EASE

By: H. Lee, hlear8@yahoo.com

Rated: NC-17

Spoilers: up to sometime in Season 8, or around 6
months to a year after Afghanistan

Disclaimers: the usual.

Summary: Another complete fluff-fic, not attached to
any particular episode. Harm plots a course of action
with typical twisted logic, but, as the title
suggests, doesn’t dive right in, exactly. Will he
succeed? How long will it take? Let’s see . . . 



* * * 



It started with an innocent touch, one of those
friendly, curious gestures he had a tendency to make
at odd moments. 



They’d been sitting on her couch after dinner, when
suddenly he’d noticed how little her wrists were, how
delicate. Without a word, he reached over and grabbed
one; his fingers and thumb overlapped almost to the
second knuckle. 



“Look at that, Mac,” he said in quiet surprise. 



She watched him instead with surprise of her own. Six
years together, and he focused that startling
intensity on her wrists? Could he see what that light
touch did to her, how it shot up her arm to her core?
Did he have any idea how the sight of his long, tanned
fingers wrapped around her slighter bones affected
her? The simple contrast of large, strong male to
smaller, finer female was enough to set her heart
pounding insistently. 



He felt it in the pulse beneath his thumb, and his own
accelerated to keep time. 

Watched it in the darkening of her eyes as mystery and
desire filled them. Almost experimentally, he
tightened his grip, then loosened it and brushed his
thumb carefully along the veins of the pale inner
side. And saw in amazement the tiny shiver that
drilled down her spine. 



In one great, silent shattering, some cord connecting
his mind and heart shifted; its moorings collapsed,
reforming with new purpose in the space of a
heartbeat. Before, he had been focused on all the
limits between himself and Mac, on protecting and
preserving them, if for no other reason than force of
habit. Now, he was simply overwhelmed with the
possibilities of breaking them – images of excitement,
of fear, of completion. This was what they could have,
he thought in awe. This turmoil of beauty and wonder
was what was waiting for them, had always been
waiting. 



Because he could’ve taken her right there without a
thought to the consequences or consideration for her
feelings, he forced himself to let go. It was
dangerous, this hungry warmth that bound them.
Touching her had always been a risk, an event, that
swept everything else into the distant background,
leaving only the rush of arousal, the brutal twist of
need in its wake. This spark of contact between them
had never abated, yet never failed to move him. Each
time, left him wanting more. 



And so more he took. 



It was a gradual, easy progression . . . at least,
that’s what he hoped it would seem. When you wanted to
dive right in and take all, it was hard to plot the
middle points, to make sure you met each step before
passing to the next one. There were so many places on
Mac, his Mac, that he’d never felt, never known in the
six years he’d had her. So many steps to hit while
working his way to greater intimacy. 



Eliminating his own boundaries accomplished much
toward that end. By allowing himself to touch Mac as
he’d have touched her from the beginning if he hadn’t
forbidden it, he established a slow, steady rhythm, so
natural it passed almost without notice, lulling and
entrancing him as effectively as it did her. 



Every day, he granted himself a new touch. One that
might seem casual, even meaningless, to anyone else.
He rubbed her shoulders as they hunched over some file
on her desk, a favor he hadn’t done in ages. When they
walked in uniform, he placed a hand at the small of
her back to guide and caress. Out of uniform, he held
her hand or her elbow, pretending not to notice the
sideways glances of alarm she sent his way the first
few times it happened. 



At home, he took the most daring liberties, and reaped
the highest rewards. A brush to the nape of her neck
as he sat next to her at the table revealed skin that
was captivatingly fine and prone to shivers. A flick
of her nose in retaliation for teasing impudence
showed him the way her eyes glowed with surprise and
mirth. Running a hand distractedly up and down her arm
while reading, he discovered his fingers alone could
trail goose bumps in their wake. He tucked hair behind
her ears when her arms were full – a task he’d often
longed to perform – to see a tender smile of thanks
flit from her eyes to her lips. 



And never had he felt so completely the difference
between male and female, his own blunt strength to her
supple grace, as when he squeezed the curve of her
waist to shift her out of his way in the kitchen or
pull her down beside him on the couch. It was a move
he made frequently now, and never without imagining
what it would feel like to hold her there as he raised
and lowered her body over his naked length. 



This was a dangerous exploration; if he hadn’t known
so at its inception, every night the point was driven
achingly home as he lay awake and hopelessly aroused,
feeling her on his fingertips, hearing her voice in
his mind, smelling her on the air, and realizing anew
that these fleeting touches, these small desires
fulfilled, could never be enough. 

 



He wasn’t going to let it go any further. Didn’t think
he could afford to, really. A stroke of her wrist had
nearly undone him; any more substantial contact might
snap him in half. 



Then she wore the dress. 



Well, skirt, he supposed – that was what women called
it when it came without a top. It was white and airy
and swirled around her knees like something she’d have
worn as a Russian Gypsy. Her shirt was light green
speckled with faint yellow flowers and just the
tiniest bit flounced at the shoulder straps. Each time
she wore it, his heart dipped precariously. She looked
lithe and feminine and heartbreakingly luminous,
making his fingers itch to trace her waist and
collarbone, his chest tremble with the need to press
her against it. 



She was right on time, as always; he was running
behind, as usual. He answered the door with his shirt
half open and a tie hanging from his neck. His jaw
dropped the instant he saw her. 



“Hi,” she said carefully, giving him an odd glance
from where she stood in the doorway. “Can I come in?” 



“Oh, yeah . . . yeah.” He shook himself and stepped
away from the door, allowing her into the apartment.
And got lost in the image she made as she walked past.




She turned and caught him staring, raised her eyebrows
with a mixture of exasperation and bashfulness.
Sometimes it was nice to see she’d thrown him for a
loop. 



“Harm? . . . Harm.” 



Like a dog out of water, he tossed his head fiercely
and blinked the daze away. “Yeah – um, sorry, I, ah .
. . do you want something to drink?” 



Now she bit back a smile, looked at him a little
worriedly. “Ah, Harm, we’re meeting Keeter and his
fiancée for drinks in twenty minutes. You ready to
go?” 



“Yeah.” He heaved a sigh, disgusted with himself. “I’m
ready.” He motioned for her to precede him to the
door, but once there, she stopped and blocked his
exit. 



When he only continued to look down at her in
confusion, she rolled her eyes and snorted a laugh,
starting to feel really self-conscious. If she hadn’t
checked the mirror at least half a dozen times before
she’d left her apartment, she’d be worried she had
food in her teeth or that she’d forgotten to put on
her blouse or something equally mortifying. 



Carefully, she reached up to fasten his buttons,
leaving the top two open. Then she pulled the wide end
of his tie, rolled the fabric around her fingers, and
set it down on the shelf to her right. “No tie
tonight,” she instructed. 



He was still watching her with an intensity that was
at once burning and vacant; his mouth closed long
enough to allow him to swallow, then fell back open.
His chest burned though she’d only grazed his skin
while fixing his shirt. 



Gently, she tapped him under the chin with her index
finger. “Now you’re ready.” 



When she smiled at him again, he felt another circuit
in his brain sizzle and split. She turned and
sauntered to the elevator. 



And had to come back and grab his sleeve to remind him
to follow. 

 



The bar Keeter had chosen was an out-of-the-way bluesy
establishment, with a jazz group cramped onto a small
stage in the corner behind the dance floor that took
up most of the space to the bar. It was smoky and
dark, but there were just a handful of people there
under thirty, and for a Friday night, it was only
pleasantly crowded. 



“Hammer!” an unmistakable voice boomed, and they both
turned to the right. Harm, at six foot four, had a
distinct advantage over Mac, who’d worn flat sandals.
He caught a glimpse of his old friend and grabbed
Mac’s hand to haul her along in his direction. 



“Keeter,” he greeted, returning the other man’s bear
hug eagerly. “Good to see you.” 



“You too, buddy.” With a genuine Jack Keeter grin, he
turned to Mac. “Ah, Sarah MacKenzie.” And like a
teasing older brother, he ruffled her hair and pulled
her into his arms. “How’s my girl?” 



She wrapped her arms around his neck and laughed into
his shoulder. “Not your only girl anymore,” she
answered and pulled back to watch him expectantly. 



His mischievous grin softening to a smile of real
happiness, he turned back to the table and held out
his arm, motioning to a beautiful woman who rose and
took her place beside him. There was a dark-Irish look
about her, long black hair running in waves down her
back, fairy blue eyes, and pale skin dotted with
freckles. She looked to be around Mac’s age, and her
willowy body was only about two inches shorter than
her fiancé’s, making her at least six feet tall. 



“Harm, Mac,” Keeter began proudly, “I’d like you to
meet – ” 



“Alanna,” Harm finished with a sick,
deer-in-the-headlights _expression. 



Alanna’s face flushed as she glanced guiltily between
the two men. “Ah, hi, Harm,” she replied, looking a
bit queasy herself. “Nice to see you again.” 



Mac had never seen either of the cocky aviators so
dumbstruck. Keeter looked like he wanted to punch
something; Harm looked ready to run. The poor girl
caught in the middle was growing green around the
gills. With a mildly disgusted glance at her partner,
she stepped forward and offered her hand and a smile. 



“Alanna, it’s so nice to meet you. I’m Sarah
MacKenzie.” 



“Sarah.” In an admirably quick recovery, she seized
Mac’s hand as her last salvation. “Hi, it’s good to
meet you too.” 



“So, you two know each other,” Keeter commented in a
deceptively bland tone, looking from Harm to Alanna
with a dangerous glint in his eye. 



“Ah, yeah,” Harm said slowly. “We, ah, met a few years
ago when I was down in Pensacola renewing my flight
status after the crash. It – ” 



“Well, isn’t that just dandy?” Making no further
effort to cover his anger, Keeter crossed his arms and
scowled ferociously. “I guess I didn’t have to worry
whether you would get along, did I?” 



Alanna narrowed her eyes, showing the tip of her
temper as well. “Jack, that was almost ten years ago.
And not that I have to justify anything to you, but
nothing happened! We met one night at a club – ” 



“I don’t think I want to hear the details,” he ground
out stubbornly, all but growling when Harm shifted
from one foot to the other. 



Silence descended again, in which Keeter ground his
teeth, Harm gazed at the floor, and Alanna gripped
Mac’s hand like grim death. It was a bad movie come to
life. Accustomed to cleaning up Harm’s messes, Mac
pasted on another smile and glanced warningly at
Keeter. “Why don’t we sit down and catch up a bit?” 



Because no one seemed to know what else to do, they
trailed after her and took their seats. While the men
glared steadily across the table, sizing each other up
like crude beasts, the women exchanged a few token
pleasantries, pretending not to notice the tension
radiating from their companions. 



“So, Alanna, I know you were in the Navy and that
you’ve been civilian out of Pensacola for awhile. What
do you do there?” 



Jumping at the distraction, she answered quickly, “I’m
in jet propulsion and aeronautical physics. Basically,
we test different chemical compounds to see how well
they oxidize and determine the effect on the jets of
the runoff. It’s the test pilots like Jack who work
the hardest,” she insisted at Mac’s fascinated
_expression. With transparent admiration and a mute
plea for forgiveness in her eyes, she looked up at her
fiancé. “They’re taking a risk every time they go up
with new fuel mixtures and gas equipment, no matter
how many lab tests we run beforehand.” 



“Sounds like pretty intricate work,” Mac decided,
suitably impressed. “Did you always know you wanted to
be a chemist on such a grand scale?” 



The other woman chuckled self-deprecatingly. “Oh, no.
Actually, right up until the defense of my thesis, I
was sure I should’ve gone to flight school. It was the
eye exam that decided my fate. But I’m very happy
where I’ve ended up.” The last was said with another
hopeful sidelong glance at the man still mulishly
ignoring her. 



“Wow,” Harm murmured, finally breaking away from
Keeter’s fulminating gaze. “You’ve sure come a long
way. I think last time we met you were still in
correspondence classes off the Eisenhower.” 



Though she knew, deep down, he’d only meant the
comment as a friendly gesture to attempt a second
ice-breaking, Mac could’ve kicked her partner for
making such an obvious blunder. Then worried she’d
have to keep his buddy from doing just that. 



“Well,” Keeter said shortly after draining the rest of
his beer in one gulp. “I guess some of us have more
catching up to do than others.” Dividing his glare
between Alanna and Harm, he rose abruptly and held out
a hand. “Mac, care for a dance?” 



Swallowing her surprise, she prepared to decline.
Until she saw the look of helpless frustration in his
eyes and her heart melted. “Yes, I would.” 



They made their way to the middle of the dance floor,
where Keeter half-heartedly took her in his arms and
swayed distractedly to the music. Mac let him wallow
for a few moments, then clucked her tongue and pinched
him to get his attention. 



“John Henry Keeter, what do you think you’re doing?” 



He stared down at her, incredulous and offended.
“*Me*? What am *I* doing? They’re the ones who . . .
who . . . What the hell do you mean what am *I*
doing?” 



She shook her head with maternal affection. After two
days in The Big Desert, she’d felt like she’d known
him her whole life, and they’d both been
half-convinced she’d been put on the planet solely to
boss him around, and he to give her a hard time. This
sibling-like dynamic had carried over into every
conversation they’d had since and had been firmly in
place that night from the second he’d hugged her. 



“Jack, you know them,” she argued calmly. “If they say
nothing happened, then nothing happened. They met
once, a long time ago, and it doesn’t mean anything
anymore, if it ever did in the first place. You can’t
hold it against them.” 



“Watch me,” he countered, resentful and petulant. “It
obviously meant enough that they both remember each
other after how many years. What the hell am I
supposed to think about that?” 



She fixed him with a stern _expression. “You know
better than that. Aren’t you the one who once told me
you remember every pretty girl you ever met?” He had
the grace to look chagrined. “As I recall, you made it
through the list all the way to junior high before I
had to muzzle you with my scarf.” 



That dragged a reluctant chuckle from him, as she’d
hoped it would. 



“The way I see it,” she explained, “Harmon Rabb has
put the moves on about half the eligible women in the
free world. And you’ve got at least the other half and
probably some of his under your belt. Those pools are
bound to collide once in awhile. But *you’re* the one
she’s marrying, and the one she’s watching, looking
about as pissed off and jealous as you did five
minutes ago.” 



When he craned his neck around to check, Mac stepped
on his foot. 



“Hey!” 



“Don’t *look,*” she admonished. “Play it a little
closer to the vest, man. You can let ‘em sweat it out
a little.” 



