet, dusting off his jeans. He's no longer the suave city boy, just a guy who's done well at conquering the town entertainment.
She steps down from her pedestal, eager to join him, but before she can cross the room, the woman Harvey was flirting with earlier launches herself at him, sending him back a step or two as she throws her arms around his neck, a bright squeal spilling from her lips.
Harvey laughs, the sound drowned out by the thrum of the music starting up again. The blonde's hands slide down his chest as she backs away, tugging him toward the bar. He glances over, catching Donna's eye, his expression unreadable, and allows himself to be led away, his mind no doubt already calculating the best way to ensure that he's getting into this other woman's pants tonight.
Donna's surprised by the dull, throbbing ache in her chest, a weight pressed hard against her sternum. It's disappointment, maybe, or annoyance. Whatever it is, she doesn't like the feeling, doesn't want to examine it too closely. Harvey's hardly hers, and whatever they're doing together, it doesn't give her any right to claim him or question his behavior. If he wants to get laid tonight, he has every right to do so. She's done nothing but lead him on since they got here, flirting and touching him more than she should, pushing every boundary. He actually should fuck someone else. It'll certainly make it easier to put a stop to all of this and keep her eyes on her future, which does not include Harvey Specter.
So why does she feel like this? Why does it suddenly hurt to breathe?
She needs air, some distance. So she picks her way through the crowd, winding her way toward the exit. She pulls on her coat and steps out into the frosty Montana night.
It's snowing now, large fluffy flakes drifting to the ground, illuminated by the neon lights of the bar. She wraps her arms around herself, her breath coming out in white puffs as she walks down the sidewalk. It's so quiet here, the hum of the traffic and sirens that are constant in New York oddly absent. She pauses for a moment, staring up at the sky, watching as the snowflakes float gently down. She takes a deep breath, then another, closing her eyes and letting the cool, fresh air ground her.
She didn't plan this part of the evening. She hadn't prepared herself for what would happen if Harvey went home with someone. It was easy to dismiss the possibility when they were caught up in their banter, but now it's all she can think about. What it will be like to lie alone in her room, listening to the faint sounds of him moving and fucking in the next room over. The small moans and the deep, guttural groans, the headboard hitting the wall. The breathless laughter, the satisfied sighs.
A voice in the back of her head whispers that she could have stopped this at any time, but her chest tightens in an anxious fist, squeezing harder.
She pulls her scarf tighter around her neck, shivering a bit, and realizes when his scent hits her – sandalwood and musk and male, all blended together into something spicy and rich – that it's Harvey's scarf she's wrapped in. She thinks about the moment he had slipped it around her neck, the intimacy of the gesture making her heart flutter.
Donna wonders if that's how it would be with him, all small gestures of affection and gentle touches. She thinks of the way he smiles at her, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs, the way his voice softens when he says her name. A rush of wet tears spikes, but she blinks them back. Nope, nope, nope. She isn't doing this. Absolutely not.
Taking another deep breath, she heads toward their hotel, deciding to just call it a night and be done with it.
She walks up the street and turns left onto Main, which is deserted except for a few stragglers stumbling out of the bar. The snow is falling heavier now, blanketing the ground in a thick layer of white. Donna picks up her pace, the cold starting to seep through her coat.
She's almost to the hotel when the sound of footsteps on the sidewalk behind her catches her attention. She turns, her breath catching in her throat as she sees Harvey approaching, his hair dusted with snowflakes and his face flushed. She can tell he's been running, and there's a desperation in his eyes that makes her heart skip a beat.
He comes to a stop in front of her, panting slightly from the exertion, his breath leaving his lips in a quick burst of white.
They stare at each other for a moment, neither of them saying anything. The tension between them is so palpable that Donna can barely breathe. She wants to reach out, to touch him, to run her fingers through his hair and feel the stubble of his jaw, to tug his lips down to hers and devour him. The urge is so strong that it's a physical pain, a tight knot of desire deep in her chest. She takes a slow step back, trying to resist the pull. Then another.
Harvey moves forward, closing the distance, his eyes locked on hers. There's a look of determination in his gaze, a determination that sends a shiver down her spine, a heat blossoming between her thighs. His hands come up to cup her face, and then he's kissing her, his lips hot against hers as he pulls her close, his thumbs stroking along her cheeks.
