A/N: Hello! Here's a spicy little thang. (Rating changed to M).

Hope you enjoy!

This is reckless, she thinks, looking at the city as it passes her by through her window. Her body is angled away from Henry just slightly—she hasn't been able to look at him since they both sat in the back of this cab. This is stupid.

You're inviting a ghost back into your life, she thinks, looking down at her fingers as they pick at her fingernails, into your bed.

She swallows hard and looks back over her shoulder again, resting her chin down on it as they roll to a stop in front of her and Henry's hotel. When she grabs for her purse, looking for her wallet, she observes that her hands are trembling just enough to be noticeable. She balls her fist up and opens it again.

"I got it," Henry says, and she glances up to see him paying the cabbie again.

She shakes her head a little at him, "You paid last time."

Silently, they stare at each other for a moment—the first time they've looked at each other at all since getting in the car. Her mouth feels like she has cotton inside, and her tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth as she tries to open it again.

"I got it," he calmly repeats, his voice never losing any of its coolness.

"I don't got all day lady," the cab driver says, looking back at Elizabeth over his shoulder.

She scowls at him for a second before Henry finally reaches for the door handle, sliding out first and then letting her get out on the same side. The driver speeds away quickly, and she stares him down until she sees him turn the corner.

"Are you coming?" Henry asks, his voice distant as he's already reached the outside of the revolving door.

She looks at him, her hand clutching on tightly to her purse strap after she's slung it back over her shoulder. Her arms cross in front of her body, trying to create some sort of barrier between herself and this man who had once been her entire world. Why didn't he fight for me? She thinks, watching him as he stands there and waits for her. She had spent years rebuilding herself, rebuilding her confidence and telling herself that her career was the right choice after he'd made her think it wasn't.

Now, here he stands, threatening to break down the wall that she'd finally built.

She shifts in her spot by the curb, looking away momentarily and down the street, is that fair? She thinks to herself, tightening her grip around her chest. I made my choice too. I could've fought harder. I could've told him to not leave, or begged him to stay, or made some kind of compromise.

I broke his heart, too.

She whips her head around to the street behind her when she hears a horn honking, but it was just your typical Manhattan traffic issue, so she turns back around and looks at Henry again, taking a shaky breath.

The sudden breeze blowing down the sidewalk feels like a wake-up call, a slap in the face that she needed. "If we do this tonight," she says, her voice just barely audible from the curb as she tightens her arms around her chest protectively, her throat tightening just enough that she has to clear it. "It doesn't change anything."

No strings, she thinks, no promises, no expectations, no future…just closure. I need this to feel something other than regret—to get my last moments with him to be decent ones.

His eyes are searching hers as he still waits for her by the door, and she sees him nod, "I know," he calls out, having to be louder than the hum of the city around them.

She takes a deep breath, her chest feeling like it's going to crumble in on itself from the weight of this…she almost thinks it's guilt, but she can't quite place what the feeling is. It feels like guilt, but it also feels like anticipation. She makes her feet move, finally, and she walks past him into the revolving doors, making a beeline for the elevator and not checking to see if he's following.

When she gets inside, she turns around and sees him stepping in right behind her, and she breathes out a little breath of relief. She pushes the button for her floor, not even asking what floor he's staying on.

The doors close, and they're left in silence until he reaches around her and pushes the ten button under her already lit twelve. "What are you doing?" She asks him, panic seeping out of her as she looks over at him.

He shifts uncomfortably and shoves his hands into his pants pockets, rocking back on his heels and watching her silently. Finally, his face reddens just slightly, and he looks away, "I don't have condoms with me." He murmurs quietly, seeming as though he's afraid someone might overhear them.

She shakes her head, staring at his jaw as his face is turned away from her. "I'm on birth control," she replies, swallowing hard as she thinks how real this suddenly feels.

I'm about to have sex again with Henry McCord.

Her legs cross over each other, squeezing a little as she feels a warmth rush through her body, her breath catching in her lungs somewhere deep inside of her.

When the doors open, there's a brief moment that tells her to order him out, to just go to his room and to not come looking for her on the twelfth floor after all. However, she knows the incredible weight of regret she would feel if she didn't take this chance that the universe was clearly offering her to get some closure. Six years, multiple different countries and different moves, but they end up in New York City as the same conference, and ultimately, in the same hotel?