He heaved a sigh and cast dejected eyes to the floor.
“I don’t know about this, Mac,” he confessed with
uncharacteristic uncertainty, and her heart went out
to him. “I don’t want to be standing in church with
Harm next to me, wondering if it’s me or him she’s
lookin’ at when she walks up the aisle.” 



At that, Mac reached up and tugged his ear with just
enough force to make him wince. “Jack, if you think
for a second that girl is going to be looking at
anyone but you for the rest of her life, you’re crazy.
I haven’t known her ten minutes, and it’s obvious to
me she loves you.” 



With a gentle smile, she continued. “And so does Harm.
This is hard on them too, and if you could see their
faces right now like I can, you’d know just how bad
they feel.” 



Again, he turned toward their table, and again she
trod on his big foot. “Subtlety, John Henry,” she
reminded with a grin that took the sting out of her
next remark. “Now listen, you know you’re going to get
past this sooner or later – you care about both of
them too much not to. So why not save yourself the
angst and do it now, and have fun tonight instead of
letting everyone be miserable until you get your head
out of your ass?” 



He watched her for a long minute before breaking into
his old grin and hugged her so hard her feet came off
the ground. “I like the way you think, Sarah,” he
chuckled against her hair. Setting her down, he
tweaked her nose lightly, then kissed her on it. “I’m
happy he found you,” he told her simply, eyes shining
with humor and fondness. 



“So am I, most of the time. Come on, let’s go put them
out of their misery.” 



As soon as they got back to the table, Keeter wrapped
his arm around Alanna’s shoulders and drew her in for
a sloppy kiss on the cheek. She smiled and relaxed
immediately against him, relief and gratitude in her
gaze. Keeter’s glance to Harm was still a little wary,
but much warmer than it had been before his talk with
Mac. 



“I’m buying the next round,” he announced. “Hammer,
what’ll you have?” 



Harm grinned, jumping at the offer. “Whatever you’re
having, Keeter. Thanks.” 



“Mac?” 



“A ginger ale, please.” 



“You got it, sugar. I’ll have the waiter bring it by.
Alanna and I are gonna go dance.” 



Alanna lifted an eyebrow at his presumptuousness even
as she rose to follow him. “Whatever you say, dear,”
she agreed dryly, too happy to have him back to normal
to complain. 



Mac watched them leave with a serene smile; it faded
when Harm turned to her expectantly. Just as he opened
his mouth to thank her, to promise her anything in the
world in return for calming Keeter down, she shot him
a glare and rolled her eyes in distaste. 



“I can’t believe you,” she declared with cool
matter-of-factness. 



“Wha – Mac!” he whined, blindsided by her anger. “What
did I do now? If Keeter’s not mad at me anymore, how
can you be?” 



“Because,” she insisted, “you’re just . . .
unbelievable! Your habit of hitting on anything with a
uterus has gotten you into trouble before, but this
takes the cake. Do you have any idea how much this
upset Jack, or how embarrassed Alanna was?” 



“Yes! Damnit, Mac, I was just as embarrassed as she
was. And I’m not as emotionally retarded as you think
I am, you know. You don’t think I feel awful about
this whole thing?” 



She only continued to frown at him in a cross sort of
pout that told Harm there was light at the end of the
tunnel. When Mac didn’t fight back, he knew she wasn’t
really angry and just needed an excuse to set her bad
feelings aside. 



“Come on, Mac,” he coaxed. “It was eight years ago,
for one night, at a noisy bar crowded with sailors. We
danced a little, had a few drinks, that was it. I
hadn’t even met you yet – ” 



Wait a minute. That sounded suspiciously like
something he’d have said to a girlfriend, and it
didn’t really fit the current nature of his
relationship with Mac. But saying it made him feel
better, so he decided not to worry too much. 



Still scowling, she glanced at him briefly, then
turned her gaze to the tabletop. “You don’t even like
brunettes,” she mumbled sullenly. 



Ah, so that was the problem, he thought merrily. Sarah
MacKenzie was jealous. 



“Actually . . .” He reached over to tug on a lock of
her hair. “Brunettes are my favorite.” 



She brushed his hand away and crinkled her brow.
“Don’t try buttering me up now.” But he caught the
hint of a smile she bit her cheeks against. 



Undeterred, he walked his fingers from her shoulder
into the crook of her neck, pressed down to tickle.
She choked back a giggle and clamped her ear to her
shoulder, trapping his hand between. “Quit it, ass
wipe!” 



“Only if you dance with me,” he bargained digging his
fingers in a little further and launching a sneak
attack with his other hand. She twisted crazily as he
tickled her sides, no longer able to hold back her
laughter. 



“Okay, okay!” she squealed, grabbing his hands to fend
him off. “I give up – you’re impossible.” 



“And you can’t be mad at me anymore,” he added,
wiggling his fingers threateningly when she remained
silent. 



“All right, I won’t be mad at you.” Her eye roll was
as genuine as her smile. “Come on, then, let’s go.” 



The evening flowed smoothly from there. Between drinks
and healthy bites of grilled appetizers, they danced,
reminisced, and discussed wedding plans. Keeter pulled
Mac onto the dance floor three more times and didn’t
object at the last, when Harm followed with Alanna in
tow. 



After an hour or so, they settled into real
conversation, which, with three former pilots at the
table, turned inevitably to aerodynamics. Mac kept up
for awhile – she hadn’t spent six years with Harm for
nothing, after all – then smiled and nodded. Just as
her eyes began to glaze over, Alanna turned to her
with an apologetic smile. 



“Sarah, we must be boring you to death with all this
shop talk.” 



“Don’t worry about it,” Mac replied easily, deflecting
Harm’s glance with a grin. “I was actually with you up
until you threw in the long division. You guys go
ahead – I’ve gotta excuse myself for a minute anyway.
Anybody need anything while I’m up?” 



Keeter and Harm shook empty beer bottles at her;
Alanna motioned to her half-full martini and shook her
head. Mac gave Harm a friendly shove and slipped out
of the booth behind him. He hooked his finger with
hers in silent good-bye before sitting back down. 



When she hadn’t returned ten minutes later, the back
of his neck began to prickle unpleasantly. Alanna and
Keeter broke off their conversation when they realized
he’d fallen silent. 



“Looks like Mac found an admirer or two,” Alanna’s
voice was mild as she nodded to the bar, but she cut a
knowing look at the man across from her. 



Harm pivoted frantically in his seat, his gaze landing
on his partner almost immediately. She looked
positively tiny standing at the bar surrounded by a
boisterous group of middle-aged men, most of whom were
tall and running to fat. Mac had already turned back
toward their table, only to be stayed by the hearty
protests at her leaving that had signaled all to
congregate around her, blocking her path. Smiling
politely, good-naturedly refusing repeated offers to
buy her a drink, she sidled carefully through the
crowd, only to discover two men before her for every
one she passed. 



“Thassa very nice shirt,” a balding banker-type
wearing a polo shirt and a wedding ring slurred in her
ear. 



As unobtrusively as possible, Mac backed away with
matter-of-fact thanks. Bald-Polo was not so easily
dissuaded, however, and reached out to touch the
fabric at her shoulder. Harm shot out of the booth at
the movement and strode furiously over to the bar,
swearing that if the prick so much as brushed Mac’s
skin he’d never see that finger again. With the
confidence of a pleasant buzz and the security of
Keeter – and Mac if it came to that – at his back, he
was ready to take on any man who dared to breathe on
what was his. 



Though he didn’t make it in time to prevent her
getting pawed by Bald-Polo, he saw with some relief
that Mac had worked the gesture to her advantage and
now stood at the outside of the little party, poised
to make her escape. Never one to miss a chance at
playing Superman, however, he swooped in to inflict
what damage he could on the nasty perverts still
trying to get their game on. 



“Hey, baby.” Congratulating himself on the smoothness
and suavity of the move, he grabbed the beer bottles
from her with one hand and wrapped the other arm
around her in an undeniable sign of possession,
drawing her away from the blubbering hoard and staring
down anyone who stepped too close. “What do you say
you let a real man show you how to dance?” 



He was just sober enough to be grateful her back was
to the others when she rolled her eyes at him in
indulgent exasperation. “Ohhh, sweetums,” she drawled,
leaning into him with exaggerated coyness. “Would you
really do that for little old me?” 



His growl was pitched just loud enough for her to
hear. The arm around her shoulders tightened in
warning. “Excuse us, *gentlemen,*” he sneered,
grinning smugly when they groaned their
disappointment. 



Detouring only to drop the beers off at their table,
where Keeter and Alanna were, for some reason,
laughing hysterically, he dragged her onto the dance
floor and jerked her against him, absently holding her
close while he watched over her shoulder to make sure
the idiots in the corner didn’t get any ideas. 



“Very impressive, Harmon,” she said in a tone that
implied just the opposite. Truthfully, she was more
amused than upset. A jealous Harm was always an
interesting sight, and Harm jealous and drunk was
usually pretty entertaining. At the risk of
counteracting women’s rights initiatives across the
country, she had to admit the caveman routine could be
a little exciting every once in a while. 



“That was pathetic.” At the memory of Bald-Polo’s
hands on her, he pulled her closer and ran his palms
down her arms, determined to erase the image. 



“I’ll say,” she agreed with a wistful sigh. “In my
heyday, those would’ve been frat boys, not their dads
and grandpas.” 



“You’re not helping,” he sulkily informed her as he
lifted her hands and set them behind his neck. 



“Oh, Harm, they were perfectly harmless. Don’t forget,
I was born and raised handling drunk men. I was more
than holding my own when you burst onto the scene.” 



He snorted an eloquent opinion of that. “Whatever.
Crusty old tools. What the hell did they think they
were doing?” 



More out of desire to torment him than from any real
offense, she raised an eyebrow and smacked him lightly
on the chest. “You don’t know what they were doing
hitting on me? Thanks a lot, Harm.” 



Coming to realize he was digging himself a hole from
which there was no safe escape, he squirmed and
executed a strategic retreat. “Can we talk about this
in the morning?” Then, in a mercurial shift of mood
typical of him when tipsy, he lowered his arms to her
hips and nuzzled closer, all at once pleased as could
be to hold her while she wore the pixie skirt and
flower top and smelled like moonlight and breathed
quiet and warm into the vee of his shirt. “This is
nice,” he murmured hazily, closing his eyes and
letting it seep in. 



“Mmm-hmm.” She settled her forehead into the hollow of
his shoulder and smelled the comforting mix of his
aftershave, deodorant and body heat. If the music
hadn’t stopped, she could’ve spent the rest of the
night just so. 



When the bassist announced the band was taking five
before its last set, they separated, suddenly too
embarrassed to meet each other’s eyes. For a moment,
Harm looked as if he wanted to say something, but with
a bashful shrug, simply guided her back to their table
and took his place beside her. 



Any awkwardness was briskly dispensed with, however,
in the face of Keeter’s merciless teasing of both.
“Mac, you sure are a hunk-magnet,” he proclaimed with
relish. “I don’t know why you didn’t go after that guy
with the comb-over. He was a stone fox. And Harm, I
don’t think I’ve seen you move that fast since we got
busted Saran-wrapping Professor Gilman’s Porsche – ” 



At that point, Alanna cut in with a few choice
selections of Keeter’s Most Outrageous Moments and the
tables were neatly turned. For the next half hour, the
men traded tales, trying to best the other’s
recollection and recounting of pranks and schemes
instigated at the Academy and flight school as the
women listened with laughter – genuine for those
stories they’d never heard before, affectionate for
those they had. When the band wrapped up and the
lights came on, all were sorry to see the evening end.




Keeter and Alanna had walked from their hotel and
intended to taxi back, but Mac insisted on driving
them. 



“Please, you’d be doing me a favor, really,” she said,
addressing Alanna who, being Irish and by nature a
light drinker was far more rational a subject than her
groom, who had wandered over to commiserate with Harm
on the evils of computer-manned aircraft. “We brought
the Lexus just for this, and I love to drive it but
never get the chance.” 



“Well . . .” She was interrupted by the sound of the
men butchering a sailor’s hornpipe, looking as if
nothing short of death could part the hold they had
around each other’s necks. With an arch grin, she
agreed. “If you’re sure you don’t mind, I’d really
appreciate it.” 



The women shared a commiserating glance, acknowledging
 evident female superiority, and went to collect their
dates. 



Harm and Keeter agreed to the plan whole-heartedly
and, with a lot of shoving and slobbering, got
themselves to the car in one piece. The drive to the
hotel took only a few minutes, and, as the street was
fairly deserted at so late an hour, everyone got out
of the car to say their good-byes. 



“Sarah, it was so good to meet you,” Alanna sighed,
pulling her into a quick hug. “I’d heard so much about
you, but it didn’t come close to the real thing. Thank
you for what you did tonight. I hope Jack and I will
have what you and Harm do a few years down the road.” 



Mac started to correct the mistake, but something in
the other woman’s eyes told her it wasn’t necessary.
With a shy smile, she answered diplomatically, “I
think you and Jack will have everything you want. It
was good to meet you too, I can’t wait for the
wedding. Have a safe trip to Boston.” 



They waited patiently while the men finished their
macho back-slapping and head-butting. When Keeter
looked over with a gleam in his eye and charged, Mac
knew she was in trouble. 



Growling like a lion, he snatched her up and held her
at eye-level, grinned brashly at her squeak of
surprise. “Good bye, Sarah my love,” he cried
passionately. “I’d beg you to leave that sorry bastard
behind and run away with me, but I’m a taken man now.”




She giggled in delight. “You certainly are, Jack. I
know when I’m beaten. I’m so happy for you,” she said
earnestly. Then, because she knew he was nervous about
meeting Alanna’s entire family, added, “Have fun in
Boston. They’re going to love you.” 



“Thanks, darlin’. Take care of yourself now, and stay
out of trouble.” With a sweet smile, he pulled her in
for a hug. 



“You too, Jack. Be good.” 



“Always,” he promised with a drunkenly dashing wiggle
of eyebrows. “Come on, baby,” he bellowed, turning to
Alanna. “Let’s go see what kind of room service we can
scare up.” 



Harm and Mac climbed back into the car with a few last
farewells and strict instructions to call Harm’s
apartment if they needed anything before they left the
next day. 



Companionable silence ensued as they headed toward
Alexandria. Mac was just about sure he’d fallen
asleep, when he began muttering something, gazing out
the window with an agitated frown. For some reason,
this struck her as absolutely adorable, and she bit
back a smile and left him to it. 



“ . . . Sarah.” 



“Yes?” she replied absently, skimming through a yellow
light. 



“Keeter calls you ‘Sarah.’” He sounded grouchy and had
crossed his arms obstinately over his chest. 



