A/N: The flashback can be skipped and no information will be lost in the present story. It just there to provide background for people who want to understand how Donna could fall for someone like Wes.

CW: Orgasm denial, bondage


I

Eleven years ago

The ballroom is full of beautiful people. The low murmur of their conversations mixes with the soft jazz band playing in the corner. Crystal chandeliers and candles provide the only light, bathing everything in an ethereal glow. The whole scene is like something out of a movie, and for a moment Donna is lost in the fantasy of it all, the romance and the elegance. It feels like a dream.

The emerald gown Wes had arranged for her fits perfectly, the deep V in the front revealing a generous amount of her pale skin, the back plunging just as far. Her red hair is loose, flowing over her shoulders in waves, her makeup subtle but striking. She feels confident and powerful and beautiful, and it's almost enough to push aside her anxiety.

Weston leads her through the crowd, his hand resting lightly on her lower back, his body close to hers. She can feel the eyes of the other guests on her as they pass, some curious, others judgmental, all appraising her worth in this exclusive world. Donna does her best to ignore them, to hold her head high and pretend like she belongs here. But her palms are damp, and her heart is racing, and she's terrified she'll say something or do something that will give her away.

"Breathe, Donna," Weston murmurs, his hand slipping lower, giving her bare back an almost imperceptible stroke. "You're perfect. They'll be eating out of your hand before the night is over."

She lets out a nervous laugh, shaking her head. "You have too much faith in me," she whispers, scanning the crowd, feeling overwhelmed by the sea of wealth and privilege surrounding them.

"I don't think it's possible for anyone to have too much faith in you," he replies quietly.

Donna turns to him, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice and the soft expression in his eyes. He really means it, she realizes. He has complete and utter faith in her, and that realization fills her with an unexpected sense of confidence.

She straightens her spine, lifting her chin, meeting Weston's gaze with a determined one of her own. She can do this, she knows she can. And if Wes is willing to bet everything on her, then she owes it to him to do her best and not disappoint him. She knows she'll regret it for the rest of her life if she does.

"Okay," she says, taking a deep breath. "Let's do this."

His eyes crinkle as he gives her an approving nod. He looks devastatingly handsome tonight, in his tailored tuxedo, his blue eyes bright against his dark hair, his chiseled features like something out of a painting. She has to stop herself from staring at him, from getting lost in the fantasy of what might happen when the night is over. Because this isn't a date. No matter how much it might feel like one. No matter how intimate and affectionate Weston's touches and glances feel, he's doing it all to charm people into supporting her cause, not because he has any feelings for her. She can't afford to forget that.

Weston leans into her, his mouth next to her ear. "I need you to listen carefully," he says.

Donna nods.

"There are only two types of people at an event like this – people with power and people who want power. If you can learn how to tell the two apart, you'll be ahead of the game. Everyone has an agenda, even me. We're all in this to gain something – status, money, connections."

"What is your agenda, then?" She asks, searching his eyes.

A smile crosses his face, as if his words were a joke he didn't think she'd catch. "You. Making sure you succeed and seeing the look on your face when you do. I can't remember the last time I wanted anything else as much."

She can't think of a response to that. Can't form a sentence, can't find her breath. There's a moment where she can only look at him, into the endless blue of his eyes, trying to determine how much is for show and how much is sincere, and she realizes she wants to believe every word coming out of his mouth. That he does want her success, that she's not just some political prop or plaything for him. That it isn't just a job for her to charm these rich people, or him to win some political points. But it has to be, right? Because the alternative is unthinkable.

Before she can say anything in response, a tall, older man with graying hair and a hawk-like face approaches them. Weston greets him warmly, clasping his hand in a firm handshake, before turning to Donna.

"Donna, this is Daniel Wyman. He's a senior partner at a major architectural firm. They have their hand in some of the biggest projects in New York and around the country."

The men exchange a meaningful glance and Donna feels like she's missed a cue of some sort. But Daniel offers his hand to her with a smile that almost reaches his eyes, and she returns his grip, trying to channel some of the poise and grace she's witnessed from the other women at the party.

"A pleasure," Daniel says, his eyes flitting over her face, as if appraising her worth in one brief look. He turns his attention back to Weston, his smile taking on a note of camaraderie. "I hear you're trying to save a theater."

"Not just a theater," Donna corrects, before Wes can get a word out. "It's one of the few remaining vaudeville venues left in New York. It has a storied history that spans a hundred years, and it's an essential piece of the fabric of this city. We need it as much as it needs us, and the demolition order is not only going to destroy a historical landmark, but it's also going to ruin a piece of our heritage and cultural identity. Not to mention all the people who depend on it – the staff, the performers, the community outreach programs."

Daniel lifts an eyebrow, a smirk curving his lips as he takes a sip from his glass of whiskey. "I see you brought your champion."

Weston laughs, the hand on her back pulling her closer to him. She tries not to overthink how perfectly she fits beside him. "That's exactly what she is, Dan," he says. "The real deal. You know as well as I do, a place like that deserves to be preserved and protected for generations to come, and you know what an economic boost it can be, too, with the right leadership behind it."

Daniel nods slowly, considering the words as he gives Donna a long, curious look.

"So what can I do for you?" Daniel asks.