So she bites her lip, staying completely silent as she shifts her weight to her other leg, her legs still crossed and now her arms crossed, too.

The doors start to shut again, and she blows out a breath between tight lips, looking straight forward at the numbers going up from ten, to eleven, then to twelve.

This is stupid, she repeats in her head, letting the thought drown out with the elevator's ding as the doors open. She steps out quickly, almost bolting through the doors and leaving him in the dust. She fumbles for her key in her purse, her shaky hands grabbing everything but that. Finally, she finds it, and she unlocks her door as he waits behind her quietly—much like her own shadow, something she can't seem to shake.

She steps into the dark room, and she doesn't turn to see if he's following; she knows he is.

Elizabeth moves further into the room, her fingers pinching the nearest lamp button as she lays her purse down. She doesn't hear Henry at all, so she looks behind her finally and sees him standing at the edge of the room, his hands still in his pockets as he stands in the little hallway by the bathroom and watches her.

Her heart skips, but this time not from romanticism. What if he's actually some kind of serial killer? What if he's changed in the past six years into something, I don't know…sinister? He could be a murderer for all you know, Elizabeth, she's thinking as she kicks her tennis shoes off underneath the desk, and you just invited him into your hotel room because you think you're having sex. Maybe he's not planning on that at all.

She feels her pulse thundering in her fingertips and in her throat, and she turns to look at him again. The absurdity and even stupidity in her thoughts doesn't make them feel any less real. She takes a shaky breath, trying to push them to the back of her mind as she reaches sideways for the desk for her own balance. "Well," she murmurs to him, her eyes barely making contact with his, "Are you just going to stand there?"

Her voice ended up sharper than she'd meant for it to be, but she is glad that it was enough to cut through the silence. She doesn't wait for his response though as her face feels warm suddenly, and she turns away to fumble with the buttons on her shirt. She doesn't undo them, she just thinks back to the first time she and Henry had gone to third base in the back of his truck on cool fall evening.

"I didn't want to push," he says, and she can tell that he's closer now, his voice sounds as though he may be right behind her. But she doesn't want to turn and find out.

"You're here, aren't you?" She asks, still fumbling with the bottom button on her shirt, "Isn't that enough?"

"You act like I dragged you into this," he says pointedly, and she whips around now to look at him. He's watching her carefully, shaking his head just slightly and has his hands out of his pockets now. His palms are open at his sides, turned upwards just slightly, "I'm here because you invited me."

The words feel like they sting her cheek, much like if he took his palm and slapped her across the face. How was he making her out to be the one who needed him somehow? Just because she'd said she needed closure. Okay, she thinks, maybe you are the one who initiated this.

She turns away from him again and takes a sharp breath, the only way she can fill her lungs at all, "I don't want to think about it too hard, Henry," she whispers, shaking her head as she stares at the full-size bed closest to the window, the one she'd chosen to sleep in last night.

"Then let's not think," he says after a moment of silence, and she feels his hands sliding around her hips, his thumb twisting into her belt loop by the buttons. She feels the heat off his body radiating onto her back, and she almost melts backwards into him, but she keeps herself upright.

The way his thumbs are coiling around her belt loops when she glances down, though, makes her feel like he's anchored to her and vice-versa—and her breath catches in her throat enough to make her cough just slightly.

Now she can feel the heat on her neck, and she isn't sure at first if it's from her skin or his breath. When she hears him, though, she realizes: "Let me be what you need tonight."

She gets goosebumps down her arms as her hands rest on top of his wrists now, almost pushing them downward so that he would get the hint—pants off. She grasps onto him, steadying herself and turning her face just slightly toward her shoulder, "Just tonight," she whispers, her voice shaky but solemn. She says it aloud to him again as though hearing it one more time will certainly, definitely, positively make it true.

"Just tonight," he echoes quietly, his breath heating underneath her ear right before he presses a kiss there. She cranes her neck to the side further as he peppers kisses down her neck from her ear to her collarbone, and he sucks gently on her shoulder just underneath her shirt collar.

His hands are sliding up from her belt loops now, brushing against her hipbones and up the front of her stomach, sliding to her ribs and across her breasts as he reaches for the buttons of her shirt.