Shooting him a curious glance, she wondered where he
was going with this. “Yes, he does sometimes. That’s
my name, you know.” 



“That’s dumb,” he insisted, scowling fiercely and
huddling into the corner of the seat like a stubborn
little boy. “I like you more than he does, and I don’t
call you Sarah.” 



She smiled encouragingly, deciding accommodation was
the best tactic. “You can if you want.” 



In response, he huffed and rolled his eyes with such
zeal she had to swallow a laugh. “No, Mac.” He
launched into his explanation as slowly and patiently
as if she’d been the one who was drunk, gesturing with
exaggerated care. “I wanna call you Sarah when *I*
wanna call you Sarah. Keeter doesn’t get to decide.
That way when I say ‘Sarah,’ you know it’s because I
wanna say ‘Sarah.’” 



“Oh, I see,” she replied with a sage nod, totally
lost. There was something strangely endearing in the
drunken ramble that she set aside to puzzle out later.




Satisfied he’d convinced her, Harm crowed with glee.
“Good! Tell Keeter next time.” 



“Will do.” 



Problem solved, his brain moved on to other matters.
“You liked Alanna,” he observed contentedly. 



“I did. She’s very open and kind. And I like her sense
of humor. She’s a good match for Jack.” 



“And you’re not mad at me anymore, right?” Without
waiting for an answer, he babbled on, slurring and
uncharacteristically chatty. “I met her a long time
ago, you know. We just talked one night at a bar. I
remembered her because she was tall and had a weird
name and was so into jets. She has blue eyes too. I
used to like blue eyes, you know.” 



“Really?” she commented, feigning surprise at the
insight. It was a fact she’d figured out long ago;
Annie, Jordan, Kate and Renee all had big, simpering
blue eyes. 



“Yeah. I like brown eyes best now.” 



Though her focus was on the road, she could feel him
turn to watch her and stuck her tongue in her cheek.
“Do you?” 



“Mmm-hmm . . .” When she said nothing more, he
elaborated, making sure she understood the compliment.
“You’ve got brown eyes, Mac.” 



She made a show of checking her blind spot to hide her
grin. This was simply too cute to endure with a
straight face. “I sure do, Harm. But honestly, I like
blue better myself.” 



He mulled this over for a minute, worried his charm
had been too subtle. Then, with an arrogant grin of
discovery, he recalled, “I’ve got blue eyes, you
know.” 



With sham astonishment, she turned to verify the
claim, smiled affectionately at the droopy eyes in
question. “Sure enough.” 



“Sing me a song,” he wheedled with boyish eagerness,
his attention again rapidly and unaccountably
diverted. “A Russian drinking song.” 



This was one of Harm’s favorite games when he was
drunk or punchy with exhaustion. There was something
soothing and endlessly entertaining to him in hearing
both music and a foreign language in her voice. It was
one of Mac’s favorite games too, as she could usually
switch roles on him with little trouble. 



“No, you sing me a song,” she countered easily. “One
of your Irish ones.” 



Without any false modesty or humble protestations
whatsoever, he opened his mouth and complied. He chose
the melancholy “Raglund Road,” but sang it with such
cheerfulness, she forgot it was about lost love and
chuckled because he performed in a thick Irish brogue
while leaning across the console between their seats
and gazing up at her with utmost sincerity. He was
still singing when they pulled up in front of his
building. 



At the conclusion of this impromptu recital and upon
giving the singer his requisite – and not unsolicited
– praise, Mac stepped from the car and went around to
assist her friend. She wrapped her arm around his
waist to help him onto the elevator – thankfully in
working order for once – and into his apartment. It
wasn’t really necessary; he seemed to be managing all
right. But it was a good feeling to hold him as close
as she wanted, under the safe guise of support. 



He had only a small mishap with his keys before they
got inside. Immediately, he trudged to the couch,
flopping down with arms spread and legs propped
heavily on the coffee table. His chest heaved in a
monumental groan that was both relaxation and regret –
he would definitely be feeling this one tomorrow. 



With a sympathetic snort, Mac followed and perched on
the table beside his feet. Matter-of-factly, she began
untying his shoes. 



“Mac, don’t!” He sounded so appalled she instinctively
jerked back. Rather than explaining, he assumed the
task himself with more vigor than success. When he
chanced a quick glimpse at her, his _expression was so
fearful and ashamed, she could only stare at him,
dumbfounded. 



“I’m not *that* drunk, Sarah,” he mumbled as he yanked
off his right shoe and dumped it under the couch. 



His use of her first name, if nothing else, revealed
the reason for his sudden distress. It reminded her
that one of the only things she’d ever told him about
her childhood was the way her father had come home
drunk and screamed for her to take off his shoes. 



“Harm.” Gently, she covered the large hands still
fumbling at his left shoe with her own. She waited
until he looked at her before continuing. “I could
never think anything like that.” But she was
unbelievably touched that he could, especially in his
present state. “It’s okay.” And to show him it was,
she removed the remaining shoe and placed it beside
its mate. 



He watched her thoughtfully for a minute, then gave a
half-smile and squeezed her hand. 



“It’s almost 3:30,” she noted, rising with a yawn. “I
should take off.” 



He stood surprisingly fast and grabbed for her. “No,
stay.” 



She wanted to. Despite the perils of a night on his
unforgiving sofa and the walk of shame awaiting her in
the morning, she really wanted to. Uncertainly, she
glanced over her shoulder at the door. 



“Please, Mac,” he wheedled, already pulling her
towards the bedroom. “It’s too late – I’ll just worry.
And if I walk you down to your car now, I don’t think
I’ll make it back up.” 



It was the right card to play. With a soft smile, she
gave in. “If you’re sure you don’t mind.” 



“I’m sure,” he answered vehemently almost before the
words were out of her mouth. “Hold on, I’ll get you
something to sleep in.” 



A minute later, a huge grey t-shirt and a pair of
boxers flew out at her. “You’re safe out there,” Harm
called reassuringly from the loft. “I’ve gotta brush
my teeth and stuff.” 



In the bathroom, Harm splashed cold water on his face
and looked in the mirror as rarely as possible. He
scrubbed his teeth and tongue as hard as he could,
cursing himself for breathing the smell of alcohol
over Mac all night. Insensitive asshole. Somehow, it
was harder to be a merry drunk in the familiar bright
lights of his own home. 



When he returned to the kitchen in a fresh t-shirt and
pair of underwear of his own, he found Mac at the
fridge, a tall glass of orange juice and an even
taller one of water standing, threatening, on the
counter beside her. He groaned pitifully at the sight;
his back teeth were already floating – he didn’t think
he’d ever be thirsty again. 



“You’ll thank me in the morning,” she promised wisely.




Because he knew he would, and had in the past, Harm
obediently started on the juice. Mac went to the
living room and cracked a window, then hung her
clothes on a chair beside it, figuring even the night
air of Alexandria had to be better than the smell of
stale bar that now permeated them. 



“I’m gonna go brush my teeth,” she announced, checking
to make sure the front door was locked before she
climbed the stairs. 



Once he heard the sink running, Harm peeked furtively
at the glass blocks of the bathroom wall and lifted
his water over the sink. He estimated he could ditch
about half of it and still fulfill the spirit of his
assignment . . . 



“Don’t even think about it, Harmon Rabb!” 



A muffled curse was his only response, but he set the
full glass dutifully back on the counter and finished
his juice. Damn woman had eyes in the back of her
head, he groused silently. And x-ray vision on top of
it. 



In the bathroom, Mac snickered to herself as she dug
out one of the spare toothbrushes Harm kept in his
towel cabinet. His famous 33-second attempt, as she
liked to call it, foiled again. Sometimes, it was just
too easy. 



She went back to the living room to find Harm’s good
humor restored, if the dopey grin on his face was any
indication. Because he seemed to be staring at nothing
in particular, some inebriated musing or other must be
responsible. 



“Looks like you’ll have some good dreams tonight,” she
noted fondly. 



“Definitely. What are you doing?” He frowned when she
grabbed a pillow from the chair and tossed it on the
couch. 



“Going to sleep.” 



He leaned over and threw the pillow back into place.
“Aw, we can share the bed.” With an engaging grin, he
added, “Don’t worry, Mackie, I’m too tanked to bother
ya – I’ll be passed out in ten minutes.” 



“You make it sound so inviting,” she drawled with an
arched brow and a playful smile, remembering another
time he’d invited her to sleep with him in nearly so
enchanting a manner. 



His smirk told her he remembered as well. “You want an
invitation?” 



No sooner had she nodded than he came at her with arms
open wide and scooped her up, one arm behind her
shoulders and the other around her knees so that he
held her diagonally across his body. 



She shrieked and latched her hands around his neck.
“Harm, what are you doing?” 



Leering down at her with piratical arrogance, he
declared, “You’re too pretty to walk to bed.” Then
proceeded to carry her toward the steps. 



Mac giggled at the thrill and tightened her hold.
“You’ll topple us both!” she protested dramatically,
making no effort to stop him from doing so. 



“I certainly will not.” With the feigned stiffness of
offended dignity, he stumbled to the kitchen, knocked
the light switch with his forearm, and staggered up
the steps. Both of them laughing, he dropped her onto
the bed and dove in on top of her. She wiggled them
under the covers and settled in contentedly when
pulled her against his chest. 



Though she knew her hair must’ve smelled like
cigarettes and cheap beer, Harm nestled his chin on
top of her head without complaint. Laughter wore into
a muted glow of comfort that surrounded them. Sighing
with satisfaction, she burrowed closer and closed her
eyes. 



This is new, she reminded herself, even as he curled
around her in a move that felt familiar, perfect. So
new, but somehow not unexpected. Though she wouldn’t
have imagined when she’d first knocked on his door
that she’d be spending the night in his arms, ending
the day this way seemed an oddly natural conclusion.
Things between them lately had changed, in a way that
was more like sliding into place than falling out of
it. 



Affectionate gestures were the most obvious sign, and
at times, the most dazzling. For years she had longed
for the freedom of his body, and her own, to stroke
and tease and hold. Had wondered what it might be like
to ruffle his hair, clasp his fingers. The smallest
touches had, for so long, sustained her, dissolved
her, and as their frequency decreased over time, their
effect had only been amplified so that, when he’d
begun touching her regularly, purposefully, she’d been
all but deluged by the tides of shock, fascination,
and yearning that rose in the wake. But the gestures
hadn’t blinded her to the recent changes in Harm
himself. 



Not long ago, she would have given anything to get him
to really see her, to take the time to look. Now, it
seemed he couldn’t get enough of doing so, with eyes
so deep they seemed lost. The shock and worry, even
the desire, within them she recognized. But there was
something else now too, dark and patient and tender,
waiting for her in his gaze. 



It needed to be addressed, eventually. But Mac had
resolved not to bring it up until absolutely
necessary. Part of her was terrified that this new
closeness wasn’t being secretly cultivated by both,
that Harm was, in fact, entirely oblivious of what he
was doing and, once made aware of it, would draw away,
leaving them distant as ever. It was a chance she
wouldn’t take, she promised herself as she cuddled
into his chest. Not while hot geysers of desire
spurted from her center to her limbs at every touch,
leaving warm rivers of contentment in their path. Not
while she could pretend, for a little longer, that
things were finally working out the way she’d always
wanted them to. 



Her thoughts had just carried her under the first thin
veil of slumber when Harm started a little, locked his
arms more firmly around her. “You won’t leave, will
you, Sarah?” 



Imperceptibly, she pressed a kiss above his heart and
slipped her leg between his. “I won’t leave.” 



Three minutes later, his gentle snoring lulled her to
sleep. 

 



He awoke to the soft sounds of puttering in the
kitchen, feeling like something hit by a tractor and
left on the road to die. Cotton wove thick in his
mouth, its loom creaking and crashing inside his head.
At the feeble groan that escaped him, he got a whiff
of his own breath and nearly gagged at the stale, sour
scent. 



‘Please God,’ he thought as he rolled to the floor and
lurched to the bathroom. ‘Don’t let Mac have smelled
that this morning.’ 



Even as he winced from the glare of light reflected
off of mirror and porcelain, he caught signs of her
presence. Her pajamas, folded neatly atop his hamper,
a damp towel hanging on the bar above the toilet, the
shower door closed where he usually left it ajar.
Though he ached with misery, the sight smoothed
something over his heart. 



Once he reached the sink, he turned the cold water on
full blast and stuck his head under the faucet. Then
brushed his teeth twice and gargled three times with
Listerine. After a long hot shower and another go with
the mouthwash, he felt almost human again. Throwing on
a fresh t-shirt and jeans, he padded barefoot to the
kitchen. 



She’d left a glass of ice water and three aspirin on
the counter for him; there was coffee on the warmer
and bread in the toaster. He looked around to thank
her . . . and froze in his tracks. 



She stood gazing out the window, leaning lightly
against the pane. Sunlight bounced around her, through
the pale blouse and wispy skirt. She glowed with it,
beckoned. He was simply helpless to resist. 



Reasoning, *knowing,* she would tense and pull away,
that he should expect nothing else, couldn’t compare
to the need roaring through him. There was desire, of
course – with Mac, there was always desire, no matter
how carefully disguised – but more too, something
painful and frightening eating at him, laughing at
him. It lathered and seethed in his gut, taunting him
with the knowledge that, if he didn’t get to her soon,
get to her and just touch her, hold her, something
inside would be irreparably shattered. 



He didn’t realize he’d moved until he found himself
behind her. All but trembling in relief, he wrapped
her in his arms carefully, gently. Squeezed his eyes
shut and breathed her in to battle back the ominous
tide of emptiness within. Here, at last, he was safe. 




She felt small in his arms, delicate like the fairy
her clothes brought to mind, but strong and enduring
as well, her own unique contrast. Spreading a hand
wide over her belly, drawing her back against him, he
dropped his chin to her shoulder and sunk. 



‘Mine,’ he thought, delirious, overwhelmed with
possession and protectiveness. *Mine.* 



Mac had, at first, been unable to move. Then she was
too afraid, dreading that anything larger than a
breath would break the spell that wound so vividly
around them. This, she knew, was no simple grasp of
the wrist, no brush of the hand. This was beauty,
indulgence, and savage restraint intertwined, nearly
indistinguishable. The desperation in him was
tangible, scraping at her back, boiling under her
hands when she finally dared to wrap them around the
forearm clamped beneath her ribs. Arousal surged,
molten and heavy, through her veins – didn’t overpower
the flood of quiet comfort but somehow added to it,
fueled it. She leaned blindly into the embrace,
reveled in him, blazing and limp and renewed. 