Her head spins, the intensity of his kiss making her knees weak. And god – oh god – oh no. This isn't like any of the times before. There's no frenzy or urgency, no rushed lust-hazed kisses and rough, groping hands. There's no battle of power or control, no aggressive assertion of dominance. This is real, heart-pounding and achingly intimate, a kiss shared between two people with feelings that transcend the physical, even if that truth is terrifying.
After several long moments, he reluctantly draws back, still cradling her face between his hands. He stares down at her, his breath coming in shallow gasps, his eyes wide with uncertainty. And she knows then that she's not the only one struggling to understand what's happening between them. He looks as lost as she feels.
"We can't keep doing this," she whispers against his lips, but her hands are fisting into his coat, desperately begging him to ignore her and drag her to the nearest bed and screw her until this unbearable, stupid obsession is broken. "Wes–"
"I know."
"Then stop." Her fingers are trembling, clinging to him. And it's wrong to touch him like this, she knows that. Like she'll die if she ever lets him go. And it's equally, illogically wrong to want him to let her go, so she can breathe, so she can have a second to force the cold reality of everything that separates them, and how ridiculous it would be to give it all up for a stupid, reckless impulse she doesn't understand anyway. But she's rooted to the spot, a goddamn mess and impossibly in love with him. Because of course that's why she's such a wreck, it's the only answer that makes any damn sense anymore. This maddening, cruel, thrilling, incandescent desire really is fucking love.
She gives him one last chance. "Please."
"I can't." He looks miserable and ashamed of himself, but that isn't stopping him, his hands clutching at her hips, pulling her closer. He buries his face in her neck, nuzzling the top of her chest, and sighs. It's one of those hard, painful-sounding expulsions of air, as if he were trying to exorcize the conflict between what he wants and what he knows is right. "I can't stop."
"Harvey..." She shakes her head, because she can't stop either. Not when he's touching her like this, not when she can feel how hard he is through the layers of their clothing, not when her blood is singing and this insane need is surging through her veins. But it's the heaviness of her love for him that truly compels her, drawing her into its dark and chaotic depths, that has her threading her fingers through his hair, tilting his head up and surrendering herself to the madness.
Their lips connect again, and she can feel something fracturing in her chest, the last thread of her resistance snapping under the weight of the feeling pressing in on her.
Their kiss deepens, and the cold no longer registers, even as snow swirls and eddies around them. He presses her against the exterior brick of the nearest building, the lights from the hotel casting their faces in shadow. There's an urgency to his movements, a sense of desperation that she can taste on his lips, as if he's trying to capture and hold onto this moment before it's gone, too afraid to let himself enjoy it and trusting her to save him from himself.
The thought makes her grip him tighter, clinging to him as he devours her mouth and presses his body against hers. She lets out a soft moan as she feels the pressure of him hard against her stomach. He groans into her mouth, his hands gripping her ass and lifting her as if she weighs nothing, anchoring her between him and the wall. And suddenly, his entire body's flush against hers, the hard line of his cock fitting perfectly against her center, pressing against her in a way that has her seeing stars. The pressure's delicious, maddening, and she finds herself rocking her hips instinctively, seeking out the friction that he's all too willing to provide, his length rubbing against her in a way that has her panting into his mouth, their breaths mingling in the cold night air.
"Harvey," she murmurs, her voice coming out breathier than intended. "Not here."
He just lets out a ragged sigh in response, leaning his forehead against hers and closing his eyes, the erratic rise and fall of his chest mirroring her own labored breathing. She waits patiently for him to respond, her fingers tracing absentminded patterns across the nape of his neck, his hair damp from the snow that continues to fall around them.
Eventually, he pulls away, his hands moving from where they've been holding her hips and gently easing her down, the contact between them breaking. She feels an unexpected wave of disappointment as her feet hit the ground, the chill of the night settling over her once more. He stares down at her, taking a deep, shaky breath as he gets his bearings, his cheeks flushed, the bulge in his pants unmistakable.
"Come on," he says quietly.
And, with that, he walks off in the direction of the hotel, clearly expecting her to follow. She does, of course, her mind racing as she struggles to piece together what exactly is happening. Is he just being respectful of her wishes? Or is he no longer interested in pursuing anything with her?