Donna draws in a steadying breath, the opportunity in front of her finally feeling tangible and within reach. She smiles warmly and begins to explain her plans for the theater's future, keeping her voice conversational and relaxed while still managing to convey her passion and determination. Daniel listens carefully, interjecting with the occasional question and observation. Weston remains silent, allowing Donna to take the lead. His hand never leaves her back, though, his touch a constant reminder of his support and confidence in her.

As the conversation continues, Donna notices the other guests beginning to pay attention to them. Whispers and curious glances are exchanged as the distinguished older men and women move closer to listen in, drawn in by the passion and enthusiasm in her voice. Donna can't quite believe it, but it seems like the crowd is with her, nodding in agreement, asking questions, and offering suggestions.

Before she knows it, she finds herself being pulled along through the room, introduced to a new set of people. Weston follows close by, his hand now clasping hers, his face glowing with pride. He encourages her at every step, guiding her into conversations and helping her connect with the right people. And together, they weave their magic. By the end of the evening, she has secured a dozen commitments of support from influential donors and business leaders, all willing to put their name and their money behind her campaign to save the theater.

As the night begins to wind down, she finally allows herself a moment to relax, leaning against the wall with a glass of champagne in her hand. Her cheeks ache from smiling and she can't help the laughter that escapes her. She feels giddy and light, as if she might float away at any moment.

"What's so funny?" Weston asks, coming up beside her. He, too, has a smile on his face, his eyes sparkling in the soft light.

Donna shakes her head, unable to put the feeling into words. "This...I didn't think...I can't believe that happened. I thought we'd be lucky if I convinced even one person to support me, and instead..."

"You won the whole room over," Wes finishes for her, a touch of awe in his voice.

Donna looks at him, at this beautiful man standing before her, his face filled with pride and admiration, and something else. Something softer and more intense all at once. And she realizes she doesn't care that it's not a date, she doesn't care if it's just an act. She doesn't care that he's a politician or a senator. All she knows is that in this moment, with Weston Harding by her side, she's never felt more powerful in her life. And that's a feeling she never wants to lose.

The band changes to a waltz, the music flowing through the air, and she can see other couples drifting to the dance floor. Her gaze travels across the room and then back to him, and he raises an eyebrow, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

"Would you like to dance, Donna?"

It's the perfect invitation. There's something about the way he says it, so tender, almost vulnerable. She can't help but think about what he might sound like in the bedroom. Would the same intimacy and tenderness be in his voice when he asks if he can have her? Is he the same – always the gentleman, the chivalrous protector? She can imagine it now, the way he would caress her hair and look at her as if she was the only person in the world who mattered, as he slowly unzips her dress and pulls it off of her, his lips moving over her skin and tasting every inch of her body, until she's gasping his name in pure bliss.

She nods, not trusting her voice, and he takes her hand, leading her onto the dance floor. He rests his hand lightly on the curve of her hip, pulling her against him. She's never been so close to him before, has never been able to study his face this much. And god, he's handsome, with those clear blue eyes and the faint freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks. He moves gracefully, holding her gently but firmly as he guides her across the floor, their bodies moving together in perfect synchronicity. She lets him lead, her eyes locked on his, the rest of the world fading away.

"Thank you for bringing me here tonight," she whispers, her fingers playing with the soft hairs at the nape of his neck. "This is all so..." She trails off, unable to find the words to describe what she's feeling, how grateful and special he's made her feel. "No one's ever believed in me this much."

"You're worth believing in, Donna," he replies quietly, his expression earnest and sincere. "I knew the moment you marched into my office and laid out your demands that you were something special. I'm just glad I get to be a part of your story."

Donna feels her cheeks grow hot under his gaze and she drops her eyes, suddenly shy. She rests her head on his shoulder as they sway to the music, a sense of peace washing over her. For a moment, everything feels right, and she lets herself forget about the outside world and its pressures. She lets herself imagine what it would be like to be loved by a man like Weston Harding, to be cared for and protected by someone who believes in her, who sees her strength and encourages her to share it with the world. She thinks she could be happy with a man like that, with a life like that.

The music slowly changes and the tempo picks up. Weston's hands drop to her waist and she takes that as her cue to take a small step back, to put some space between them.

"I should get you home," he says, a note of regret in his voice.

The ride back to Brooklyn is quiet, both of them lost in thought. When they pull up in front of Donna's apartment building, Weston insists on walking her to the door. The evening has cooled, the city around them quiet. Donna is suddenly nervous, unsure how to say goodbye to the man she just shared such an incredible evening with.

"Thank you," Donna says as they reach her stoop. "For everything. I couldn't have done this without you."

Weston smiles, that warm, genuine smile that never fails to make her heart skip a beat. "You're selling yourself short. You're the heart and soul of this project, Donna. I'm just along for the ride."

She blushes at the praise, her cheeks flushing at the way he's looking at her, as if he's truly seeing her, the real her, in a way no one has ever bothered to before.

And maybe it's the champagne, or the lingering high from their success, or simply the culmination of months of unspoken tension. Whatever the reason, Donna finds herself leaning in, pressing her lips against his in a soft, tentative kiss.

For a moment, it's perfect, the connection between them, the feeling of his lips against hers. But then the moment passes and Weston pulls back, a strange look in his eyes, his expression unreadable.

Donna swallows hard, the reality of what she's done suddenly crashing over her. "I'm sorry," she stammers, embarrassed and mortified. "I don't know why– I shouldn't have–"

Weston cuts her off, his voice gentle. "Donna," he says quietly. "It's okay. But I can't. You're..." He trails off, running his hand through his hair with a sigh. "It's a bad idea, on so many levels."