In mild spurts of color, the world gradually filtered
back into place. Urgency ebbed and abated as his pulse
recovered, and he began rocking them imperceptibly. He
was no longer frantic or lonesome but hadn’t gotten
his fill of this new wonder and didn’t dare let her go
until he steadied. 



“Hi,” he whispered, and it was the most ordinary thing
in the world for his lips to brush her neck, her ear,
as he turned his head towards her. 



“Hi,” she replied, a bit shaky herself, crossing her
arms around his to hold in the warmth. “How you
feeling?” 



His head pounded fiercely; his stomach was in uproar.
He was standing at a window with Mac soft and pliant
in his arms. “Happy.” 



She held the word in her head, another gift for a
morning already full of them. In six years of asking
that question, Harm had never answered so perfectly. 



“What time is it?” His voice was a rumble vibrating
between them, his chin pleasantly scratchy in the
curve of her shoulder. 



She sighed and lingered in the sensations. “Ten
forty-seven.” 



“Mmm.” 



Minutes passed in the peaceful absence of ambition and
any hurry to start the day. 



“What are you doing today?” he asked idly, nuzzling
against her just a bit and sending a tremor of want
hurtling through her middle. 



Unconsciously, she tilted her head to allow him
greater access. “Ah . . . laundry at some point.
Grocery shopping. I bought a book last week that I
haven’t started . . . maybe a movie later.” 



He would not, he vowed, invite himself along. It would
be presumptuous, overbearing, clingy, impolite. Maybe
he could hint a little. 



“What kind of movie?” ‘Action, action, action,’ he
chanted, willing his thoughts to her mind. ‘Rental,
rental, rental.’ 



“Oh, you know, whatever’s out.” With a shrug, she
danced a fingernail through the hair on his arm.
“Something from the store – I don’t feel like going
out.” 



Inwardly, he rejoiced and commended his psychic
powers. Maybe he couldn’t tell time without a watch,
but there was hope for him yet. 



‘Ask me to go with you,’ he telegraphed intently. ‘Ask
me to go with you.’ 



“What are you up to?” 



Damn. Easy come, easy go. 



“Um, I dunno, just lying around I guess, till the
hang’er wears off. I should probably do some laundry
too.” He decided to hint a little harder. “The washers
downstairs are broken again.” 



Harm’s building had two ancient pairs of washer-dryers
in the murky, putrid basement that always
malfunctioned in tandem. When one washer broke, so did
the other; if a dryer was on the fritz, the second was
sure to follow. Luckily, not only did Harm’s primary
wardrobe consist of items that required dry cleaning,
but he had a large assortment of civvies and enough
spare boxer shorts to supply half the adult male
population of the Metro area. He could put off laundry
for as long as two months. 



“You just did laundry last weekend,” Mac pointed out,
and he could hear the frown of doubt in her voice. 



Shit, busted. “Um, I, um . . . I’m out of clean
underwear.” His brain flashed the red ‘mistake’ siren
the moment the words were out of his mouth. 



“You have 52 pair!”  



This was not an exaggeration. Because she sounded
distressed about it, he determined not to tell her
about the three-pack he’d picked up at Target two
Wednesdays ago to stave off the chore for a few more
days. 



“Well, I should probably wash my sheets.” Rabb, you
are a genius! He wrinkled his nose with suppressed
triumph. “They smell like smoke.” 



Whether she had forgotten about the six other sets of
sheets he had in the linen closet or just chosen not
to press him on it, he didn’t care. His hints had, at
last, come to fruition. 



“Okay. You could bring them to my place, if you want,”
she offered, and his eyes widened in disbelief when he
caught the trace of shy hesitation, as if she was
really unsure he wanted to spend the day with her. And
she’s supposed to be the brains of this operation, he
thought, fondly shaking his head. 



“I want,” he answered plainly, with an undertone of
suggestion that turned boyishly hopeful. “And we’ll
watch a movie?” 



One eye narrowed suspiciously, she half-turned to look
up at him. “Only if it’s something good.” 



He reared back, open-mouthed with mock affront. “I
have excellent taste, for your information. Who was it
who picked out ‘Best of Show’ and ‘Stolen Summer’?” 



Laughing incredulously, she whirled around and poked
him in the chest. “Who was it who conned me into
watching ‘Howard the Duck’ last month because you let
Bud convince you it was classic cinema?” 



“That movie was a work of art!” he defended
vehemently, lying through his teeth for the sake of
principle. 



“Oh-ho, now I know what to tell Harriet to get you for
Christmas! I pick the movie, sailor, and you bring
your own laundry detergent.” 



At the thought of a night stuck watching Brad Pitt or
George Clooney melt the socks off her feet, he decided
negotiation was his only option. It was something he
was quite good at, after all. “How about I pick three,
and you pick two of those, and I use your detergent
because I don’t have any.” 



She crossed her arms, playfully considering. “You pick
four, I’ll pick *one,* you use my detergent – even
though you used it last week and promised to buy more
– *and* you buy me ice cream at the grocery store.” 



Once he got Mac into Blockbuster, it was pretty much a
given he could convince her to rent two movies. And he
supposed he could swing for a half-gallon of ice cream
in return for the use of her appliances . . .
especially since he knew he could get her to help him
fold his stuff. 



“Done,” he pronounced briskly, sticking out his hand. 



Biting back a smile, she took it in a firm shake and
scowled for good measure. 



Forgetting about his headache, his queasy stomach, and
his gritty eyes, he grinned like the devil and erased
the scowl by bringing her hand to his lips and kissing
the knuckles lightly before breezing to the kitchen to
take his aspirin. 

 



An hour later, after lounging over breakfast, taking
their time collecting his dirty clothes, and stopping
off at Mac’s place so she could put on a pair of jeans
and a t-shirt, they set off for the grocery store. He
was grateful Mac had requested the Lexus for its cargo
space, as he suspected the low-riding, leg-crunching
Corvette would’ve made him more than a little carsick,
all things considered. He was even more grateful she’d
salvaged his macho pride by asking to drive; the
sunlight alone was almost enough to send him running
for cover. 



The nearest decent store was a Giant west of
Alexandria. Because it was noon, the aisles weren’t as
crowded as they might have been, given it was a
weekend. Harm stepped through the sliding doors with a
glint of excitement, Mac with a sigh of resignation.
While shopping for food was a sort of multidimensional
challenge for her partner, she was just as happy to
get in and out as quickly as possible. 



With a purposeful stride, he made for the produce
section, ready to play through the pain of his
hangover, all but rubbing his hands together in
anticipation. Mac hung back, dawdling to grab a cart
and examine the sales tables set up at the entrance,
knowing it could take him half an hour to pick out a
handful of whatever was in season. Thirty-six minutes
later, their journey but half complete, Mac conceded
defeat: there was no way she could get him out of
there within the hour. Their styles were just too
different. 



She was a buyer of habit built on impulse; she threw
into her cart what looked good and was reasonably
priced, and what she liked, she stuck with. Out of a
sudden yen for Corn Pops in Aisle 2, she’d broken her
tried-and-true rule against buying cereal from a
grocery store. This she considered enough supermarket
adventure for one outing. 



Harm, on the other hand, was methodical and tireless.
Selecting against stained and bruised fruit was just
the beginning. There were labels to be read, parent
company manufacturers and their locations to be
divined, metric measurements to be converted to
American for more thorough comparison. She had just
reorganized and front-faced five shelves of jams and
jellies while he puzzled out the loaf of bread that
would best meet her needs with the impenetrable focus
of a Zen master. Now they were stuck in the Mexican
section as he agonized over which salsa to choose.
After four and a half minutes of patiently waiting
behind the cart, she’d been rewarded when he narrowed
his options to three, each a different flavor of the
same brand. 



When he started making noises about sodium levels and
citric acid, she grabbed his biceps from behind and
laughed ruefully. It was either that or yank out her
hair. 



“Harm,” she groaned, beating her head against his back
and wishing it was a brick wall. “I give up. You pick
out whatever salsa you like and anything else that’s
going to take you longer than eight minutes at a
stretch to decide on. I’m going to the dairy aisle.
Meet me in frozen foods when you’re done, and you can
help me pick out an ice cream.” 



“Hmm?” Mildly surprised, he glanced over and gave her
an absent nod. “Okay, hon. Ice cream, ten minut – no,
fifteen, I promise.” He shifted aside as she pushed
the cart past, discarding one of the finalists on
principle because he hated the word ‘chipotle.’ 



Shaking her head benevolently, she tossed a pack of
sliced cheese, a case of pudding cups, and a few
yogurts into the basket, grabbed a half-gallon of skim
milk and two cartons of generic orange juice on sale,
and debated over the utility of cottage cheese,
ultimately deciding against it, all in less time than
it took Harm settle on Vegetable Medley Medium. 



Thirteen minutes later, proudly bearing the assigned
items, he wandered over to the freezer section. The
salsa was the least of his contributions – he had also
chosen for Mac a very fine brand of tortilla chip (low
in salt content, fried in canola oil), the variety bag
of mini-candy bars with the highest Krackle count
(he’d checked fourteen different packages), and a
dozen eggs (seven of which he’d had to trade from
other boxes in order to perfect the set). 



“Did you decide on one yet?” he asked, placing his
wares carefully in the cart and moving to stand beside
her. Both gazed thoughtfully at the freezer doors,
trying not to let their eyes rest too long on one
flavor in particular. 



“Nope.” *Yup.* But it was the kind they’d chosen last
week when they’d shared ice cream, and the two times
before that. She was afraid he’d find it overkill.
“What do you think?” 



He shrugged a little, not wanting to make his
preference so clear that she’d be obliged to choose
it. “You want something chocolate?” 



A withering glance was her only reply. 



“Dumb question.” Of course Mac wanted chocolate. “Do
you want . . .” he skimmed the assortment again . . .
“something with peanut butter?” 



She murmured non-committally. “I could be talked into
it, if you’re in the mood.” 



Not a very encouraging response, and hopefully one he
would never hear outside the grocery store. “Mint?” 



Another murmur, this one even less enthusiastic. 



He paused, then, convinced the appeal in his tone was
carefully masked, proposed, “Coffee?” 



“Hmmm . . .” Interested, she quirked an eyebrow and
slid closer. “What did you have in mind?” 



This was a good sign, he knew. Still, he tried to hide
his hope with a casual gesture. “Well, there’s that
espresso chip kind we got last time . . .” 



She lifted a shoulder with a vaguely agreeable
_expression and eager eyes. “Works for me, if you’d
like it.” 



“Yeah.” He attempted to sound as nonplussed as
possible. “That would be cool.” 



No sooner had the words left his mouth than, all but
tripping each other in their haste, they lunged for
the door. 

 



“Damn, this stuff is good,” he sighed blissfully as he
shoveled ice cream from the enormous bowl in front of
him into his mouth. 



“Mmm-hmm,” she agreed around a hearty mouthful. 



Purposefully, Harm kept his attention focused on the
opening credits of their first film. Mac was an ice
cream savorer. She heaped huge globs on her spoon,
then licked and nibbled away at them in so
unconsciously sexy a manner that watching her left him
half-crazy with desire. He had discovered this
literally the hard way on several occasions, and had
since vowed to forbid himself more than the tiniest
peek. Soon, much to his relief, he was aided in this
task by the movie, “Enigma,” which had an interesting
plot and was quite good for something he’d never even
heard of. 



Their afternoon had gone swimmingly once they’d gotten
into a line that actually progressed at the grocery
store – no mean feat, considering Mac’s characteristic
bad luck with that sort of thing, and Harm’s utter
indifference as to which line they were in as long as
it had a National Enquirer he could browse. They’d
returned to Mac’s place, where he’d put away her
groceries while she’d prepared her dirty laundry. An
alcove in the hallway outside her apartment held a
trio of stackable washer-dryers, and by merging their
things and sorting in threes, they’d managed to get
everything in at the same time. Mac dusted, read, and
gave her kitchen and bathroom a quick touch-up while
they waited; Harm took a nap on the couch and, in a
stroke of misfortune, woke up just in time to help
fold the clothes. He was convinced she’d given him the
load of colors to torment him with the sight and feel
of her lingerie and to better make fun of his
pit-stained white undershirts. If so, her mission had
been handsomely accomplished. They shared the folding
of their sheets and towels with an ease born of habit
and practice. 



Out of respect for his mending stomach, they’d had a
light, early supper of vegetable soup and cinnamon
toast, after which they walked down the street to the
local Blockbuster. 



“Enigma” finished out well, they decided after a brief
discussion, and an intermission was tacitly agreed
upon. Mac used the facilities and put on pajamas while
Harm washed their ice cream dishes and fiddled
ineffectually with her drippy faucet, making a note to
bring his wrench and a few spare washers the next time
he came over. 



The second movie was billed as a suspense/thriller,
and so, of course, had to be watched in the dark with
a handful of candles burning eerily at the far corners
of the living room. Harm’s purpose in choosing this
film was twofold: one, he’d been legitimately
interested in seeing it; two, it would give Mac an
excuse to curl close and keep him around after it was
done. Though she pretended to be as brave as the next
guy when it came to horror flicks, told him sternly at
the end of every one that it was only a movie, trying
to convince herself as well, he knew she was more
frightened than she’d ever let on. Once, after they’d
watched “The Candyman” on Sci-Fi while on assignment
at some hotel, he’d crept up behind her and thrust a
hooked hand around her throat. She’d body-slammed him
in a wicked flip he never saw coming, then chewed him
out for fifteen minutes because she was worried she
had really hurt him. 



When he returned to the front room, Mac keyed the tape
and fast-forwarded through the FBI warnings. She
stopped at the previews – they loved the previews –
and backed over to the sofa. Harm, already
strategically sprawled over two-thirds of the cushion
space, utilized his new favorite move, snagging her
slim waist to pull her down beside him. 



Already tense in anticipation of the movie, she gasped
and spun to face him, a little quizzical, but not
enough so to shift from his embrace. 



“You need a new sponge for your dishwand,” he murmured
off-handedly to distract her, wrapping his arm a
little tighter when she wasn’t looking. Then he nodded
to the screen, where the preview for an indy comedy
feature was playing. “We should see that one.” 



Reluctantly, she shifted her attention to the
television, little by little eased her head onto his
shoulder. “Maybe next time,” she answered, settling in
and sighing contentedly. 

 



By the conclusion of the movie, she was sitting ramrod
straight at the edge of the couch and had inched her
way so close to Harm she was nearly in his lap. He
watched her with amusement when he could tear his eyes
from the film, which had him almost as tense as it did
his partner. 