But as she watches him, she can't help but notice the way his hands are clenched at his sides, his fists tightening and releasing rhythmically. And she knows, without asking, that he's doing everything in his power to keep himself from reaching for her again.
It sends a fresh wave of heat coursing through her, and she trails after him, their footsteps crunching in the snow.
They reach the hotel doors, Harvey pulling them open and stepping aside for her, and for just a second, their eyes meet. It's brief, and for the most part, non-committal, and neither of them smile or acknowledge whatever strange shift just took place. But he holds her gaze long enough for her to know that he's nervous, and more than a little uncertain. And that's unsettling, because this is Harvey, and he is never anything but self-assured.
The hotel lobby is empty, the lone night desk attendant quietly checking them in with the dreary efficiency of the terminally overworked.
They make their way to the elevator, riding up to the second floor in tense silence, Harvey keeping a respectful distance between them. Which, after their charged encounter outside, feels excruciating. She wants him pressed close against her again, his hands firm on her hips, that promising stiffness between her thighs. But there's still an undeniable hesitation in his movements, a reluctance she doesn't understand. They've already been pretty far gone in this madness. There's no rational stopping point left; every time she lets him in, she doubles down on her own destruction.
She flicks her eyes to him, watching him, measuring his responses. And then, without a word, she reaches for his hand, her fingers brushing the back of his knuckles.
A ripple seems to pass through him at her touch, the muscle in his jaw twitching, his eyes closing for a fraction of a moment. And then he's turning his hand, his palm sliding against hers, their fingers entwining.
The elevator chimes and the doors slide open with a soft hiss. He leads her down to his room, pulling out his keycard and swiping it across the door's sensor. With a beep, the lock disengages, and he hesitantly pushes the door open, not quite moving aside yet. Instead, he pauses in the doorway, turning slightly toward her.
"Donna," he starts, but no, she can't listen to whatever excuses are about to fall out of his gorgeous mouth. They'll make sense, she's sure. They're something about their jobs, and her engagement, and being opposing counsel. Responsible things. Things that might even make her question herself and stop this train wreck from happening...
She shoves him through the door and follows him inside.
They crash into the dark room, mouths colliding in a hurried rush. His jacket falls to the floor, followed quickly by her scarf, their shoes a jumbled mess kicked off by the entryway. She pushes him down onto the edge of the bed, his cock straining through his jeans, a tiny wet spot spreading at the tip.
"Take off your shirt," she commands softly, and he obeys, reaching down to pull the hem of his sweater up, the muscles in his abs tensing and flexing as he strips it over his head.
She allows herself to take him in. And not like in the conference room or his office, when she had been too filled with desperation and urgency to really let herself stare at his form. No, this time she savors the way his forearms bulge as he drops his shirt, the way his biceps contract as he settles back on his elbows, watching her. She licks her lips, her eyes trailing down his chest to his tight abdomen, all that deliciously hard muscle leading her gaze further south, back to where his stiff, perfect cock is pressing obscenely against the seam of his fly.
She realizes then that she's not fully breathing anymore, unable to tear her eyes away from him as he rests on the edge of the bed, his legs slightly spread, waiting for her attention. She swallows hard, feeling her pulse jump, knowing she must look ridiculous staring at him the way she is, but unable to stop herself. He's just – fucking breathtaking, and she'd very much like to see how he fares compared to her imagination.
She steps closer, shrugging out of her coat, letting it drop onto the carpeted floor beside her feet.
"Keep going," Harvey says, his voice low and rough, his hand absently stroking the outline of his shaft through his jeans. "Let me see you."
Donna glances up, meeting his eyes, and sees the hunger there. Her fingertips graze along the hem of her sweater, but she hesitates, realizing with a sinking feeling what her clothing covers: fingerprints and teeth marks. The belt lines across her ass and back. And god, the image of all those bruises in her mind, mirrored in the face of the only other man she can imagine being intimate with, is nauseating. It's like Wes is here, ruining the moment even in his absence, reminding her that she's promised to him in every part of her life, in every inch of her body, marking her permanently for his ownership.
She can't possibly go through with this.
She clamps her eyes shut. She shouldn't have agreed to this in the first place. She should have listened to her rational mind and ended this long before now, instead of following the trail of chaos and broken rules deeper and deeper, until it brought her here, to this terrible conclusion.