"Right," she says quickly, nodding, as if agreeing with him will make the ache in her heart less painful. "Of course, I understand. I wasn't thinking– I had a little too much champagne– I'm just..."

"Donna," he says again, his eyes locked on hers, a hint of regret in his gaze. "If I could, I would, in a heartbeat. But I have so much going on in my life, so many complications, I don't–"

"It's okay," she whispers, cutting him off, fighting to keep her voice steady, to hide the hurt and disappointment that threaten to spill over. "You don't have to explain. I get it."

And the thing is, she really does understand. He's the Senator of New York, a man in power, someone with so many people vying for his attention. She's just a waitress who wants to be an actress. Their worlds are miles apart and will never be compatible. He can't risk anything that would put his reputation on the line. He can't be with her.

She understands, but it doesn't stop her heart from breaking just a little.

Donna takes a deep, shaky breath and steps away from him and up the steps to her apartment.

"Good night, Weston."

She doesn't give him the opportunity to reply.

Her hands fumble with her keys and it seems to take her a lifetime to get the door unlocked and open. She steps inside, not daring to look back as she closes it behind her and leans against it.

Her eyes well up with tears and she angrily swipes at them.

God, she's an idiot.

A stupid, pathetic idiot for thinking a man like Weston Harding would ever be interested in her.

He was just doing his job, helping her out because it was the right thing to do. And she was so desperate for any shred of attention or affection that she latched onto him and turned a professional relationship into –

There's a knock on the door.

She freezes, her heart suddenly beating a thousand times faster. She closes her eyes for a brief second and then slowly turns around and opens the door.

She finds Weston standing there, looking slightly unsure of himself for the first time. His hair is disheveled from his hands running through it and there's a crease in the fabric of his suit. He looks...vulnerable, a word she's never associated with the man who has always exuded confidence and strength.

Before she can get a word out, he's stepping forward, pulling her close, his hand coming up to cup her cheek, and then his mouth is on hers. The kiss is everything she'd hoped for, desperate and hungry and so full of longing it steals her breath away. Her hands come up to fist his lapels and he pushes her back into the apartment, the door falling closed behind them with a slam.

A discreet fling, a no-strings-attached affair. A single, secret night, he says, over and over in her ear, the words like a promise and a warning all at once. A promise of a few stolen moments, and a warning that this is all she gets. But she's greedy, hungry for him, and she tells him, Yes. Yes, yes, yes. She doesn't care. She'll take what she can get, for as long as she can keep it.

II

The restraints dig into her skin as she squirms underneath him, trying to bring her thighs together to give herself some friction, but Wes tightens his hands around her hips to keep her still. She's been tied to the bed for the last two hours, her wrists and ankles restrained, a blindfold over her eyes, and his hands and tongue driving her absolutely insane with arousal, and she doesn't think she can take it anymore. Her skin is flushed and covered with a layer of sweat, and her body is so taut it feels like she could snap at any moment.

"Please..."

Wes doesn't answer her, just drags his lips lightly along the inside of her thigh and then nips at her with his teeth, making her whimper. His mouth is so close to where she wants it to be, but he still won't touch her there. He won't let her have it, and she can't understand why. She's given him everything he's ever asked for. Everything. Her body, her love, her future, her self-respect, her dignity, her sanity...

His voice is low and husky. "I don't think you deserve to come yet. You haven't been good enough."

The tears begin to slip out from under her blindfold, hot against her cheeks as they slide down towards her ears, the ache between her thighs unbearable. It's been like this for weeks – him denying her pleasure, bringing her close to the brink and then refusing her release. And she knows why. It's punishment, pure and simple. He's punishing her for sticking up for herself, for refusing to drop her case against Harvey, and for calling him out for being a controlling asshole. It's just another one of his manipulative mind games, designed to make her feel like she's nothing, to break her down and take her apart until she's desperate enough to beg, to crawl on her hands and knees in front of him and apologize for existing. He has her right where he wants her. And he's enjoying it, every single moment of it, making her beg for this simple act of intimacy that should come without consequence or strings, the right to be loved and satisfied, without feeling ashamed.

"Wes...please." Her voice is weak, her body shaking uncontrollably from his teasing touch. "I can't..." She feels her words catch in her throat, the sobs starting to form. She tries again to buck her hips upwards, but his fingers dig harder into her hip bones, forcing her back down.

"Stay still."

His voice is commanding and stern, and it makes her tremble more. He runs his thumb along her folds, the rough friction making her moan, but he doesn't penetrate her with it, just continues stroking her with the softest touch. He does it over and over again, slowly and torturously, and she can't stop her hips from moving now, seeking out his touch, trying to increase the pressure, the contact. Wes tuts at her, his fingers slipping away again. "I said still, baby. Can't you obey a simple order?"

She feels herself clench around nothing and she has to fight the urge to grind down into the bed. His tone is taunting, teasing, and she knows that if she doesn't find a way to control her responses, he'll leave her tied up, aroused and frustrated for even longer.

She feels his tongue slowly drag across the underside of her breast and he breath catches. "Wes...please, please..." Her words trail off, turning into a low whimper as he lowers his mouth and swirls his tongue around her nipple. His teeth scrape across her skin, and her body shudders beneath him. He pulls her into his mouth and sucks, hard enough to hurt, and she can feel her legs beginning to shake, a jolt of heat shooting down between them.