She didn’t wait for the credits that ran in eerie
silence, but stopped the video and flipped to a sitcom
rerun, more for the comfort of noise than for
entertainment. 



“Could you believe that ending?” he asked, cheerfully
incredulous. “I thought that guy was dead meat.” 



Mac stuck out her chin and took a deep breath. “It’s
just a movie, Harm,” she informed him determinedly.
“Honestly, I didn’t think it was all that scary.” 



Because she wrung her hands and checked the dark
corners of the apartment as she said it, he decided to
play along and nodded sagely. “Oh. I guess you saw
through it faster than I did. But you’re always better
at that sort of thing.” 



Hiding a grin in his shoulder, he gave her knee a
congratulatory pat and stood up. 



Before he could take more than a step, she bolted out
of her seat and landed so close to him he had to catch
her elbows to keep her from stumbling. “Wh-where are
you going?” 



Feigning surprise at the question, he turned wide eyes
innocently from her face to the front door and back.
“I’m going home, Mac,” he explained as though it were
obvious – which actually it was. “It’s late, and I’m
pretty beat.” 



The alarm in her eyes was visible even by candlelight.
He couldn’t resist reaching over to smooth away a
stray section of bangs that blocked his view. 



“Oh.” That stymied her for a moment, but she was quick
to recover. “But I’m already in my pajamas and . . .
and everything. I don’t really feel like going out
again tonight.” 



He watched, waiting for the inanity of the statement
to hit her. After ten seconds without a reaction, he
frowned thoughtfully, as if considering the matter. 



“Well now, you see, Mac, you live here,” he reminded
her patiently. “So you wouldn’t have to come with me
when I go home.” 



“My car’s at your place.” 



Ah, he’d forgotten that handy detail. It only
furthered his cause. Brilliant. 



“You’re right.” He frowned harder to mask the glow of
triumph in his eyes. “Well, I suppose I could just
bring it back tomorrow sometime.” 



“But that would leave me here without a car all
night,” she protested quickly, shaking her head at the
impossibility of the notion. “What if I need something
later on?” 



She’d just said she didn’t want to go out anymore, but
he was gentleman enough not to point that out. All he
could do was shrug helplessly at this fine new
dilemma. 



Mac motioned vaguely and swept her eyes across the
floor. “I guess maybe you could just stay here
tonight,” she suggested as if the idea – not wholly
untenable, but certainly not overly-appealing or
indispensable – had just occurred to her. 



He stuck out his lower lip, nodded complacently. After
all, if it would be doing *her* a favor, it wouldn’t
kill him to spend the night at her place . . . in her
bed . . . in her arms . . . A cocky grin shone through
his mind – he had her right where he wanted her.
“Maybe I could,” he agreed, trying to sound as
indifferent as possible. 



“Good.” Her smile was bright and immediate but somehow
more impersonal than grateful. “Do you want the bed or
the couch?” 



*WHAT?* He shot her a glance of abject dismay, his
eyes and mouth gaping with shock, horror, at the
question. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to
go, his mind argued frantically. This wasn’t at all
according to plan! What the hell did she mean did he
want the bed or the couch? 



He could do nothing but watch, struck dumb with the
collapse of his strategy, as her _expression shifted
from polite to smug, her brow raised in impish
delight. Slowly, so slowly, she spun around, holding
his gaze as she went, then with a laugh that was
positively evil, sauntered into the bedroom. 



Stunned, he looked weakly about the room, confused
suspicion giving way to comprehension and an
unquenchable thirst for revenge. Had, he thought
disgustedly. He’d been *had* by Sarah MacKenzie once
again. But this time, he vowed, he would have the last
laugh. 



Bird-dogging her into the bedroom and tackling her
onto the bed would be too easy, and just what she’d
expect. No, this game called for a shrewd and talented
player; luckily, he was just such a man. 



With purposeful strides, he canvassed the living room,
blowing out candles, checking the door locks. When
everything was in place, he cleared the couch of all
pillows but his favorite purple chenille, stripped
down to his boxers and t-shirt, and sprawled out
heavily, ready for bed. 



He counted to two hundred and eleven before he felt
her presence next to the couch. Opening his eyes in
what he hoped was a mildly curious, accommodating
manner, he found her standing over him, hands on her
hips. The streetlights were sufficient to illuminate
the indulgence in her gaze. 



“What are you doing.” It wasn’t so much a question as
a veiled suggestion to reconsider. 



Calling your bluff, he thought arrogantly, but kept
his actions ingenuous. With a guileless shrug, he
gestured at the long legs stretched out before him.
“I’m just going to sleep, Mac. I decided I’d better
take the couch.” 



“You did, huh?” 



A glimmer of doubt sparked unpleasantly. This detached
understanding wasn’t the response he’d expected. She
was supposed to cajole and pout and finally admit
she’d been categorically mistaken to try to tease him,
thus satisfying his ego and luring him to her bed in
one fell swoop. 



“Well, gosh, Mac – ” perhaps this was laying it on a
little thick; he hadn’t said ‘gosh’ in thirty years –
“I didn’t want to put you out or anything like that –
” 



“Harm.” 



His mouth closed reflexively at the tone of voice that
usually meant he should shut up while he was, if not
ahead, then at least not too far behind. When she
continued, all thoughts of one-upping her in their
comic game of chicken fled. 



“I’d like you to come sleep in bed with me.” The
simple declaration, given with quiet confidence of
love and acceptance, fried some vital synapse in his
brain. His vision narrowed until she was all he could
see. When she offered a hand, he took it
automatically, let her draw him up, lead him to the
bedroom. At that instant, he would have followed her
into the sun if she’d asked. 



She waited expectantly by the door while he got into
bed, then turned out the lights and climbed in after
him. He liked to think he was a pretty clever guy, and
usually he was; but she’d known him too long and too
well to fall for his Mr. Innocent routine, especially
when he wanted something so badly his nerves
practically hummed with it. His complete consternation
when she’d offered him the couch had been almost too
much to bear – she’d had simultaneous urges to crow
out her victory and kiss the worry away. 



She had to admit, his ploy to call her bluff had been
a stroke of minor genius. She’d been expecting
something more along the lines of all-out physical
warfare, which would allow Harm to use his undeniable
advantages of weight, height, and brute strength. But
it seemed brains over brawn was the order of the day. 



In that vein, she’d dispensed with the preliminaries
and gone straight for the honest, emotional appeal,
knowing it would either make her partner fold or shut
him down entirely. Judging by the dazed silence in
which he’d let her guide him to the bedroom, it had
done a little of both. 



Not at all above taking advantage, she cuddled closer,
nestled her cheek into the firm, warm hollow beneath
his shoulder. He felt good in her bed, she decided,
closing her eyes and wrapping her arm around his
waist. 



“’Night, Harm.” 



The whisper snapped him out of his reverie, and he
brought his arm around her, pressed a gentle kiss to
the crown of her head. Had, he thought blissfully,
absorbing the fresh fragrance and soft feel of her
sheets, so much more welcoming than his own. He’d been
had by Sarah MacKenzie once again. 



“G’night, Mac.” 



* * * 



She had a nightmare, one so murky and indistinct it
would evaporate in the morning, leaving her none the
wiser. Harm awoke to the sound of her moaning his
name, struggling fitfully against the covers,
flinching from unnamed danger. Groggy and disoriented,
he shot to a sitting position and leaned over her with
arms upraised, instinctively moving to protect. 



It took several tense heartbeats before he realized it
was only a dream frightening her. Panting in relief,
he slid down beside her, lifted a hand to brush her
delicate cheekbone, the fine hair at her temples. With
murmured reassurances and gentle touches, he stroked
the nightmare away, waited until she sighed and
huddled trustingly into his chest before letting sleep
deter him from his vigil. 



The next morning, it was she who woke first, to the
pale gold of promised sunrise and the solid warmth of
her partner at her back. Her body was curled around
the tanned forearm holding her securely against him,
her legs entwined with his, her bottom nestled cozy in
his lap. Unconsciously, she stretched, soaking in the
contrast of hard planes and supple curves. 



With a quiet sigh, he rasped her name and began
tracing patterns on the back of her neck with his
nose, using lips and teeth for punctuation. Drowsy,
delighted, she shivered, as languid arousal steamed in
her belly. On a shaky sigh, she tilted her head to
clear his path. 



He took her up on the invitation immediately, nuzzling
from her nape to the arch of her neck. Fluid and
restive, she swayed her hips, thrilled to the
instantaneous thrust of rigid male response. Her core
was swamped with wet heat, her pulse beating
triple-time in the agony of anticipation. 



Distantly, she realized they should probably slow
things down a bit. Though they’d been more
affectionate these past few weeks than she’d ever been
with anyone, though she loved him more than anything
and was fairly sure he loved her back, they hadn’t
talked about either of these circumstances, much less
about making their relationship a romantic one,
planning dates, making love. For that matter, they’d
never even shared an honest kiss. 



She had just about convinced herself to begin to
consider the possibility of maybe suggesting they put
this off for a while, when every thought in her head
scattered like dust. It was his teeth, no more. His
teeth that scraped lightly just above the juncture of
her neck and shoulder, and stole her breath, her mind,
in a hot flood of need that left her trembling and
raw. Stuttering his name on a soft moan, she rolled to
her back, already lifting her arms to him. 



And was met with nothing but empty air and the dull
view of her ceiling. 



With a chuff and a snuffle, he settled back onto her
pillow, his head burrowing in above her shoulder. She
reared up, turned with a frustrated glance, and found
him sound asleep. 



This was not to be believed. She’d been two breaths
away from giving herself to him, surrendering to the
fire he called so effortlessly within her. Her system
was primed and crying for him in secret liquid pulses,
slow to receive the message that nothing more was to
come. A thin veneer of will power was all that
prevented her from pushing him over and waking him up
by making use of the morning erection that had sprung
so readily at her urging. 



Feeling like a horse ridden hard and put away wet, she
shook herself and jumped out of bed, certain she
couldn’t remain so near the site and source of her
frustration. 



But when she got to the living room, retrieved the
Sunday paper from her doorstep, and began her ritual
of news and coffee at the kitchen table, the chair
felt unusually hard and unforgiving, her neck ached
dully for bending over to read. Exasperated, she
brought the paper to the living room, stretched out on
the couch, and began to browse the front page. 



And couldn’t seem to find a comfortable position in
which to relax. Her body felt tense and jerky wherever
it hit the cushions, so, for awhile, she simply
thrashed around in aggravation, finally leaping from
the offending sofa and throwing the paper down in a
pique. 



This is stupid, she lectured herself angrily. Silly,
absurd, obnoxious. Every week for seven years, she’d
accomplished this task without the aid of Harmon Rabb,
without missing him until it ground in her stomach,
only more ridiculous now for his being fifteen feet
away, sleeping in her bed. 



It wasn’t that she missed him, she insisted crossly.
It was just that she felt like reading the paper in
bed this morning. And if she felt like it, she damn
well should, as it was *her* bed and *her* paper, and
Harm didn’t have a damn thing to do with it if she
said he didn’t. Snatching the newspaper in an angry
fist, she repeated that rationale as she stomped into
the bedroom. 



If the sight of him, dozing placidly on his stomach,
sprawled over her sheets gentled her heart, smoothed
the rough edges of the morning, and put her suddenly,
completely at peace, she certainly didn’t have to
admit it to herself. If a doting smile graced her lips
as she shifted his arm off her side of the bed and ran
the backs of her fingers over his cheek, there was no
one there to see it. If she spent more time watching
his back rise and fall in steady, hypnotizing rhythm
than focusing on current events, he would never know
her weakness. 



She sat Indian-style at his hip, using his back and
bottom for a table as she browsed the insides of the
first section. When he twitched restlessly, she
gathered her pages just before he flipped over.
Deciding it wouldn’t be quite as proper to use his
front as she had his back, she folded the features
section below the arm he’d flung onto her half of the
mattress and rolled to her stomach beside him without
missing a beat. 



She’d just finished a six-column, two-page spread and
was squinting at the caption beneath the adjoining
picture of a man holding hands with an orangutan and a
chimpanzee when the flutter of an irregular breath
from the chest beside her told her Harm was awake.
Looking up with a smile, she found him watching her
intently, eyes at half mast but alert, so warm and
adoring her throat filled with it. The hint of a smile
tugging at the corners of his lips would stay in her
mind for years to come. 



Gentle, clumsy with sleep, his big hand rose to cup
her jaw below her ear, his thumb brushed leisurely
over her cheekbone. “Hey,” he whispered, thick and
ragged. 



Her hand came up to cover his, to hold his palm close
against her face. “Hey.” 



And so they lay, motionless but for the occasional
pass of his thumb, observing and absorbing, for what
could have been hours. This is what she looks like
after sleeping in my bed, he thought, mesmerized. This
was what it was like to wake up to her, to the sweet
smell of her skin on his and a smile that made him
feel like just opening his eyes was the best thing
he’d ever done. This, too, was what they could have,
what was waiting for them all the mornings they had
left. 



“It’s Sunday,” he announced quietly, as if their
silent interlude had never taken place. 



“Mmm-hmm,” she answered in kind. “What should we do
today?” 



Considering, he glanced out the window, combed hair
absently away from her face. “Let’s walk down by the
Mall.” 



“Okay.” She smiled, thinking the idea sounded lovely
in that husky morning timbre. 



“What time is it?” 



“Eight-seventeen.” 



He reached over with his other hand to toss the paper
out of the way. “Let’s sleep for another half hour
yet.” 



Even as she nodded, he was tugging her down, turning
on his side to face her. She hunkered lower until her
head was at the bottom of the pillow, just as she
liked it, and bent her knees. Lifting his top leg in
accommodation, he sandwiched her thighs between his
and pulled the covers up to her elbows. 



She wouldn’t fall asleep, of course, she thought as
she closed her eyes and curled her fingers around a
handful of his t-shirt. She’d never taken a nap within
an hour of getting up, but Harm was probably still a
little tired . . . 



Precisely twenty-nine minutes later, she was startled
awake by the chime of her inner alarm clock.
Disgruntled and a bit embarrassed, she looked up to
find him grinning at her, sleepy but impressed. 



“Right on time,” he declared. 



“Of course.” She dropped to her back and, because she
decided she wanted him there, kept her legs linked
with Harm’s, grabbed his waist, and dragged his body
on top of hers. Unprepared for the attack, he complied
automatically, pleasantly surprised by his new
station. Then had to scramble to get his legs between
hers and slide downwards so she couldn’t feel the
immediate response of a certain part of his anatomy to
their positions. 