She needs to walk away. She knows that. She needs to excuse herself and leave, a sudden illness, a forgotten friend to tend to. She'll blame it on cold feet, and Harvey will be pissed, but he'll eventually let it go, chalk it up to too many impulsive incidents that should have never been acted upon in the first place.
Harvey sits up, concern settling over his features as he studies her.
He moves to the edge of the bed, his hand lifting, hesitating an inch away from touching her arm. "Hey..." he says softly, and she blinks quickly, turning her face away. "It's okay if you've changed your mind," he continues, lowering his hand back to the mattress. "I'll back off."
She fidgets, sliding her engagement ring nervously up and down her finger. The diamond glints in the faint light filtering in through the window, winking and mocking her. She raises her head, forcing herself to look at him.
He's sitting there, his expression serious, watching her carefully. And it's obvious in every line of his body that he doesn't want her to say no, but he's giving her the option regardless. Wes would never do that. He doesn't make room for her decisions, would never make such a sweet, easy exit available to her. He'd drag her by the hair until she was trapped and compliant in every sense of the word, broken down and powerless.
And she's so fucking tired of being powerless.
She slips the engagement ring from her finger, almost in awe of how easily the metal slides over her knuckle, the perfect fit having warped to be no longer true. She weighs the thick rock in her palm for a moment, considering the life it represents, everything it took to make it. The sacrifices, the beatings, the erosion of her self-worth and soul. Finally, she steps around Harvey, crosses the room, and drops the massive diamond onto the hotel room desk. Then she moves to the window, shutting the curtains, blocking out the icy blue glow of the city lights, plunging the room into darkness.
III
Harvey watches her silhouette draw the heavy curtains, cutting the dim lighting from the window, and fights to keep his breathing steady as he hears the barely-audible clicks and rustles of her clothes being discarded.
His hands twist into the linens of the bed, his mind racing to catch up. She took off her ring. She's undressing. She's... climbing into his lap, moving slowly, as if unsure. When she settles across his thighs, straddling him, he stills, barely able to breathe. A rush of conflicting emotions rises through him, the achingly tender desire, the pain of knowing this will most likely be their only time together, the guilt for wanting to ruin the relationship of one of the most powerful men in the country.
And then, that overwhelming, pulsing arousal, because Donna is naked and in his lap, and he's seeing through his sense of touch everything he has not had the privilege of laying his eyes on before: her arms coming up to wrap around his shoulders; her collarbone and elegant neck rising before his gaze; her long, curved spine and narrow rib cage sloping down to the gentle flaring of her hips, and a flash of platinum hairless cunt, already damp and smelling of heavenly sex.
She's perfection made flesh, everything about her artfully placed and so sensual and rich with curves. He imagines how her breasts would fill his palms, the soft weight and perfect shape. He skims his hands up her sides, feeling goosebumps rise in his wake, until his fingers are brushing the bottom swell of her full, round tits, which seems to draw in a sharp breath from Donna, the only sound she's made yet. He sweeps his thumbs lightly over the hardened points of her nipples.
She gasps, a lovely little sigh that makes him want to do it again. So he does, and once more, until Donna begins to move against him, slowly rubbing her clit along the rigid length of his jean-covered cock, and the friction between his covered shaft and her naked skin coaxes a moan from her, deeper than before. And god, he can't see her, can barely make out her outline in the near dark. And it's almost torturous, having her here, naked and beautiful, yet barred from seeing all of her, this woman he's pictured in his head a thousand times.
She buries her fingers in his hair, gripping it, gently pulling as he buries his face in the valley between her breasts, tasting her salty skin, his lips leaving a wet trail to capture a nipple in his mouth. He swirls the stiff point with his tongue, sucking softly, and suddenly her hips are bucking against him, grinding into his lap, her breathing fast and shallow, and he feels her bare slit through his jeans, spreading her wetness across his cock. Fuck, he's half out of his mind with need, his erection so stiff and aching it's a wonder he isn't breaking the zipper on his pants.
"Harvey," she whimpers as he lavishes the other breast with attention. "Oh god…"
His hands move down to her ass, squeezing and then gently guiding her speed. He groans against her chest, his hips thrusting up to meet hers, driving his cock along the cleft of her cunt, that obscenely slick sound turning him on beyond belief, knowing she's fucking ruining his pants, absolutely drenching them with her wetness.