He releases her and she whimpers again, arching up against his mouth, her body responding despite herself, her skin tingling with need, every inch of her body desperate for his touch.

"Wes," she chokes out, "please."

There's a pause and she knows he's watching her, his gaze focused intently on her face. And she knows he loves seeing her like this. Vulnerable and desperate. So desperate. But the pause stretches on too long. And she knows what that means.

He's not going to give in.

The sob escapes before she can stop it, and she squeezes her eyes shut, the tears stinging against her skin. Wes moves up her body and cups her cheek gently in his hand, wiping the tears away with his thumb. She knows she shouldn't do it, but she can't stop herself from leaning into his touch, turning her face to kiss the palm of his hand.

"Please," she whispers again, her voice breaking slightly.

She hears Wes sigh and he brushes another tear away, his voice low. "When I'm back from the Hill." His thumb moves across her skin slowly. "But for now, you're not to come."

"Wes –"

His grip on her tightens, his voice getting rougher. "Don't make me say it again."

She knows it's useless, she knows there's nothing she can do, but it's just so goddamn hard. Her skin is tingling and her pulse is racing and every single cell in her body is crying out for release. And he's right there. So close, he just has to touch her and she knows she'll come within seconds, but he's not going to give in.

"You'll be a good girl and wait for me. You'll come when I say so, and only when I say so." He slides one of his hands down her body, tracing circles across her belly and along the inside of her thighs, making her shudder and gasp. "Isn't that right, Donna?"

Her voice catches in her throat, her breath hitching as he moves his fingers over her, his touch feather-light. She tries to arch up towards his hand, but his fingers dig into her skin again, keeping her in place.

"Answer me."

"Yes." Her voice sounds small and defeated.

"Good girl," he says softly, and then she feels him move away from her and climb off the bed.

She lays there for a few moments, listening to his movements as he dresses, the rustling of clothes and the zipping of his suit pants. She hears the jangling of his cufflinks, and then he's beside her again, the bed dipping slightly as he sits down next to her, and his fingers are brushing against her wrists, gently loosening her restraints. He frees her hands, his hands gently rubbing her wrists to bring back the circulation. "Are you going to be good and keep your hands to yourself until I get back?"

Donna nods silently, feeling the last of the rope slip away from her ankles. Wes cups her cheek once more, brushing away the last of her tears with his thumb. He presses his lips against hers in a kiss and then leans over her to remove her blindfold.

When her eyes finally adjust, he's looking at her with something almost like pity. He runs his fingers gently through her hair, smoothing it away from her face. The gesture makes her heart ache a little and she has to close her eyes and breathe deeply to stop herself from crying again.

"Let's get you cleaned up," he says softly, his tone soothing now, gentle. "You don't want to be late for work."

III

Any minute now.

Harvey takes a bite of his breakfast burrito, chewing slowly as he scans through the documents spread out in front of him. Mike is sitting across from him, hunched over his own pile of paperwork. His brow is furrowed in concentration, his eyes moving rapidly across the page as he absorbs the information.

It's been three weeks since Harvey's reinstatement back onto the Wolcott case. Three weeks of exchanging increasingly hostile texts and emails, of making pointless phone calls, and arguing with Donna over the smallest details. The case is moving forward, and Harvey is feeling good about his chances. They're building a solid defense, and if they can keep the momentum going, he thinks they might have a shot at winning.

Harvey swallows, washing down the food with a sip of coffee. He's always been a workaholic, but this case is starting to become an obsession. He spends his days poring over the files, his nights reading through old case law, and his weekends drafting motions and researching precedent. He barely sleeps, barely eats, and every spare moment is spent strategizing.

It's not healthy, he knows that. But it's all part of the process. He's always been driven, and when it comes to his work, he's willing to do whatever it takes. It's not that different from what Donna does, he thinks. She's relentless, pushing herself and her team hard. He's seen it in court, in the depositions, the way she comes at him like a heat seeking missile, refusing to let up. She's intense, determined, focused, and it's kind of sexy to see her in action. Not that he'll admit it to her, or to anyone for that matter. Especially since she's hellbent on destroying him.

Strangely, after the night they kissed in his office, things aren't awkward between them. The opposite actually, things are almost...too easy. Too comfortable, in a way that shouldn't feel comfortable at all. They still argue over every single goddamn thing, and they bicker like an old married couple, but he enjoys her company more than he thought possible, and he finds himself seeking her out even when he knows he shouldn't. He wants to talk to her, and listen to her talk. He wants to watch the way she rolls her eyes when he says something particularly irritating. He wants to hear her laugh, that bright, unexpected, joyous laugh that catches him off guard every time she lets it loose. He's started texting her more and more frequently, usually to antagonize her about something. The messages always devolve into playful banter and innuendo-laden quips, and it's ridiculous how much he looks forward to every single one of them.

The agreement they drafted, the one that was supposed to help Harvey stay focused, keep his hands off of her and his thoughts from drifting into forbidden territory, sits untouched at the bottom of his desk drawer. He still hasn't signed it, and Donna hasn't acknowledged that it exists, much less enforced it. And there is something about not being held to the terms that makes it so damn hard to resist the urge to push things just a little too far with her. He really should sign the goddamn thing. But for whatever reason, he hasn't. Maybe because it gives him a sense of power. Or maybe because it feels like an escape clause, something that allows him a way out of this insanity when he eventually decides it's gone far enough. He knows he'll have to sign it, and he will. At some point. Eventually. Just not yet.