If she’d noticed, it didn’t seem to trouble her, so he
went on with his plan as rehearsed while she’d dozed.
“If you let me take a shower first, I’ll make you
breakfast,” he offered hopefully, having already
planned the menu and being in direr need of a cold
shower than ever. 



“You won’t take all the hot water, will you?” Her eyes
narrowed with mock suspicion, though she had a
feeling, judging by the noticeable . . . tension . . .
in his body, that Harm’s shower would be anything but
hot. Besides, if he was willing to cook breakfast,
she’d do just about whatever he wanted; breakfast
foods of all kind were a particular favorite of hers. 



“Not to worry,” he assured with a wink and a
half-smile. “You just relax for awhile.” Pressing an
unexpected kiss to her collarbone and making her bones
melt, he levered himself out of bed, careful to keep
his back to her so she wouldn’t see the tent in his
shorts. Or, for that matter, sneak a peek through the
flap. 



As he shut the bathroom door, Mac stretched
languorously under the sheets, lingering in the roil
of blood beneath the spot where he’d kissed her. It
wasn’t even nine o’clock, and the day was absolutely
perfect. 



“Mac,” he shouted through the door, “can I use your
toothbrush?” 



“Use your finger,” she chided, then smiled to herself,
knowing he’d use her toothbrush anyway. 



A few minutes passed, then, “Mac,” came again, over
the noise of the shower. “Can you bring me some clean
clothes from the laundry basket?” 



With an affectionate roll of her eyes, she threw back
the covers and bounced out of bed. “’Kay,” she called
as she headed for the living room. Not even nine
o’clock, she thought again, and absolutely perfect. 

 



After a quick shower, Mac sat on the counter and read
aloud selections from the sports page while Harm
finished the pancakes. She got the syrup as he dished
up, three for her, four for him, and another four
wrapped in foil for the refrigerator. Whenever Harm
cooked for her, he always made extra so she would have
leftovers. She loved the gesture nearly as much as the
meals themselves. 



“Do you have any brown sugar?” 



She glared at him warily, having hoped it wouldn’t
come to this. “Not if I have to watch you eat it on
your pancakes.” 



Harm had the unusual, and to her mind disgusting,
habit of heaping his pancakes with brown sugar,
rolling them up, and eating them dry. The idea alone
had always been enough to make her shudder; then one
memorable morning at Denny’s, he’d convinced her to
try it. She’d had to swear off pancakes for over eight
months, a tragedy for which she had yet to completely
forgive him. 



“So don’t watch,” he suggested implacably, hunting
through the cabinets for his condiment of choice. As
far as he was concerned, her palate was sadly lacking,
despite all his efforts to improve it. It was a
primitive, unrefined appetite that couldn’t appreciate
the delicacy of flapjacks and brown sugar, and, though
he generally enjoyed educating those around him, he’d
given up playing missionary on this one long ago. The
look of wretched horror on Mac’s face when she’d
finally sampled the fare, not to mention the
disapproving scowl he’d earned from Darlene, their
matronly Denny’s server, had compelled him to abandon
any conversionary tactics on this front. 



“Top shelf on the right there,” Mac muttered, shaking
her head as she carried her plate and precious maple
syrup to the table. 



True to her word, she didn’t watch as he spread the
sugar precisely with the back of a spoon and ate the
concoction like some kind of twisted burrito. Both
read the paper instead – Harm got the front page, Mac
the ‘Weekend’ section – as they ate in companionable
silence. 



“Anything happening downtown today?” he asked between
articles. 



“Sure, lots.” She skimmed the list at the left side of
the page, frowning thoughtfully. “Not much for us,
though. The Power Puff Girls are signing autographs .
. . some kind of dog show parade . . . live polka band
. . . and we’ve seen most of the exhibits at the
Museum. Should be a lot of activity, though.” 



He grunted positively around the last mouthful of
pancake, sat back, and stretched in satisfaction.
“Delicious. You’re really missing out, Mac.” 



“You’re a sick man, Harmon Rabb.” 



When he stood and turned toward the kitchen, she
shoveled down the last few bites of her breakfast and
rose to block his path. “Where’re you going?” 



“I’m gonna go clean up,” he replied, with a vague
shrug. 



“*I’ll* clean up,” she countered easily, taking his
plate and nodding to the living room. “You go finish
your paper.” 



He didn’t need too much convincing – there was an
op-ed on gays in the military he wanted to read, and
he hadn’t left many dirty dishes anyway. “Thank you.”
With a grin, he flicked a finger down her nose and
headed for the couch. 



When Mac emerged five minutes later, he’d decided the
writer of the article was an ultra-right Bob Jones
graduate who’d probably never even seen a soldier, let
alone had experience with the armed forces. Eagerly,
he dumped the paper on the coffee table and followed
her to the door. Mac grabbed her purse and keys, and
they were off. 



By tacit agreement, they walked to the nearest Metro
station – parking would have been a disaster and
traffic more trouble than it was worth. Mac bought the
fare cards, and, as luck would have it, they caught
their train just before its departure. That they had
to stand the entire ride was a small price to pay for
the rare convenience. 



The ride passed uneventfully in the dreary silence
that was practically a social more on the Metro. When
he caught a college kid staring at Mac’s chest, Harm
stepped so close he all but enveloped her. When a
large older man who’d forgotten to wear deodorant
moved to the space behind them and raised his arm to
grab the overhead rail, she burrowed even closer and
buried her nose in Harm’s infinitely more fragrant
armpit. 



With a frown of confusion, Harm opened his mouth to
ask her what she was doing. Then took a breath, felt
his eyes start to water, and caught on to her motive.
“That tickles,” he whispered furiously, gaze darting
between the top of her head and the noxious
passenger’s face to ensure they had avoided detection.




“Suck it up,” she advised firmly, having no intention
of leaving the refuge of Old Spice High Endurance any
time soon. 



“I’m actually trying not to.” 



Perversely amused, she choked on a giggle,
unintentionally prodding her sensitive partner. Harm
jerked on instinct, which only made her laugh harder,
shoulders shaking with the force of it. Smelly shot
them a curious glance; Harm shrugged and patted her
back, hoping to pass her off as a pneumoniac or a
claustrophobe or something equally innocuous. When
Smelly grimaced sympathetically, Harm figured his ploy
had been successful and concentrated on ignoring the
tickle under his arm, which he was now convinced Mac
was causing on purpose. 



Three agonizing stops later, they shuffled out of the
station and into fresh air. Mac gasped her relief,
chuckling at the threatening shake of Harm’s finger. 



“You’re terrible,” he admonished even as he took her
hand and led her towards the Capitol. 



“I almost passed out!” she argued playfully, twining
their fingers without a second’s thought. “Thank God
you keep spare deodorant in your car – I’d never have
made it out alive.” 



Rolling his eyes at her dramatics, he skirted a tour
bus and towed her up onto the lawn west of the
Washington Monument. They walked a long time, hand in
hand, dodging tourists and Frisbees, dogs and small
children, discussing everything and nothing as the
mood struck. They were debating the benefits of
national healthcare as they passed the Wall. 



“Want to stop and say hi?” she asked, noticing his
gaze trail inevitably to the black marble. 



“Would you mind?” 



With a smile, she shook her head and loosened their
fingers, intending to wait up the hill for him. Harm
only tightened his grip and drew her down after him,
along the 67 steps from the head of the path to his
father’s name. 



They found it with the ease of long practice. Harm
traced the familiar letters with his fingertips; Mac
waited until he stepped back, then did the same. She
wasn’t surprised to feel his hands at her waist, to
find herself tugged back against him, where he wrapped
his arms around her and rested his chin on her head.
For long minutes, they stood silently, both facing the
Wall, catching their reflection within, remembering
the man they’d come to honor. 



At last, with a deep breath, Harm tightened his grip,
then released her. “I’m ready now,” he said, quiet and
confident. 



‘Thank you,’ she thought as she gazed once more at
‘Harmon Rabb, Sr.’ These were always her parting words
to him. 



Turning, she rested her hand along Harm’s cheek,
checking for herself that he was all right. The peace
and fulfillment in his gaze banished her worry.
“Okay,” she breathed, then smiled and slipped her arm
around his waist. 



By the time they got back to the greens behind the
Capitol, it had been nearly three hours since
breakfast, and Mac’s stomach was grumbling in
reproach. “Wanna buy me an ice cream?” she offered
hopefully. 



He gave her a withering glance; ice cream for lunch
was, in his opinion, only slightly less atrocious than
ice cream for breakfast. Cracking his wallet, he
showed her the only bill inside. “I don’t think the
vendor can break a fifty.” 



Mac rolled her eyes and dug through her purse. Why he
persisted in carrying such large denominations of
currency was beyond her. Everyone knew anything larger
than a twenty was completely impractical. Shuffling
her cell phone and three packs of Life Savers out of
the way, she opened her billfold and emerged
triumphantly with a five. 



“Here.” She thrust it into his palm, leaving him
little choice but to obey. “A Mickey Mouse head,
please. And buy yourself something nice too.” 



He knew he was beaten, but shot her a warning glare
that said he wasn’t happy to be the agent of such an
unhealthy scheme. She winked impishly in response and
waved him toward the cart. 



While scouting for a habitable patch of grass on which
to enjoy their snack, Mac noticed a little boy, no
more than three years old, crying in broken Spanish
and wandering in circles. A survey of the immediate
area showed no possible parent or sibling to help him,
so Mac cautiously approached and knelt at his side. 



“Hello,” she greeted calmly in his language. “Are you
lost?” 



“Si!” he cried mournfully, breaking into fresh sobs.
His eyes were jet black and clouded with tears, his
cheeks smudged with dirt, but his clothes were clean
and looked new, as did his shoes. Somewhere, she was
sure, someone was looking frantically for this little
guy. 



“It’s all right.” When she smoothed his hair and
smiled at him, he launched himself into her arms.
Chuckling sympathetically, she stood and boosted him
on her hip. “I’ll help you find your mom, okay? What’s
your name?” 



The Spanish came easily to her; she heard it more
often than any of her other languages and sometimes
watched Spanish soaps to keep herself in shape. 



“Raffi,” he answered tearfully, plucking at the fabric
of her shirt. 



“I like that name,” Mac told him, though she’d never
given it a second thought before. “Raffi, my name is
Sarah. Are you here with your mamma?” 



“No, my grandma and my aunt.” 



“Do you know your grandma’s name?” A glance over her
shoulder showed Harm was in line at the vendor’s,
facing away from her. Mac decided not to wait; he was
still several patrons back.  



“Abuela,” the boy replied. It wasn’t much help, but at
least the steady flow of tears had stemmed. 



“Okay. What about your aunt’s name?” She cast
determinedly around the crowd, but without success.
There were many Hispanic families nearby, but none
seemed agitated or on the lookout for runaway
children. No one shouted for Raffi through the din. 



“Gabi.” Sticking a thumb in his mouth, he settled his
cheek on her shoulder. 



“Good,” Mac sighed with relief. At least this was
something to go on. “Do you know your last name,
Raffi? I’m Sarah MacKenzie. And you’re Raffi . . .
Lopez? Ruiz? Gonzales?” 



“Muro. Where’s my abuela?” 



“We’ll find her, sweetie.” She stroked his hair and
kissed his grubby cheek. “You’re a very smart boy, and
very helpful. Do you remember, was your abuela near a
building or stairs or a tree when you saw her?” 



She asked more to make conversation than anything.
Though she continued to scan the faces around them,
she’d been moving to the outskirts of the crowd, where
she knew she would find a pair of cops on horseback
eventually. 



“By a big tree and a dog with spots, like in the
movie,” Raffi answered, craning his little neck to
look around from his new perch. 



It took her a minute to translate ‘spots,’ but once
she did, Mac paused and checked for Dalmatians on the
lawn. She saw three, shrugged to herself, and started
towards the closest one. As they walked, she asked the
boy inconsequential things – did he like dogs, what
was his favorite color, did he go to school – to take
his mind off his worry. Finding no one fitting the
description of his grandmother or aunt near the
middle-aged couple playing with their pet, she turned
in the direction of the second Dalmatian and stopped
short at a cry from her left. 



“Raffi! Raffi!” A young girl, no more than fifteen
barreled through the crowd, arms outstretched. 



“Gabi!” Raffi squirmed in Mac’s hold and fell into the
girl’s arms, cinching his legs around her ample waist.
“Here is my friend.” He pointed to Mac. “She’s helping
me look.” 



“Oh, thank you, thank you!” Gabi gushed in rapid
Spanish. “We turned for one minute, and he was gone.
It’s bad to run off like that, Raphael, very bad. Your
father will be angry when we get home. Thank you so
much, miss. We didn’t know where he was. Thank you!” 



When the praise would have continued, Mac patted the
little boy’s cheek and reassured his aunt that
everything was fine and that Raffi had been brave and
well-behaved. With more thanks, waves and blown
kisses, they hurried away to find Raffi’s grandmother.




It was this scene Harm witnessed from ten feet away,
shaking his head in amazement. He’d turned from the
ice cream cart to see his partner headed for the
sidewalk, a grimy, dark-haired kid comfortably propped
on her hip. When he overheard their conversation, he’d
paused to check that it was really her before hurrying
after them. 



“I didn’t know you spoke Spanish, Mac,” he said as he
stepped up behind her. 



Startled, she spun around, blushed enchantingly, and
snatched her ice cream as an excuse to duck her head.
“Harm, I grew up in Yuma,” she reminded him
tolerantly. “That’s like 20 miles from the border.
Even my Iranian grandmother spoke Spanish.” 



She unwrapped her Mickey Mouse, took a long, satisfied
lick, and leaned over to examine his selection.
“What’d you get?” 



He tore his wrapper off grandly, revealing a large red
Popsicle with strawberry chunks frozen inside. 



“Ugh, fruit? You’re no fun.” 



“Oh, yeah?” With a fiendish smirk, he swooped down and
took a hearty bite of Mickey’s right ear, humming with
relish at the taste. 



“Hey, that’s my favorite part!” Because she looked
ready to pout, he decided to distract her. 



“I speak Spanish too, you know.” 



“Oh really?” Skeptical enough to call him on it, she
continued in that language, “So, Harmon, if I have two
apples and Pedro has eight and he gives me six and I
give you three, how many apples do I have left?” She
was fairly certain he could’ve solved the riddle in
English. Probably. 



Harm only blinked and smiled serenely. Then informed
her in proud, flatly-accented Spanish, “My shirt is
red.” 



She didn’t even glance at his grey t-shirt before
bursting into laughter. 