"That's it," he says, his voice muffled by her skin. "Fuck me, Donna. Make yourself feel good."
She whines, her breath hot on his ear as she buries her face in his neck, and her panting is accompanied with what sound almost like sobs, little whimpers and aching sounds that are the sexiest thing he's ever heard. She shifts, wrapping her arm around his neck and shoulders, drawing him into a full embrace, and fucks against him even harder. "Don't stop," she moans. "It's – god – it's so good."
He feels his balls tighten. He's dangerously close to coming, the sensation so powerful and so sudden, it almost makes him sick with dread. This night is so finite; the thought of shortening it with his orgasm makes him actually panic. He needs to wring every second out, collect all the potential between them. God, he needs her here, against him, and without clothes, all night long, staring into those hazel eyes as the sun paints the sky with streaks of violet and orange. He can't come now. He won't.
He grabs her hips, slowing her and stilling her motions with her back arched in a way that he thinks is insanely provocative. Her noises are nearly agonized, desperate sounds, her body trembling in frustration. And with patience he wasn't aware he possessed, he resumes the rocking of their bodies, at a much slower pace, only the tip of his cock brushing the swollen hood of her clit, teasing but never delivering. Still, she's shaking against him, her arms squeezing him tighter, her legs and thighs quivering on the bed, and he knows she's going to come.
"You wanna come like this?" he asks, dipping his head to take a nipple into his mouth again, tugging the delicate skin between his teeth and soothing it with his tongue.
Donna gives a rough, keening sob of a sound. Her chest heaves under his lips, and the words come out on her sigh of breath. "Want you. Inside me."
He smiles against her skin, kissing her left breast, and then her collar bone, and then the base of her throat. "Not yet. I'm not ready to be done with you."
"I can't–" She cuts off with another whimper of a sound, high pitched and wanting as Harvey's hand slides between them, his palm covering her soaked cunt, his thumb swiping lazily over her clit.
He grins, leaning into her, capturing her lips.
"Please–" she gasps into his mouth.
"Nope," he murmurs, chuckling, bending his knees and pushing up into her, keeping that subtle, searing motion that has the both of them nearly incoherent with need. He grinds their hips together, his denim-clad cock and hand pressed in the V of her thighs. She gives a hiccup-like noise, halfway between pleasure and tears, the tension in her legs vibrating and snapping and tightening, as she hovers on the edge of climax.
And just when she's trembling so hard he thinks she's about to convulse, he relents, letting her grind against his cock as hard and as fast as she wants. It only takes a few strokes and she's coming, arching back as she goes over the cliff, and he wraps his arm around her waist, gripping her for leverage as she twitches and moans above him, shaking and riding his cock through a shuddering orgasm that nearly sends him over the edge as well.
Before she can catch her breath or recover her strength, he slips her off his lap and onto the bed. Without a word, he folds her legs back, pressing her knees into the mattress, and licks into her with one long stroke.
She makes a sharp, gasping sound, her thighs reflexively pressing into his head. But he isn't deterred, planting both of his hands on her hips and pulling her pelvis up to his mouth, spreading her lips with the flat of his tongue.
"Harvey – god –I can't," she starts, but chokes off, the words turning into a whimpering cry as he dips the tip of his tongue into her entrance, giving her one hard pump before swirling slowly around her clit, her pussy grinding forward to chase the fleeting stimulation.
He works her with his tongue until she's writhing beneath him, her hand fisted in his hair as she rolls her hips, guiding the movement of his mouth. "Mmm, like that, oh - oh, fuck," she whimpers, and the sound goes straight to his groin, making him groan. He can't resist the temptation any longer, freeing himself from the confines of his jeans with one hand and pumping his dick as he fucks her with his tongue. He's painfully hard, and it's pure torture, resisting the urge to slide himself home inside her and give in to his own release. Instead, he fucks his fist, his knuckles knocking into her calf as he continues to lick her in slow, deep strokes.