As though he's unbuttoning his own shirt, he pushes the buttons through on top first, her chest feeling the cool air brushing by it as he gets to the third button. It opens, and she moans with anticipation, turning around in his arms and looking at him.

When she makes eye contact with him, she regrets turning around. She feels her food sitting uneasily in her stomach now suddenly, and she grasps onto his upper arms to steady herself once more. She blinks when he pauses, his fingers resting on the fourth button, and she swallows hard.

He's watching her, studying her, and he tilts his head just slightly—something she normally may have missed because it was such a small move, but she's staring too hard now. "Are you sure about this?" He asks, "I don't know if—"

"I'm sure," she breathes, cutting him off. "Are you?"

He doesn't answer her, instead just pops the fourth button and moves to the last one, popping it and pushing her shirt off her shoulders. It pools in her elbows, and he brings his fingers back up to her collarbone, gently sliding his fingertips down her skin there as she feels the chills rush along her skin again.

She lets her head fall to the side quietly, and she shuts her eyes and pretends, just for a minute, that they're back in college. Something she hadn't let herself do since—well, since not that long ago when she was lonely one night and all she had to keep her company was her fingers and a little vibrating friend. Too often, she'd found herself fantasizing back to those days, and she doesn't want to admit as he's pushing her shirt off the rest of the way that this is a fantasy come true now.

She opens her eyes and stares at the buttons on his shirt, too, his still tucked into his belt. She reaches slowly as though her fingers had been frozen before, now thawing, and she takes his belt out of its buckle and lets it hang there open before she works on the button of his pants. She undoes it with only some fumbling, his hands distracting her too much as they brush against her nipple inside her bra—she was suddenly glad that she had at least brought her lace bra instead of that boring tan one she likes more.

When she gets the button undone, she doesn't look up at him, she doesn't wait for him, she just unzips his pants and lets them fall down to the floor. Quietly, he steps out of them, his shoes getting caught in the pant cuffs and him having to hop sideways.

She bites her lip at the scene, and he also chuckles, "Should've taken those off first I guess," he mumbles, kicking them off and tossing them underneath the desk.

She doesn't reply to that, she just reaches for the hem of his button-up and starts to take it off over his head, not wanting to waste time fumbling her shaky fingers around with those buttons. But she realizes, too, that it's buttoned all the way to the top.

So she stops herself, undoing the first few and then taking his shirt off over his head. When it's tossed onto the other bed, the one she isn't sleeping on, he looks over at where it landed and she takes a step back to take all of him in.

Her eyes drop crudely to his hips, and she sees his outline beneath his boxers. Shamelessly, she looks there for much too long, and he laughs a little. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours," he teases.

She feels her cheeks redden a little as she feels his eyes on her, and she drags her gaze up to meet his. "Fine," she says, being playfully defiant as she threads her fingers into her bra straps. She lingers there for a moment, batting her eyes a few times at Henry before she finally tugs them down off her shoulders, pulling her arms out of them and pushing her bra down.

He immediately steps forward, closing the gap again and sliding his hand around her waist. "You're still gorgeous," he whispers, his eyes—also shamelessly—staring at her breasts as though he's about to devour them.

I hope he does.

She reaches for his waist, too, and she lets her hands slide down to his hips, her fingers feeling every little muscle on the way down and realizing how much he's grown in width—he's added a lot of muscle since they had graduated, that's for sure.

Her fingertips get to the band of his boxers, and she considers for a moment again that this is stupid, that this is dangerous and reckless and pointless, too. That it could hurt her more than help her. That everything could go to shit. That he, ultimately, could be a murderer.

As she's thinking that, her fingers are sliding into the elastic there, pushing the material down as her hands continue their journey down his hips. She pauses when the band catches, and she flicks her eyes up to meet his.

He doesn't say anything, instead just pulls her closer to his body. His hands slide around to her front side, and he takes one of her hands in his, his fingers tight around her wrist. She gasps just slightly, her lips parted enough to make her be quiet. He guides her hand into the band of his boxers, sliding down the middle of his abdomen until her palm was turned against the front of his hip.

He watches her eyes intensely, his hand just holding hers there, and she wants to pull away for a moment, wants to tell him to stop. But she looks at him a little longer and she can't tell him to stop, the words all come to a halt in her throat and she swallows them back down. Instead, she shimmies her wrist out of his grip, brushing his erection as she slides his underwear the rest of the way down. They fall around his feet as she's getting down on one knee, then the other.