This last week they've been stuck in a battle of motions. Harvey's spent the past seven days drafting a litany of them, filing one after the other, attempting to derail her. Donna's filed her own, challenging his legal strategies and questioning his tactics, but so far, neither side has been successful. Until this morning, that is. When his email pinged, alerting him that his motion to admit prior bad acts as evidence had been granted. He had smirked, pleased by the development, and promptly sent a copy of the judge's decision to Donna.

That was two hours ago.

It's been radio silence since, no response, no snarky text. Nothing. Harvey has been waiting ever since, anticipating her reaction. If she's pissed, she'll make sure he knows. And if she's not, she'll still make sure he knows, because she can't resist the chance to rub it in his face.

But as the minutes tick by, the lack of response is driving him a little crazy. He finds himself watching his phone, waiting for a text or an email. He catches himself wondering what she's doing, and if she's as focused on him as he is on her. He finds himself thinking about her constantly, and not just about work. He thinks about her smile, her laugh, the way her eyes light up when she's teasing him. He can't get her out of his head. She's consumed his every waking moment, and when she's not, she invades his dreams. He's dreaming about her so much that he's started sleeping less and less, spending most nights wide-awake in bed, imagining what it would be like to touch her again, to kiss her again, to taste every inch of her.

He's watched her Toyota Emissions trial tapes at least three dozen times by now, always pausing near the end on the close up of her face, the moment where she knows she's won, the way she bites her lip, trying to suppress her smile and her eyes flutter shut, the feeling of the victory, the euphoria of winning, rushing over her. He imagines she looks like that when she comes, the flush in her cheeks and that lip bite... He imagines it so much that his body can't help but respond, hardening for her in the dead of night. It's embarrassing, really, the way she makes him feel like he's fifteen years old all over again, getting excited over a kiss, jerking off to her trial tapes like a pervert, losing control of himself and his goddamn dick at the most inappropriate times. Like right now, when she's probably ignoring him in her office and he's sitting here half hard just thinking about her.

Mike lets out a heavy sigh, drawing Harvey's attention.

"What's up?"

"Nothing." Mike runs a hand through his hair, frustration etched on his face. "I'm just having trouble making sense of this."

"Of what?"

"The numbers." Mike points to a line of figures scrawled in black ink. "They don't add up."

Harvey leans forward, scanning the page. He frowns, his eyes darting back and forth as he tries to decipher the calculations. He recognizes the handwriting immediately – it's Wolcott's, his sloppy, rushed scrawl.

"Set it aside, I'll –"

Harvey's office door flies open and Donna strides in. Finally, he thinks, she's made an appearance, just like he knew she would. He loves that she doesn't even knock, that she just comes in, like she owns the damn place. Mike doesn't flinch, barely reacting to her sudden intrusion. He's used to it by now. He glances at her for a moment before going back to the document in front of him, but Harvey is mesmerized by her. She looks gorgeous as ever, her hair in soft waves around her face, her black dress hugging every inch of her perfect figure. And he hates himself for thinking about how he hasn't seen her in days and how he wishes it wasn't true, that he wishes he was annoyed with her for barging in here, but really all he feels is this insane happiness, this overwhelming sense of relief, at having her near him again, even if only for a minute or two.

"What the hell is this?" she says, slamming the folder she's holding onto his desk.

Harvey can't help the grin that spreads across his face at her outrage. God, he loves riling her up. He takes another bite of his burrito, savoring the way her chest rises and falls with each indignant breath.

"You got my email."

"Don't look so damn smug." She taps her finger on the folder. "You can't use this. It's not admissible."

"Oh, I beg to differ." He pulls the file towards him, idly thumbing through the pages. "Genius is what this is. You have to admit it, Donna."

Donna straightens, folding her arms across her chest. "I can't believe the judge actually allowed it. How did you manage to convince him?"

Harvey shrugs, feigning innocence. "Maybe Judge Kramer just likes me more than you."

"Bullshit. No one likes you more than me. What precedent did you use?"

"I'm not about to reveal my secrets. Suffice it to say, I have a good working relationship with him. And I know how to play the game."

"United States v. Incanto Enterprises, 1993," Mike says, without looking up.

Donna glances at Mike, then back at Harvey. "Shit. That is clever."

"See, I told you you'd appreciate it."

"Don't get cocky. Just because you got one judge on your side, doesn't mean the others will follow."

"It's a good start."

"It's a temporary setback."

Harvey's grin widens. He's enjoying this way too much, her frustration only serving to fuel his own excitement. She's so passionate, so goddamn stubborn, and he can't get enough of the way she's glaring at him, like she'd happily strangle him if the circumstances were different. He takes another bite of his burrito, deliberately taking his time as he chews and swallows.

"You know," he says, leaning back in his chair, "if you had just agreed to my original offer, none of this would be happening. We could have avoided all this nasty, drawn-out litigation, and settled things amicably."

"I told you, I'm not here to be amicable." She moves around the desk, her gaze fixed on his. "I'm here to take you down."

Harvey pushes his chair back from his desk and turns to face her, raising an eyebrow. "Are you? That's interesting. Because to me it looks like you're losing, Donna."

She stops directly in front of him, her hips level with his face. His gaze drops, tracing the curve of her legs, and he swallows hard. It takes every ounce of control he has not to lean forward and nuzzle the space between her thighs, to bury his face between them. He imagines what it would feel like to push that black dress up, to hook her leg over his shoulder and press his mouth against her wetness. The sound she would make when he licks into her. His cock throbs, and the fingers of his free hand curl into the fabric of his suit pants, gripping tightly.