Donna's legs are beginning to shake, her breath coming in quick bursts, her hands gripping the sheets. She's whining and moaning, and just when he thinks he can't take the ache in his balls for a moment longer, her hand clenches around his scalp. "There. Oh, fuck yes, right there, don't stop," she pants, and he doubles his efforts, sucking and lapping at her folds, giving her everything he has. She grinds against his face, her thighs trembling, her hips bucking as she rides his tongue. "Oh, god – Harvey – Harv– " She breaks off with a cry, her back arching as her muscles contract, her toes curling and her thighs squeezing around his head, trapping him. Her grip is tight and unyielding, and he vaguely wonders if he'll die with his face buried in her cunt, and if that wouldn't be the most fitting end to his life.
She shudders and shakes as she comes down from her high, her hand loosening in his hair and her legs collapsing back onto the bed. "Wow," she breathes, her voice heavy with satiated pleasure. Harvey lifts his head and licks his lips, enjoying the lingering taste of her on his tongue. He lets go of his dick and rests his chin on her hip bone, waiting for her next move.
Donna moves her hips, spreading her legs in invitation. It's all the prompting he needs. In a single fluid motion, he stands, pulling a condom out of his wallet as he kicks off his pants, and hooks her legs over his arms, angling her back into the bed, her perfect hairless cunt exposed in a lewd, pornographic way.
He tears the packet open and slips the condom over his length, lining up the head of his cock and slowly pushing into her with a torturous sensation. The pleasure of that first thrust, the slide of his shaft into her slick heat, is overwhelming, and he grits his teeth against the urge to pound her into oblivion. He holds himself there, buried inside her, both of them panting in the darkness. Her pussy pulses around him, and he groans, gripping the headboard for leverage as he begins to thrust, slow and deliberate.
Donna moans, arching her back off the bed, her fingers twitching against the sheets as she grips them tightly. She digs her heels into his ass, trying to pull him in deeper, but he resists.
"More," she pants, her voice low and sultry, and fuck, if that doesn't almost send him over the edge.
She is one of a kind in all regards. So responsive, tight and yielding to the perfect amount. And, as he pushes inside her, her fluttering pulse answering his every move, he knows that he'll never do better than this, with any other woman.
He can't explain how he knows it, but he does; something about Donna's physical response to his movements is the finest fucking thing he's experienced, by far, in all of his years of practice. Even his weird fumbling and furious, teenage fucking can't hold a candle to the way her cunt seems to clench at him in the perfect rhythm, the way she looks at him with hungry need and then soft acceptance, the way she sighs a perfect hitched little o at him when he bottoms out, as if surprised by his size, each time. Maybe it's the build up, all the months and months of anticipation. Maybe the timing or the place.
But once inside her, he can't believe he waited this long, or has denied himself the privilege at all.
She whimpers, a low, needful sound that has his abdomen clenching, and he feels more than a slight throb from his dick, a kind of pulsing that has him groaning and feeling dangerously close to coming. He stills, adjusting the angle of his body, their torsos nearly parallel, his face by her ear. "Fuck, you feel amazing," he breathes.
She chuckles, deep and rich, the sound humming in her throat. "That good, huh?"
"You have no idea."
A sly smile spreads across her face, her hands slipping down the muscles of his back to squeeze his ass. "I think I have some idea," she murmurs, rolling her hips up to meet his, eliciting another soft groan from his lips. She leans forward, her breath hot on his ear. "And just think," she whispers, squeezing him with her inner muscles, "you haven't even gotten to the best part yet."
He groans again, his dick twitching, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. "If you keep doing that, this is going to be the shortest fuck you've ever had."
He feels her lips curl into a smile against his cheek. "After watching the way you rode that bull, I have faith in your stamina." She shifts her hips and squeezes him again, pulling a growl from deep within his chest. His hands move to grip the sides of her rib cage, his fingers brushing the undersides of her breasts.
"You liked that, huh? Me up on that bull."
She nips at his ear lobe. "Mmm, more than I'd like to admit."
He shifts them, then, a hand bracing the line of her spine, and rolls them, settling her comfortably onto his chest, straddling him. "Ride me. Use me."
God, her smile when she gets just what she wants is the most impish, mischievous thing he's ever laid eyes on. Slowly, without breaking his gaze, she shifts herself on her knees until she's spread at his hips. She lets out a soft moan when she pushes against his shaft, sliding her soft, hot folds over the side of his cock, teasing him and torturing herself at once. Her hands are braced over his rib cage, her eyes sliding shut as she swipes her clit back and forth, seeking out friction, and he loves the weight of her there, balanced above him, so self-pleasing, confident that it's her body's right to wring out pleasure from him.