* * * 



They had fun that afternoon, taking genuine, simple
enjoyment in each other’s company in a way that, until
a few months ago, they hadn’t allowed themselves in a
long time. He teased her by inventing and proposing
pointless little schemes he knew she would never agree
to. (“Mac, let’s go in there and pretend you’re a
Russian dignitary and I’m your bodyguard. Maybe
they’ll give you some free shoes.”) She made him laugh
with bad puns and biting social commentary on the
billboards and advertisements they passed downtown. 



Not even the Metro’s getting stuck for twenty-four
minutes just before their stop could dampen the mood.
Harm and Mac were sitting in a pair of side-seats when
the delay was announced over the speaker. The train
was full, but people shoved over for their neighbors
until only a young man was left standing beside them
at the front of the car. Harm hauled Mac onto his lap
and motioned to the vacated chair at his left. With a
friendly smile, the man sat down and nodded in time to
the rap music blaring from his headphones. Harm wasn’t
sure who had performed the greater favor – himself for
clearing the seat, or the kid for taking it without
protest, allowing him to keep Mac where she was. 



Mac, for her part, shot him a suspicious glance over
her shoulder and tried to hold as much weight as
possible over her hand on the armrest. 



“Just relax,” he murmured in her ear, making her elbow
quiver. “You’re not heavy.” 



With a mental shrug, she gave in, rested fully on his
thighs. He wrapped his arms around her waist and gazed
at her back. It was a part of her he didn’t pay nearly
enough attention to. He liked the way her hair, longer
now than it had been for awhile, fell along her neck.
Followed with his eyes the soft slope of her
shoulders, the strong, slender length of her spine.
Her weight felt comfortable atop him, the light press
of her heels against his shins cozy and sweet. He blew
casually, imperceptibly on her nape, just to see what
would happen, and grinned when a shiver rippled
through her. 



Forcing an innocent _expression just in time to meet
the warning glare she sent his way, he removed his
right arm from her waist on the guise of scratching
his back. With another frown for good measure, she
turned her eyes front and tried to focus on the
evacuation sign over the opposite seats. 



No sooner had she relaxed against him than she felt
his hand sneak under the back of her shirt. She went
stiff as a board in his arms, half-dreading,
half-eager to see what he would do next. 



He only stroked in tiny circles from the middle of her
back to the small of it, lulling her, waiting
patiently for her to settle. When she did, the
pictures began. He started simply, a five-cornered
star, then a flower with rounded petals. They tickled
at first, and she trembled in response, dug her
fingers into his left forearm where it lay across her
belly. Then he pressed a little more firmly, and she
stilled, unwound, and leaned forward ever so slightly
to give him an open canvas. 



Next, he drew an airplane, then something she thought
might’ve been a brontosaurus. Then came a triangle, a
pair of glasses, and a spiral. An arrow told her to
look at the people in the front-facing seats beside
them, where an old, white man nodded off on the
shoulder of a younger, African-American woman who
stared at him with a mixture of shock and
helplessness. 



Mac was still chuckling when he drew two parallel
lines connected at their centers by a perpendicular –
an “H,” she recognized immediately and waited,
deciding he was writing her a message. 



An “A” was next, slow and deliberate, followed
steadily by “R-M-O-N.” He hesitated, and her spine
trilled with a shiver that had nothing to do with
ticklishness or chill. She swallowed hard as he traced
the “R-A-B-B,” released a shaky breath when he
flattened his palm against her as if to seal the words
in place. 



Branded, she thought as she closed her eyes and bit
her lip, desperately savoring the sensation. With no
more than the burn of his forefinger on her back,
she’d been claimed and marked as his, as someone who
belonged, who was important, even cherished by the man
who cradled her so carefully. It was a secret need, a
possession known only by the two of them, but as
binding in her mind as a ring or a vow. She was his
because, in acknowledging his actions as the claim
they were, she wanted to be. And he, she intended to
remind him, was hers. 



With a deep, calming breath, she slackened against him
and pried his left arm from her middle until she held
his hand in her lap. Gently, she tipped the palm up,
signed her name into it methodically, precisely –
“S-A-R-A-H M-A-C-K-E-N-Z-I-E” – and closed his fist
around the letters. 



Mine, she thought, enthralled, as she folded her arms
over his where they wound around her. *Mine.* 



His breath flickered across her neck again, and she
elbowed him lightly to get him to knock it off. She
was already so wet and hypersensitive it was a miracle
Harm couldn’t feel the arousal drifting from her in
waves. She didn’t need his help getting any more
turned on when there was no reasonable possibility of
relief in the near future. In retaliation, she
squirmed on his lap, pressing her ass a bit more
firmly against him to goad and caress the erection
that had been steadily increasing since he’d dragged
her on top of him. 



He froze in shock, snatched her waist instinctively to
immobilize her, and groaned almost soundlessly into
her back. This problem had, quite literally, arisen
more than once in the course of their partnership and
had been unconditionally ignored. They weren’t
supposed to address it, and she certainly wasn’t
supposed to encourage it as she was doing now,
shifting infinitesimally in his grasp to drive him
wild. 



But God, it felt so good, so amazingly, heatedly
perfect, he wanted to kick himself for waiting so long
to let it happen, for torturing himself these past few
months by easing closer to it, to her, and driving
himself that much crazier with need. They were in a
crowded Metro car, for godsake, he admonished even as
he pushed up discreetly in response to her wriggling
torment. It was a struggle to keep his face impassive,
his breathing even, when his eyes wanted to cross and
his lungs to pant. They had gone too far this time,
and if they continued much farther, he was really
going to make a fool of himself. 



When the train jerked into gear less than ten seconds
later, Harm told himself it was a good thing. Lucky,
fortunate, perfectly timed. And his body cried out
with loss as Mac regained her composure, sat
completely motionless for the remainder of their ride.




There were eight blocks between the station and her
apartment. They walked them briskly, mutely. He didn’t
hold her hand or her shoulders or guide her by the
small of the back. He couldn’t touch her, or the
cacophony of need in his head would reach an
unbearable pitch. Things seemed to be flying by, cars,
people, buildings, in vivid swaths of color too bright
and blurry to process. His thoughts seethed under a
veil of fog and were only of her. He couldn’t get his
pulse under control. 



Then they stopped, and he realized they were at her
apartment, she on one side of the threshold, he on the
other. She couldn’t turn him out now, he thought
distantly. His clothes were in there, and his car
keys. And his heart. 



“We should, um, probably talk about this, Harm.” Her
voice was faint and uneven, her fingers clenched
around the doorknob in an effort to ground herself, to
stay sane. 



“Uh-huh.” Mindless, he nodded agreement. His eyes were
wide and unfocused, his mouth hung vacantly open. He
could see only the red of her lips, think only of how
badly he wanted them. 



“Maybe we should . . . have . . . dinner, or something
. . .” This wasn’t a game anymore. She needed him,
now. Could barely stand for the tearing ache of it. 



“Okay,” he said with another blank nod. “Sure.” And
swooped down to bury his lips in hers. 



Heedlessly, frantically, mouths met, tongues clashed.
His hands rose to frame her face, to pull impossibly
closer. Hers lifted to his wrists, to hold him there
as her knees dissolved cell by cell. There was nothing
in the world but his taste, that hot, dusky flavor she
would die trying to name. 



He backed her hastily into the room, kicked the door
shut not out of concern for propriety but for the need
of something solid to press her against, to facilitate
this endless quest to get closer, always closer.
Grabbing her under the arms, he spun around, pinned
her to the wall, and ground his body into hers. The
humming whimper this drove from her throat fanned
arousal to new heights. 



Desperate, he whisked his hands from her shoulders to
her waist, then snaked beneath her shirt for the trip
back. He stopped at her bra, traced its borders,
palmed the cups. Lightly, his thumbs plucked at her
nipples. Both groaned when they hardened in response.
He wanted them in his mouth, on his tongue, but
couldn’t seem to stop kissing her long enough to
figure out how to make that happen. She tasted as he’d
known she would, sweet and mysterious, and each time
he tilted his head or tried to pull away, he
discovered some new flavor to explore. 



When she looped her leg around his and pushed up
against him, he almost passed out as blood rushed from
his head to his groin, where it throbbed and roiled
demandingly. His chest ached as emptiness and fear
twined and grew, with only her touch, her scent to
slake them. If this terrible ferocity was need, he had
never needed before this instant. If the dark flood
grating within, wrenching his entire body taut and
reckless was desire, he had never desired till now.
There was so much yet to do, so many touches to give
and take, but first, God first, he had to feel her,
just to see. 



Clumsy, shaking, he unbuttoned her jeans, apologizing
even as his hand plunged impulsively inside. “Mac,” he
muttered against her mouth, nibbling and sipping in
the newfound space between their lips. “I just have to
– ” And darted past her panties to spear one long
finger into her core. “Jesus.” He found her burning
and drenched, slick and snug. Perfect. Waiting. “Oh,
my God . . .” 



A choked cry escaped her as she seized around him,
everything winding, pulling him closer. The crest of
that first peak was all the more shattering for its
speed and surprise. He gave her no time to recover, no
room to steep in the glory of the climax before he
captured her lips, raced to her throat to nuzzle and
ravage. He tore his hand from her center, drawing
groans of disappointment from both of them. Then
busily tugged her shirt up her sides, whipped it off,
and battled with her bra. 



It was a gorgeous piece of silk, to be sure. Dark
blue, dappled with flowers, a lovely, low-cut frame
for the generous flesh beneath. But at the moment, it
was only in his way. He fumbled for the clasp at the
back, cursed when he couldn’t find it, then simply
flipped it up and out of his path. Finally, he thought
feverishly as he brushed his tongue over a nipple, bit
gently and latched on. *Finally.* 



Mac, her arms still hanging senseless above her head
in the wake of her shirt, had nearly summoned the
wherewithal to tell Harm the clasp was at the front
when he started to suckle. Thoughts jumbled and
collided in her brain, the joy and wonder of the new
sensations matched only by a lashing need for more,
more. She could do no more than breathe it, and his
name, into his shoulder as he took and took and took. 



The hands that had gone limp and nerveless at his
initial attack now trembled with thirst for skin and
pleasure. Even as she moaned and writhed against him,
she kneaded the muscles of his back, blindly
unfastened his jeans, wanting only to return the
passionate insanity he’d given her. She brushed him as
she lowered his zipper, slid through the hole in his
boxers to close him in her fist, to stroke up and down
his length, measuring, caressing. 



He surged against her and nearly came apart in her
hand, so wild and churning was the need. When she
nipped at his neck, ran the tip of her tongue along
his ear, he groaned at the hunger raging within. 



His mouth left her breast, and she whimpered, lost. He
swallowed the sound in a light, teasing kiss, drew
away when she would have deepened it, frustrated her
seeking tongue by worrying her lips, changing angles
with restless amusement. 



“Bed,” he demanded, tipping her head back to scrape
his teeth under her chin, over the pulse beating
rapidly in her neck. Quickly, irresistibly, he led her
towards the bedroom, shuffling backwards, dodging
furniture by hazy memory and instinct alone. 



“Couch,” she countered, pulling him to the nearest
horizontal surface available. 



He ended the dispute by lifting her under the arms,
locking his lips on her throat until she dropped her
head back and wrapped her legs around him in
surrender. “Bed.” 



Deciding they both deserved a reward for having solved
their first sexual argument so peaceably, he closed
his mouth around her neglected breast. Her broken
moans accompanied them to the bedroom. 



Eagerly, she clawed the t-shirt up to his shoulders,
as far as it could go without his cooperation. Much as
she wanted his mouth to continue its current task, she
wanted the freedom and feel of his chest even more.
“Harm,” she panted, tugging ineffectually at his head.
“Up.” 



With a stormy burst of strength, she prized him away,
yanked insistently at the fabric. 



“Mac,” he scolded sharply, not at all pleased to have
been diverted from his mission. Distractedly lifting
one arm, holding her firmly in place with the other
under her bottom, he let her pull the shirt mostly
off. It hung, forgotten, from his elbow as he dove for
her again. 



The essence of her, velvet and tender, in his mouth,
the feel of her hot center jostling against his
throbbing shaft with each step, combined to make him
feral, greedy. There was no room in his mind, in his
body, for anything but her, the scent, the tastes, the
different silken textures of this woman he would kill
to possess. Reluctantly, he loosened his arms, let her
slide achingly down his front until she stood before
him, her chest bare and heaving and pink from his
mouth, her jeans open, feet bare and hair tumbled. Her
eyes were languid with the recent climax, bright in
anticipation of a second. He wanted to capture her
like this, to see her this way until the day he died .
. . but maybe without the pants and underwear. 



She squeaked in surprise when he grabbed her in a
damsel-carry, giggled as he tossed her on the bed and
lunged after her. Then he jerked the jeans down her
hips, threw them haphazardly into a corner, and
circled the inside of her ankle with his tongue. Her
laughter throttled into a moan of pleasure, her toes
curled so tightly they cramped. Slowly, delicately, he
traced her calf, licked once, shatteringly, behind her
knee, and continued up the curve of her leg until he
reached the damp, steamy crest where she throbbed for
him. 



“Harm,” she begged breathlessly, arms reaching, too
dizzy to sit up. “No more games. I need you.” 



“In a minute,” he murmured, hazy and already focused
on his newest challenge. “In a minute . . .” And
clutching the backs of her thighs, he nuzzled her,
trailed his tongue along the sultry line of her core. 



“Harm! Jesus . . .” Wildly, her hips thrust up for
more as her hands fell to clutch at the bedspread. 



He grinned in secret, enjoying the advantage of
surprise, basking in the knowledge that he could make
her want him as badly as he wanted her. There wasn’t
much time – he had to take her soon or die – but he
was determined to learn all he could about this musky
haven he’d dreamt of for so long. 



In tiny circles and tantalizing strokes, he lapped at
her clit, rolled her around on his tongue like candy,
nipped ever so lightly with his teeth. She trembled
above him and around him, her head thrashing on the
pillow, hands gripped so hard on the covers her
knuckles turned white. He drank in the sight and sound
of her, mad to push her as near to the brink as he’d
been for hours, months, years. 



Mac wanted to plead with him to end the torment, was
desperate for something to bear down on, but could
only catch her breath enough to chant his name and the
occasional “Oh, my God.” Her hips moved without her
control now, her mouth fell open in silent cries of
ecstasy. She’d been a good sport, she thought dimly,
had let him have his fun for as long as possible. But
damn it, there was only so much a girl could take. Her
core wept with emptiness and longing, but Harm didn’t
seem in any hurry even to reintroduce his finger to
assuage her. 