She takes him in her hand and studies his length for a moment, wondering if it were just her imagination running away with her or if he'd gotten bigger since the last time they'd done this. Muscles, and…

Her thoughts trail off when she leans in and spits in her hand, gently rubbing him before wrapping her lips around him.

"God…" he mumbles, and she smirks around him a little, loving when he forgoes his Catholic sensibilities to start using language he never would in a normal conversation.

She wonders, too, if she's still the only one who can get him to say dirty words.

If he, too, is the only one who can get her to say dirty words.

She slides up and then back down slowly, testing her gag reflex to the fullest as his hands come down and rest in her hair, tangling his fingers up a little in it. "Fuck, Elizabeth."

That answers my question, she thinks, smirking again as she picks up a little speed.

He bunches her hair up behind her head into a ponytail, and he's holding her hair as she grips onto his thighs, pulling him into her mouth the way she wants him and then back out. He startles her when he pulls her hair hard, tugging her head back and forcing her to look into his eyes.

She tries to catch her breath, her mouth hanging up as she feels herself panting, and he looks down at her with the same expression. "You're going to make me come," he whispers, and she smiles a little.

"So you're saying I still got it?" She asks playfully, scooting her leg to stand up.

He just laughs, a low grumble in his belly that makes her want to throw him backwards on the bed. And she almost does—she turns him and pushes him gently toward the bed, leading him and directing him until he falls backwards on it. She quickly unbuttons her pants and kicks them off, just left with her thong on and her bra that's still hooked but pulled down.

She looks at him mischievously, crawling over his body and noting with amusement that he still has socks on, but nothing else. She straddles his legs and lays her hands on his stomach, arching a little when she feels a sudden rush shoot through her body. She leans her head back and brings her hand up to her throat, dragging the backs of her fingers down her sternum and then over to her breast, squeezing it a little as she inhales raggedly.

Opening her eyes, she looks at the wall above the headboard and slowly moves her gaze down to meet his, and his hands are coming to her sides now, moving upwards across her waist, her ribs, and then replacing her hand on her breasts—both of them. He's rubbing as she's trying to remember what she was doing, trying to remember her name, her birthdate, anything about herself.

She lets her head fall back again as she pushes her chest into him, falling forward just slightly and grabbing onto his forearms. Underneath her hands, she feels his muscles working as his fingers knead and squeeze, and she lets out a strangled whimper when he pinches her nipple between his fingers, then does it to the other.

She looks at him and lets her upper body lean forward, one hand on each side of his head as she dangles her body above him. Her eyes meet his again and she swallows thick, a sudden piercing of danger shooting through her chest as she feels his fingers reaching for her again. She pulls away just slightly, blinking at him, and he stops.

"Tell me this isn't a mistake," she whispers.

His neck tightens and so does his jaw, and he swallows hard before letting his hands rest on her hips as she hovers over him. "If it's a mistake," he whispers, "It's one I will be okay with living with for the rest of my life."

She watches his eyes for a moment, and they're darting back and forth to each of hers, studying her like he always has done. She finally leans down, closing the gap between their mouths and pressing her lips against his again. When his tongue slides into her mouth, she moans a little, unable to stop thinking about the fact that she probably tastes like him—that he's already made his mark on her somehow and someway tonight.

His hands are now working at the hook of her bra, and he's throwing it to the side of the bed before resting his hands on her ass, his fingers toying with the back of her thong as their lips are locked together.

She lays her body down on top of his, tired of holding her body up, and she feels his erection against her thigh. Pulling away, she looks into his eyes and catches her breath, wondering once more if this is about to be a mistake. Every alarm is going off in her head and telling her to stop, but she's managed to override them all.

Her hand is sliding down the front of his abdomen, but he surprises her and causes a giggle to come out of her lips when he suddenly flips them so that she's on her back, her head nowhere near the pillow and more toward the side of the bed by the window. "You say when," he whispers, his voice raspy and low as he tugs her underwear off and throws them toward the desk somewhere.

She swallows the lump down in her throat, her smile fading quickly from her face as he watches her with this terrible intensity that makes her simultaneously want to crawl from her skin and also hide within it. She drags her tongue across her bottom lip, her teeth coming behind and scraping as she lets her eyes drop down to his erection again.