When he finally manages to meet her gaze again, her eyes are dark and intense. She knows exactly where his mind went, and he knows she's thinking about the same thing, about what it would feel like to be together. He can feel his heart beating faster, and he shifts in his seat, trying to adjust himself without her noticing. It doesn't work. Her eyes drop, glancing at the bulge in his pants, and her lips part, letting out a soft exhale. Her reaction makes him even harder. He has to get her out of his office. He can't sit here with her, in this state. With Mike only a few feet away, for fuck's sake.

"Is that why you're so confident?" she asks, her voice huskier than usual. "You think you have the upper hand now?"

"You should see the rest of my hand, Donna," he replies, unable to keep the hint of flirtation out of his tone. "It's a full house."

He means to sound cocky, but instead his words come out a little breathless. Her proximity is messing with him. He feels like he can't breathe properly, and his body is reacting in a way he knows he'll have a hard time explaining if she stays for much longer. He's almost glad, in a way, that they can't be together, because he doesn't think he'd survive having sex with her. Not if this is how he feels sitting across from her, fully clothed and in public. He has no idea what would happen if she were under him in his bed, naked and moaning, her hair fanning out around her face, her back arching, her thighs wrapped tight around his waist as he buried himself inside her, again and again. Shit. He needs to stop thinking about this. This is not the time.

"Funny," she says, her lips curving into a half-smile. "For someone with such a good hand, you certainly threaten to fold a lot. Always shoving your plea deals in my face. It's almost like you know when all this pre-trial nonsense is over, and I finally get you in a courtroom, I'm going to annihilate you."

He looks up at her and the way she's looking down at him, like she wants to take him apart piece by piece...god, it's sexy as hell. He watches as her eyes flick down to his lips. She bites the corner of hers, and he knows that she wants him just as much as he wants her, but neither of them move. Mike's presence stops them. The circumstances of their professional lives stops them. The damn contract they both refuse to follow stops them. Her fucking senator fiancé stops them. The list is endless, and they both know that they should just stay the hell away from each other, that if they give in again, there'll be no coming back from it.

They're teetering on the edge of a cliff, and they're both too stubborn and proud to admit defeat. So instead, they have this. Weird banter and innuendos. Deliberate provocations. Locked gazes and stolen glances. Half-truths and lies of omission. It's a dangerous game they're playing, and Harvey knows they're both doomed to lose. And he fucking hates losing, so where does that leave him? With an untamed erection and a feeling of desperation he'd rather not contemplate. Great.

Her gaze holds his for a few more moments, and then she seems to catch herself and looks away, her jaw tightening. He sees her swallow, and when she meets his eyes again, the expression in her eyes has changed from lust to annoyance.

"Enjoy your little victory while it lasts. Because it's going to be over soon." And with that, she reaches over and plucks his burrito right out of his hand, and then turns on her heel and stalks out of his office, the door slamming closed behind her.

Mike watches as she disappears down the corridor. When he turns back, he looks amused.

"Damn. I thought I was going to have to go grab the fire extinguisher and spray you guys down."

Harvey rolls his eyes. "Very funny."

Mike gathers his files and pushes himself to his feet, shooting Harvey a grin. "I'm going to grab another coffee. Let you...decompress."

Harvey watches him go with a sigh. This is getting out of hand, he thinks as he presses the heel of his palm against his groin, willing his body to calm the hell down already. He's a grown ass man with more self control than this, but there's something about this woman that seems to strip him of all his senses. Maybe he should revisit that goddamn contract.

But before he gets the chance to reach into his drawer and grab it, his phone vibrates against his desk, Donna's name lighting up on the screen.

Donna: I'm starting to feel a little bit of concern for you, Harvey. I mean... Does that ever go away? Or is it a permanent feature?

Even though she just left his office, the message comes as a surprise, and he can't stop the smile that immediately spreads across his face. He starts typing a response, the grin on his lips turning into a smirk, his tone just as flirtatious as hers.

Harvey: Implying that you've looked enough to make that assessment.

Donna: It's a novelty attraction. A whale in the Bronx Zoo.

Harvey: When you say whale, are we talking size or sexual prowess?

Donna: Are you hearing yourself?

Harvey: Last time I checked.

Donna: You're shameless.

Harvey: Is that why you can't stop thinking about me?

Donna: "Think" is a strong word. Let's not be overly dramatic. I can barely stand you, remember? Your whale is leading you to jump to conclusions.

Harvey: So why'd you text me, then? To tell me that?

Donna: Believe me, I regret that decision already.

Harvey: Just admit it. I've got you thinking about my whale, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.

Donna: Who says I want to stop it?

Fuck. Her response is so unexpected, so quick, and so, so not in line with the way she's been acting since their kiss that it almost knocks the wind out of him. His breath catches, and he types his reply, the arrogance slipping out of his tone.

Harvey: That almost sounded like a confession.

Donna: A confession of what exactly?

A thousand different responses flow through his mind, all of them equally flirtatious and sexual in nature. She left her door open, so to speak. But she's expecting him to be the same playboy lawyer she's used to dealing with. The witty, smart ass with more confidence than he should have and with a playbook filled with effective pick-up lines. And sure, that's a part of who he is. A very important part, even. The part of him that draws women in like flies to honey, all the while avoiding any strings or obligations.