"Does it feel good?" he asks, unable to stop himself from tipping his pelvis up, grinding himself against her, stroking her with the slide of his hardness, and she hums her contentedness against him, continuing to swipe herself back and forth in a slow undulation.
And then she's gasping, her movements becoming more and more erratic, before she loses patience. She sits up, taking his shaft in her hand and rubbing the swollen head of his cock against her folds, then guiding him inside.
He flexes his hands against her legs, willing himself to stay relaxed, not buck his hips or thrust into her. He lets her work herself over him, rocking her hips and driving him deeper and deeper, that slippery, breath-taking tightness gliding over him and drawing all manner of groans and sighs from him. He stares up at her, knowing his face must be a mask of agonized pleasure. But she's merciless, riding him slow and steady, dragging him in all the way, then sliding back up, squeezing and working him in all sorts of delicious ways with those secret, inner muscles.
"You like that?" she pants, closing her eyes, her face a picture of what can only be called aesthetic ecstasy.
"Yeah," he manages to gasp out, but he can't be more articulate than that, the sensations overwhelming his capacity for coherent speech. All he can do is grip her hips and hold on as she fucks him, her hands braced against his chest as she works herself over his cock, panting and moaning, her tits bouncing hypnotically as she rides him like it's the last fuck she'll ever get.
He needs to come. Every muscle in his body is rigid with the effort it takes to restrain himself, and he squeezes his eyes shut, his head pressing back into the mattress. She shifts, reaching down and pulling his hand to her clit. "Touch me."
He snaps his hips up into her, and a whimper leaves her parted lips. "Harvey, please."
He begins to circle her clit, his thrusts counter-rhythmic with her bouncing, until she's crying out for him, her nails digging into his chest. He doesn't dare stop. He presses his heels into the mattress, fucking her as she grinds into him, her face twisted in pleasure, the sexiest fucking thing he's ever seen. And god, he can't stop, everything is coiled tight and hot, and she's coming on his cock, her cunt squeezing and fluttering around him, and his back is arching and his hips are punching up, again and again, until he finally explodes.
And this is bliss. For a brief, interminable moment, he's consumed by the purest pleasure he's ever known.
By the time Harvey comes down, Donna has collapsed onto him, her head resting against his shoulder as she breathes hard, her hair sticking to her face, his softening length slipping out of her. He reaches down between them, tugging off the condom and tying it in a knot. He tosses it blindly over the side of the bed and stares up at the ceiling, his mind finally processing what just happened.
He had sex with Donna.
No, not just sex – the best sex of his life. And if the way she was shaking is anything to go by, she felt the same.
He glances down at her, and he's struck by the soft expression on her face. She looks exhausted, her eyes half-closed and a satisfied smile playing on her lips. It's the most beautiful she's ever looked.
Her smile fades as she looks at him, concern flitting across her features. "You okay?"
He's not sure how to answer. His emotions are a jumbled mess, and he's not even sure what he's feeling at this point. The silence stretches on, and he knows he should say something, anything, but he can't find the words.
Finally, he clears his throat, reaching up to brush a lock of hair from her face. "More than okay."
Her answering smile is almost shy, and he can't help but lean in and kiss her, letting himself get lost in the feel of her lips against his. It's a perfect moment, one that he wants to last forever, despite the havoc he knows it's wreaking on his life. Not for the first time, he wishes he had met Donna before Wes got to her, wishes their futures had somehow intersected in a different reality. But that's not the life they're living, and as if to drive that reality home, Harvey hears a phone ringing in the distance, muffled under her coat on the floor. It's too late in the night for it to be anyone other than the senator.
Donna doesn't move, ignoring the call as she deepens the kiss, their tongues lazily exploring one another. But when it starts up again, she pulls away with a sigh, extracting herself from his arms and sliding off the bed. He watches her step past him, seemingly in slow motion, naked and sweaty and perfect in a way that no one else will ever come close to being. She pulls the phone from her coat pocket, silencing the call. She types briefly, undoubtedly crafting a response. Then, he hears the rustling of clothes as she begins to dress. He pushes away the aching sensation in his chest, refusing to feel the sting of rejection. He never expected her to stay and he's not the cuddling type, anyway.
It's not that big of a deal.