Quietly, she brings her leg up and slides it on his leg, latching her knee onto his hip and dragging the other in the same way, reaching this one for his hand though. He looks over and must get the hint immediately, because he takes the back of her knee in his hand and pushes her leg a little, and she's feeling incredibly flexible as she smiles at him. "Do I really have to say anything, Henry?" She whispers, her smile fading again, "Just feel me…just touch me like I'm right here in front of you."

And she shudders when he does, and shudders again when he takes his fingers away and she feels them clutch onto her leg, wet and warm. He moves closer to her and tugs her by her hips, angling them so that he can slide in easily.

He pushes his hips forward and places his tip against her skin, and she curls her toes in the air. When she realizes he's pausing, she looks up at him, and he's looking at her as though he's waiting for her to say something.

She bites her lip, swallowing thick, and she feels the vulnerability now all of a sudden radiating from her naked chest. Sliding her hands over her ribs, she brings them up to her breasts, squeezing them a little as she takes a deep breath. "Fuck me, Henry," she whispers.

That answers my other question.

Her teeth dig into her bottom lip when he pushes into her, and she clenches her eyes shut as she squeezes her fingers deeper into her breasts—deep enough she'll probably leave bruises. She opens her eyes as he moves out of her slowly, and she looks at him desperately, beckoning him to go faster, to do something other than this slow torture.

But he's struggling, she can tell, to keep his composure. He's grabbing for air and steadying himself, and he slides back in deep and she moans, pushing her hips up to meet his.

Finally, he's picking up speed, and she's digging her heel into his ass and beckoning him to go deep, to make her not regret any part of this night if she regrets the whole premise. Her hands splay and stretch over her breasts, his speed becoming more rhythmic, and her hips now meeting his in the same rhythm—a quick rhythm they fell right back into as if six years had not passed between them at all. As if there was no wall built up after all, and it was all just some kind of dream. A nightmare.

"Henry…" she moans, her head digging into the bed as her body arches, her entire lower body on fire as she feels his fingers digging into her thighs and pulling her body into his. Her moans are met with the sounds of their skin hitting, and it turns her on that much more. "God, Henry…I'm close…" she breathes, squeezing onto her breasts again like stress balls.

From low in her stomach, she groans loudly when she feels his thumb rubbing circles, tiny at first and then big, and she curls her toes again and squeezes her heel into the meatiest part of his ass. His speed picks up even more, and she picks her head up to look down at the entire scene for just a second before she clenches around him, her body convulsing backwards into the bed again as every muscle tightens in her body.

A whimper tumbles out of her mouth without her ever being able to stop it, and she stares at the ceiling as her hands now grip the comforter underneath them. He's still moving, her electrified nerve endings on fire as she keeps her body squeezed, and then he stops and falls forward, moaning loudly as she feels him emptying inside her. "Fuck…" he mumbles, and she shuts her eyes and finally gasps for air now that he's stopped.

She already couldn't breathe from the weight of her orgasm, but for him to keep going, it was as though someone had tried to pour water over an electrical fire.

Her body shudders violently when she feels him twitch inside her, and she lets out an uncontrollable moan as she holds onto his arms tightly, trying to ground herself and keep her body from floating away off this bed.

She opens her eyes and looks at him, and he's now opening his, too, and pulling out slowly. She shudders once more, her toes curling as she lays and stares at the ceiling.

Without warning, the thoughts flood back in.

That was reckless.

That was stupid.

He didn't fight hard enough for you to be doing this to you now, to be unraveling you at your core without ever even earning it.

She blinks at the ceiling, her eyes feeling extra dry—a sure sign she was about to form tears instead. She shimmies away from him, sitting up a little and sliding off the bed carefully, heading to the bathroom.

His eyes are on her the entire time she walks to the bathroom, she can feel them on her back watching her. When she comes back out, cleaned up, she crawls in the bed without another word and gets under the blankets. "When I get my bearings," she whispers, getting more comfortable, "You're answering a lot of questions." She says, bringing herself to look at him now. He's sitting up naked on the bed, his socks still on as his elbows rest on his knees. She swallows thick, looking away and pulling the blanket up under her arms quietly. "After all, that's part of the closure."