But as he stares at her words on the screen of his phone, his fingers hovering above the keyboard as he attempts to type out his response, he realizes that's not how he wants her to see him. Because despite everything, despite the nature of their relationship and the adversarial position they find themselves in, he actually likes this woman. More than he probably should. And as juvenile and stupid as it sounds, he wants her to like him too.

He sighs, trying to figure out the best way to respond, and after a moment, he types back, with perhaps more honesty than he intends.

Harvey: Of feeling the same way.

There's another long pause, his phone staying silent for so long that he starts to wonder if he's made a mistake. Maybe he's pushed too hard, showed his cards too early. It's possible that she was just joking and he's taking things too seriously. Or worse, she's over there feeling uncomfortable. Fuck, why can't this shit be easier? Just as he's about to text her back, his phone vibrates.

Donna: How are you so sure I feel the same way? That I'm not just some vengeful ballbuster hellbent on grinding your career into the ground? That I'm not in this for the ego boost? That everything we're doing isn't me pushing you to sabotage yourself and I have no actual feelings towards you other than enjoying watching you suffer?

Jesus, her words are harsh. But beneath the surface, he feels a current running, an intensity in what she's typed, an eagerness for him to provide the answer. Maybe this is how she perceives his intentions. That this is all a game to him, to toy with her, to piss off Harding and win at all costs. Maybe he should affirm her doubts. It would make the rest of this case so much simpler. If they could pretend that this really is about him using her, that she's nothing but a means to an end, that the kiss didn't happen and that what's building between them is indifference and nothing more. It's obvious that's what she wants. What she thinks. What's best.

But he finds he can't.

He stares at his screen for several minutes, trying to collect his thoughts, trying to figure out what to say to her, how to admit the truth. His fingers hover above the keys as he types and deletes his response over and over again, debating, thinking, wondering what the hell he's doing.

God, he has to say something. Anything. A witty one-liner. A glib aside. A cocky innuendo. He can do that. It's the simplest thing. The safest thing. The easiest out.

Fuck it, he thinks. He's done beating around the bush.

Harvey: Well, for starters, I can tell because the last time I was alone with you, you kissed me.

The indicator bubble pops up on his screen, signifying her response. He waits, the silence drawing out before a ping signals the arrival of her reply.

Donna: I had a moment of weakness. Just because you make me throw all my morals out the window, doesn't mean I actually like you.

He smirks.

Harvey: So, what is it? The suits? The hair? The cockiness?

Donna: Easy. Your complete lack of character.

Harvey: It's my whale, isn't it?

Donna: It's pretty hard to miss.

Harvey: Looks that good, does it?

Donna: Enough with the whale references. I'm starting to question your maturity levels here.

Harvey: I'm just fishing for compliments, Donna. Come on. Don't throw me back into the water now.

Donna: You're really pushing this metaphor as far as it can go, aren't you?

Harvey: I haven't even gotten to my blowhole yet.

Donna: Watered down innuendo from the weak end of your barge.

Harvey: I'll show you my tow rope later.

Donna: That doesn't even make sense...

Harvey: Deep, undersea trench.

Donna: Harvey...

Harvey: Scalloping.

Donna: These are just getting progressively worse, I hope you know.

Harvey: But are you drenched?

Donna: I'm not going to lie...you may need a snorkel to continue.

Harvey: I'm happy to drown in that sea.

Donna: Okay, Moby Dick, I think we've reached the shoreline. Any more out of you, and you'll risk capsizing in the floodwaters.

Harvey: Still navigable.

Donna: Seriously. One more nautical remark and I'll harpoon you.

He grins at her response, letting out a soft laugh, the tension draining out of him. He knows the flirting is escalating, and that they really should stop this nonsense, but they are sliding down the side of a slippery slope at the speed of light, and he doesn't see how they can change direction. Maybe if they took it slow, eased off a little, dialed it back...but that will take discipline and restraint, and he's not feeling very much of either at this exact moment.

Besides, who is he to judge himself? She texted him. She started it.

Harvey: Fine. But the next time you want to go whale watching, let me know. I'll take you on a private excursion. I might even let you touch the fins.

Donna: And here I was thinking you'd let me ride it into the sunset.

Harvey: Ride it? Why when you have a perfectly operational tugboat?

Donna: My tugboat's been struggling to get me to my destination lately, if you catch my drift.

Harvey sits up in his chair, his interest piqued. Harding can't make her come? That thought shouldn't please him as much as it does. It shouldn't be a relief, should it? To think that she's sexually frustrated? That Harding's obviously not sleeping with her, at least not very well, if she's complaining about it. Part of him wants to write her a detailed list of all the things he would do to make her come if he was the one in bed with her. But his responses have probably been provocative enough, and if she was offended by the whale cracks, she's probably not looking for a play-by-play of how he would fuck her senseless if he could.

Harvey: That's a real pity. To have a ship at sea and not be able to steer her to port.

Donna: My tugs stuck to the shoals and I'm living off an archipelago.

Harvey: Have you considered dewatering to alleviate the slump?

Donna: I might have to after this incredibly vivid seafaring chat we're having. My slump is looking particularly aquatic at the moment.

Harvey: Got my snorkel ready.

Donna: Slumps and snorkels. We are clearly past our sell-by dates and have to stop this conversation before it descends into D-list softcore porn.