Still, he hates the sick twist in his gut that feels more and more like regret with every passing moment. And once again, guilt starts to snake through him. What he just did...with someone who is planning a life with someone else. What kind of bastard does that make him?
God, who fucking is he anymore? Is he that guy? Who tosses his morals aside, without much difficulty, he might add, in order to indulge in... what, exactly? This crush he's developed? The needy, confused enthrallment that's threatened to fully emerge? Surely there's something deep in his psyche that's made him susceptible to this. Maybe all the trauma with his mother's infidelity has made it so he has to relive that experience now, in this fucked up, unintentional reenactment that he's somehow fallen into here.
He hears her pluck up the discarded engagement ring from the desk, remembering the look in her eyes as she took it off, the resignation, the bitterness. But also, behind all that, was a profound sadness. He wants to ask why she's marrying him. Clearly it's not the fairytale romance the tabloids paint it as. Not if she's with him, of all people. Cheating. But the question lingers, unspoken, because it's none of his business, and he's not at all certain he wants to know the reason why. It could be the very thing he suspected when he saw those bruises on her hips, and what the fuck does he do with that?
Rage.
That's what Harvey feels at the thought. Sitting there on the edge of the hotel bed, basking in post-orgasmic misery, he is filled with such immense rage it's startling. His jaw hurts, and he has to consciously unclench his teeth.
He's crazy. He has to be, because if Harding is hurting her – Harvey has violent visions of things much more horrific than a couple of bruises; these images include broken bones, missing teeth, body parts mutilated or entirely gone. Harvey sees a gun in his hands. A rope. Knives. He can kill Weston Harding, has no problems killing him, he's not scared. Wes' political posturing and adoring constituents can kiss his fucking ass.
And yeah, okay, he'll admit it, he's jealous. Jealous of the time Donna's giving to this piece of shit. Jealous of the access Wes has to her naked body, the intimate conversations and the inside jokes, and all the little details of her life that only the person she loves gets to see.
He's pathetic and making shit up. Seeing things. Being ridiculous and melodramatic. Throwing blame in every direction but his own, where it belongs.
Enough.
He wrenches himself off the bed, turning his back on Donna and tugs on his boxers and pants, shoving himself into them roughly. He heads into the bathroom, avoiding Donna's gaze. This was supposed to get this shit out of his head, but instead it's opened up a whole new host of feelings and questions. None of which he has the answers for.
When he comes back into the room, Donna is fully dressed and perched on the edge of the bed. Ring back on finger, hair a bit neater. No flush left on her skin, although a hint of it remains in the slightly swollen shape of her lips. She stands quickly, moving toward him.
"Harvey – "
"It's fine." He brushes past her and gathers his shirt, not meeting her eyes. "Let's not make a thing of it. Just go."
He can feel her gaze on him, the weight of it as intense as a physical touch. She steps closer, the heat of her body an unnerving presence behind him, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He closes his eyes, willing himself not to turn around, to keep his resolve and maintain his distance.
"Okay," she whispers.
When he turns back around, it's to see her standing in the doorway, her hand lingering on the knob. Her expression is impossible to read.
"Donna –"
"It's fine," she says, cutting him off. "Really."
He swallows, her words like a knife to his chest. Of course it's fine. She's with a literal empire-builder, a guy who can give her the world. Why the fuck would she ever want him?
Harvey has never see himself as the underdog in anything, but he can't deny the pang of inadequacy that cuts through him
"See you back in New York," Donna says, looking like a stranger again. Her mask is up and any trace of the woman he was just intimate with has disappeared.
And then she's gone, but her presence in the room lingers, a suffocating sense of her that hangs in the air, that clings to the bed sheets and his skin, her perfume and the smell of her sex enveloping him like a ghostly embrace.
But this isn't his bed, or his room. And eventually the long night will end, and Montana is seven states away.
By tomorrow morning, it will all seem like a dream, as if none of it ever happened.
Or at least, that's what he tells himself.
But deep down, the fucked up truth is –
He'll do it again.
And again.
As many times as she lets him.
A/N: Right. With Montana behind us, things are about to get messy. There's more plot coming, and plenty of angst and drama ahead. I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I know it's a lot, and if you have feedback or comments, feel free to share them in a review! As always, your support is very much appreciated - Kelly