Harvey: Agreed. Feeling a bit seasick.

Donna: Check-in later?

Harvey: You know I can't go more than a few hours without telling you how much I despise you.

Donna: Loathe you just as much, xoxo.

He stares at her words, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He doesn't try to hide it. He lets it spread, like honey, slow and sweet, until he's grinning like a damn idiot.

IV

"Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes," Samantha greets as Donna walks into the office.

Donna gives her a pointed look, taking a seat at her desk. "I was doing damage control."

"I see that. Did Specter enjoy the show?"

"If by show you mean rubbing his victory in my face – then, yes. He's probably jerking off to it as we speak."

Samantha snorts, leaning against the desk. "That's a visual I didn't need."

Donna nods absently, but her stupid, traitorous mind has gone there, straight to that visual. It's all she can think about: the outline of him in his pants, straining and hard, his fingers clenching and unclenching against his thighs as if he's barely keeping himself from touching her. She thinks about what he'd look like with those same fingers wrapped around his cock, stroking himself, thinking about her. She imagines what he'd sound like, how he'd gasp and groan, his hips lifting off the seat as he spills over his fingers. She bets he looks incredible when he comes, his face flushed and slack with pleasure.

A familiar ache spreads through her, low and heavy in her stomach and her nipples tighten, brushing against the lace of her bra. She crosses her legs, squeezing her thighs together to relieve some of the throbbing, but it's not enough. She wants to reach down and touch herself, to ease the building pressure. God, this is bad.

Samantha's watching her intently, clearly picking up on Donna's shift in mood. "You okay? You look a little..." Her eyes travel down Donna's body, resting on her chest, which is noticeably flushed. She raises an eyebrow. "Uncomfortable."

"I'm fine." Donna reaches for the nearest file, just for something to do. Anything to distract her from thinking about Harvey fucking Specter.

"Okay," Samantha says slowly, a knowing smirk on her face. "So, how'd he manage to convince the judge to let the evidence through?"

"He cited an old precedent. United States v. Incanto Enterprises, 1993. They were dealing with RICO violations and the court allowed evidence of similar crimes committed by the defendant to be used as a way to establish the pattern of criminal activity."

"Smart."

"He's good," Donna says, her voice tinged with irritation. "Better than I expected."

"That's a backhanded compliment if I've ever heard one."

"He's an asshole, don't get me wrong, but..." Donna pauses, trying to find the right words. "I've just never had an opponent quite like him. He's relentless and strategic. He knows the law, but he also knows how to bend the rules. And he's...I don't know. There's something about him. I think if I didn't hate him so much, I might even admire him."

"And that's a bad thing?" Samantha grins, watching her closely. "Sounds like fun to me."

Donna looks up, her gaze settling on the framed photo of her and Wes, perched on the bookshelf behind Samantha. He's smiling, his arm draped around her, and she can't help but notice the way his fingers curl around her shoulder, gripping her tightly.

"No, it's not a bad thing," she says, turning back to Sam. "It's just...I can't lose. This case, it's..." She trails off, not sure how to explain.

Samantha waits, giving her a moment to collect her thoughts.

"I just feel like it should say Pearson Wheeler Harding on that wall and my name should be a footnote, if it's there at all."

"Bullshit."

Donna recoils a little, caught off guard by Samantha's vehemence.

"It's not –"

"It is. It's bullshit. And it's you who's feeding yourself that crap. Because the rest of us know you earned every inch of what you've accomplished here, Donna. Jessica gave you a chance, and you ran with it. You put your head down and you worked your ass off, and I've seen the results. This is your firm. You're a goddamn partner. So, stop doubting yourself because you have nothing to prove."

She doesn't know what to say to this. It's an unwritten rule in the Pearson Wheeler Paulsen culture that they never offer unsolicited pep talks. They're in charge of running the biggest and best corporate law firm in the city, and they don't have time to sort through each other's emotions. If it's not about them winning or losing, then why bother?

They've known each other for years, but they don't really know each other. They don't talk like this. Not after a night of drinking in SoHo, and certainly not during the workday, in the office, where there's always a risk of being overheard.

So, the fact that Samantha's dishing out such a strong word of encouragement takes her by surprise. And it's not exactly the cold-blooded, dispassionate advice she was hoping for. No, this isn't straightforward lawyering talk. This is personal. And heartfelt.

"But Wes – "

"Is a prick."

Donna raises her eyebrows, her lips quirking. "The fact that you're probably the only person in the entire country that thinks that doesn't give your opinions a lot of credibility."

"Oh, I don't think I'm the only person," she says, looking Donna straight in the eye.

There's a moment of silence, the weight of her words heavy between them. Donna looks away first, shifting in her seat. The air feels thicker than it did a minute ago. She can sense Samantha's gaze still fixed on her, waiting for a response. She thinks of her offer for drinks a couple weeks back. She wonders what it would be like, to be honest with someone for a change – not entirely honest, of course, but more honest than she's been in a long time. It would be good to just...talk to someone about things. Not the details of the problems, not the nitty-gritty, but just a little of what's been going on in her head lately.

Before she can second-guess herself, she turns back to Samantha.

"Do you want to get drinks later? Wes is out of town and…." Her throat feels tight. "It would be nice to have some girl time."

Samantha looks surprised at first, but then her lips curve into a slow, wide smile. "About time you asked."


A/N: Sorry this one was a lot of filler, I had to set it up for the next chapter which will be a lot more interesting...