“H-Harm,” she stammered, all but incoherent, weak from
the persistent torrents of pleasure he called forth
with only his tongue, his lips. “No more. Please. Come
inside . . . come inside . . .” 



He lifted his head, was satisfied at last by the
delirious need in her eyes that she was as reckless
and abandoned as he. Crawling up her body, avoiding
the areas he knew would be too sensitive to endure
even a casual touch, he took her hands, linked their
fingers on each side of her head. And settled his
weight hungrily between her legs. 



Automatically, she struggled to increase the contact,
to take and be taken, though he held himself
determinedly just out of reach. 



“What do you want?” The words grated from his chest,
rough and urgent. Anything, *anything* she desired at
that moment would be hers if it killed him. Fast,
slow, tender, furious, whatever she wished for, she
would have. 



“*Sarah.*” Frantic to get her attention, he shook
their joined hands, rested his hips more heavily on
hers to still her writhing search. When her eyes
slipped open, drifted grudgingly into focus, he caught
them relentlessly. “Tell me what you want.” 



“You,” she sobbed, needy and exposed. “Just you, Harm,
please, I want –” 



The request ended on a cry of approval as he plunged
into her, held himself there, pushing as far as he
could go.  



“*Mac.*” It was a harsh sound of discovery and awe, of
disbelief and brutal desire. Nothing could feel this
good, fit this well, that hadn’t been made exclusively
for him. 



For several rapturous heartbeats, he froze,
disoriented with pleasure and possessiveness. His
entire being compressed to the union of their bodies;
everything else was numb, blind, deaf. It was all he
could do to drag himself back from the peak, to
restrain his passion in the desperate pursuit to
increase his partner’s. 



When he was sure he could move without exploding
inside her, he pulled back cautiously, testing
himself, tormenting her. Mac squirmed and panted
beneath him, begging for more, demanding it with a
whimper of his name. In deep, measured thrusts, he
drove her on, clutching raggedly at thoughts of
baseball, gym socks, flight physics even as she
clutched at him with hands and lips and searing
softness. 



He was just getting the hang of it, settling into a
rhythm he felt he could sustain for at least a few
minutes longer, when her moans turned throaty and
wanton, her cheeks flushed and eyes fluttered with the
onset of fulfillment. 



“Harm,” she breathed, fervent and husky. “God, please,
harder . . .” 



He almost lost it then and there, had to dig deep for
a valiant recovery. If there was anything sexier than
those four words on Sarah MacKenzie’s lips, he had no
idea what it could be. Against the odds of two and a
half years’ abstinence, an aging body, and a lifetime
of fantasies about this one woman swimming through his
mind, he prayed for stamina and obligingly added force
to his thrusts. 



She whimpered and wrapped her legs around his waist,
deepening the angle until she felt him up the small of
her back. This was unbelievable, the most amazing
thing she’d ever felt, and if he . . . oh, God . . .
if he just twisted his hips like that once more, hit
her pubic bone just . . . *there* –  



“HARM! God –” 



Wracked with the orgasm, transfixed in it, she coiled
convulsively around him and collapsed. Her arms and
legs fell limply to her sides, her body shuddered
weakly in the aftershocks of spent passion. And still
he was there, locked tight within her, his length a
hot, thick invasion that was almost painfully
satisfying to her sensitized inner flesh. 



Harm squeezed his eyes shut and counted to ten, then
twenty, forcing the flood of need in his system to
simmer and hold. At that moment, he wanted the woman
in his arms more than he wanted his next breath. She
had come twice, violently, because of him, was still
trembling beneath him in the wake of what he had done,
because *he* had made her lose control. He grasped the
knowledge in his mind like a prize, an honor. She’d
already given him everything – a home, a center,
herself – now, he was going to take more. 



With small, almost imperceptible movements, he started
to rock against her. It was a slow, patient beginning
with none of the fiery demand of their first joining.
Her need had been slaked, but he had every intention
of bringing it to the surface again. His own had
sliced deep into his veins until it was an ache in the
blood, one that might never be soothed. For now, it
had gentled, even become marginally tolerable. But
when she whimpered and gazed up at him with blurry
brown eyes, it shot straight back to the edge of
immediacy. 



“Harm.” Her voice was thready and hoarse, her eyelids
flickered languidly. “What are you . . . wha – mmmm .
. .” 



She mewled and shifted as he hit a tender spot.
Whether it was to avoid the contact or increase it,
neither could say. 



“Shh.” He kissed her softly, chewed with thoughtful
delicacy on her lower lip and rocked a little harder,
blowing on embers to rekindle the flame. “Once more.” 



Her eyes widened and scrambled into focus when she saw
what he had in mind. “Harm, no.” But the protest was
flimsy and wavering. “I can’t . . .” 



“Sure you can,” he reassured her with a gentle,
confident smile. “I’ll give you a hand.” 



Even as the devil shot into his gaze, he slipped his
right hand between their bodies to coyly graze the
bundle of nerves that still quivered with recent
release. He circled carefully, flicked and rubbed,
experimenting with patterns to find the one that best
coaxed and cajoled. 



Helplessly, Mac felt her body melt into his all over
again, could barely tell anymore who she was or where
she began and ended. There was only Harm, his
guitarist’s nimble fingers, and that leisurely,
ceaseless push of his body into hers. Against all
logic, a fresh wave of arousal, a pure shock of need,
swept through her system, leaving her edgy and
shaking. She moaned with it, couldn’t think beyond the
sudden craving for him, for what he could bring her. 



The wince of breath sucked through her teeth let Harm
know when he touched too much on the fragile,
over-sensitized nub; her whimpers told him when to
touch more. Soon, he found an increasing pattern of
teasing circles and rhythmic thrusts that worked for
both of them. Then he scraped her elusively with a
blunt fingernail and discovered his Sarah had
wellsprings of passion inside that surpassed even his
own. 



All at once, she was demanding and desperate, mad for
release where she’d been certain it was impossible.
She clutched at his waist, dragged at his hips to get
him closer, deeper. Groaned his name like it was being
wrenched from her soul. 



“*Sarah.*” Distantly awed, more than a little proud,
he battled back the climax his body was screaming for,
would’ve cut off his arms rather than come before
seeing just how high she could go. “Jesus, baby,
you’re – ” 



He couldn’t finish the thought, had to swallow a cry
of shocked delight when she twisted sinuously,
squeezed him tight and insistently without warning. 



“Harm . . . faster . . .” 



Eyes cloudy, face taut with passion too long withheld,
he gave in, pounding into her again and again until
the bed springs creaked in protest. When she reached
back to grab the headboard for leverage, tilted her
hips high, and clenched her inner muscles around him,
the last scrap of sanity flew from his grasp. Savage
now, mindless, he thrust blindly in and out of the
wringing, snug sheath of her, helpless to stop, still
grinding his fingers unconsciously against her clit. 



“Come . . . aahhh, God . . . come with me this time,”
she gasped, imploring and inviting. 



“Yes,” he promised, gritty and ravaged. But waited
until her eyes went black and she screamed her
satisfaction before finally, finally letting go. His
big body went utterly stiff for hot, endless minutes
as he emptied into her, then crumpled on top of hers,
shaking and spent. 



An eternity passed before he could see again, or
manage to breathe without having to remind himself to
do so. The things around him should, he knew, be at
least vaguely familiar, but it took several, somewhat
frightening minutes for the names of simple objects –
her nightstand, her lamp – to solidify in his brain.
If he was borderline comatose after one orgasm, he
decided he’d better check to see how Mac was handling
three. With a monumental huff of effort, he pushed
himself up for a look at her face. 



And froze at the pale traces of tears running from the
corners of her eyes to her temples. 



“*Sarah.*” The whisper was horrified, miserable. “I
hurt you.” Despondently, hating himself, he lifted a
hand to brush the wetness away, hesitated inches from
her cheek and let it fall uselessly to his side. 



Her eyes cracked open then, dreamy, glowing with
contentment, and mildly bemused at his reaction. “No,”
she purred, lazy and sated. When he squinted
doubtingly down at her, she smiled and reached up to
cup his jaw. “Harm, I promise, no. That was . . .” 



Just the memory made her tingle, and she stretched in
response, bowing her back and hugging it to her.
“Incredible,” she decided, and let him see the truth
of it in her eyes. “Wonderful. Fantastic.” She
chuckled at his _expression, at once smug and
spellbound. The sound danced alluringly across his
nerves. 



“You cried, Mac,” he argued fretfully, not ready to
forgive himself the imagined offense. “I was too
rough.” 



Rolling her eyes, she grabbed him by the ears and
planted a smacking kiss on his lips. He could be such
a martyr. 



“You were perfect,” she declared indulgently. “Any
better, and I’d be dead.” 



Appeased, he let the smile come at last, then chuffed
a laugh as he kissed her again and dropped to his
back. “You wouldn’t be the only one.” 



But as he slipped from inside her, still raw and
wobbly, he remembered something else, something he’d
never forgotten with any other woman. Bolting upright,
he cursed himself, slumped dejectedly back against the
headboard. 



‘A gentleman always asks.’ He’d heard it millions of
times from Frank, his teachers, his coaches, CAGs
before shore leave. The words raced through his head,
taunting, recriminating. ‘It shows caring, foresight,
and respect. A gentleman never assumes.’ 



He moved so abruptly, Mac instinctively sat up as
well, then scanned the foot of her bed for insects or
mice. Harm was afraid of mice, she knew. Half-relieved
to find nothing amiss, half-perplexed by this strange
behavior, she stroked his shoulder, frowned in
concern. “Harm? What’s wrong?” 



“I’m sorry, Mac,” he breathed gravely, and her heart
stopped. Regret. She hadn’t expected regret, wasn’t
sure she could cope with it and keep herself intact.
Stunned, defenseless against it, she could only wait,
only listen. 



He stuttered, plowed a hand anxiously through his
hair. “I didn’t ask – I mean, I didn’t use . . . I
didn’t even think . . .” 



She let out a nervous breath and folded shaking hands.
Okay, she thought cautiously, this didn’t sound
exactly like regret, so far. She could deal with this.
“Harm, what are you talking about?” The question was
gentle and slow, careful, considering. “Do you – do
you mean protection?” 



When he nodded, forlorn, she nearly laughed in relief.
That was all? *That* was all? Christ, he’d almost
given her a heart attack. 



She touched his shoulder again and waited till he
looked at her. Her smile was small and encouraging,
her brow still wrinkled uncertainly. “I’m on the pill,
Harm, you know that. And we were sitting right next to
each other in the corpsman’s tent when he gave us the
clean bill of health.” 



Fondly, he remembered the day. Mac had been beside
herself, convinced she was immune to radiation and
just as sure he was somehow acutely susceptible. If he
hadn’t felt the same way about her, he probably would
have been insulted. When their tests had come back
negative, they’d both wilted with relief. Mac had
snickered when the medic diagnosed Harm as slightly
anemic. She had also been the one to remember when to
take him for his iron supplements and B-12 shots and
to haul his ass in for a two-week retest once they got
back to Washington. 



Harm, for his part, had been livid when he found out
Mac was suffering from moderate dehydration. After
dragging her to the mess tent and looming
threateningly at her side while she drank six glasses
of water under protest, he had given her a strict
lecture on the foolishness of giving her partner half
her water rations when she damn well needed them
herself, and *no,* her
I-grew-up-in-the-deserts-of-Yuma excuse was *not*
going to cut it this time. 



It had turned into quite the argument, motivated
mostly by relief from the tension of their weeks in
Afghanistan. “Well, you’re the one with anemia!” she’d
accused scathingly, stepping right up to his toes as
she always did when they fought. “There’s no iron in
water, brainiac,” he’d retorted, glowering down at
her, arms crossed stubbornly over his chest. Then
she’d paused for a sip of water and, before he could
guess her intent, squirted a thin stream of it right
in his face. For a moment, she’d looked almost as
shocked as he’d felt. Her stupor hadn’t lasted any
longer than it took for the first drops to splash from
his nose to his gaping mouth, however, and she’d
stifled a giggle and taken off at a sprint for her
tent. No longer angry, but seeing no reasonable
alternative to giving chase, he had run after her
full-tilt, nearly beating her to the tent, wrestling
her to the sand inside, and tickling her until she
screamed with laughter. 



The recollection made him smile until he noticed Mac
pulling away from him on the bed, drawing her knees up
and wrapping her arms around them in sudden
embarrassment. 



“I guess I . . . oh,” she said quietly, and the corner
of her mouth lifted in an empty impression of a smile.
“I guess I just assumed there was no one . . . It’s
none of my business.” Her tone changed quickly to
brisk negligence, her shoulders rolled with impatience
and forced indifference. 



Biting the corner of her lip, she straightened the
bedspread beside her. When she would’ve leapt up and
ducked into the bathroom to hide the silly, naïve
tears punching at her nose, he snagged her by the
waist and plunked her, stiff and edgy, between his
legs. 



“Sarah,” he scolded soothingly, loving the shudder
that rippled through her when he said it. “It is your
business, and you *know* there’s been no one else.”
Because her spine remained rigid against his front and
she had crossed her arms self-consciously over her
breasts, he folded his own around her, nudged and
prodded until he’d snuck them underneath her elbows.
In subtle persuasion, he waltzed his lips up the side
of her neck, scratched deftly with his teeth when she
tipped her head onto his shoulder in accommodation. 



“Then why – ” Her breath broke as he hit the spot
between her neck and shoulder, so he did it again, and
again. Gloried in the restless hum of his name on her
lips. 



“Why the worry?” she managed, blinking fog from her
mind. 



“I should have asked, Mac,” he explained, exasperated
with himself not only for forgetting but for causing
all this trouble when there was still so much of her
to enjoy. “It’s . . . polite – ” He ignored the
chortle of amusement that inspired. “What if you
wanted me to wear one?” 



“Is *that* all you were worried about?”  



In fact, yes, but it just made him feel stupid when
she said it like that, so he kept his mouth shut. 



With an exaggerated sigh, she flopped back against him
and drummed her hands on his thighs. “Harm, you drive
me nuts,” she announced happily. 



He untangled his left arm to push her hair out of his
way and settled his chin comfortably on her shoulder.
“You’re the one driving, baby.” 



A groan at the old joke was her only reply. After a
minute of reflection, she turned to peek up at him.
“Can I ask you something?” 



He nodded, ready to grant her anything when she looked
at him like that. 



“You’ve been sort of . . . different lately. With me,
I mean. More open . . . more affectionate than usual.”




“Really?” 



His innocent guise must have been convincing; she
whirled to face him, eyes wide with surprise. Then
smirked when she saw he was teasing. 



“Harm. You knew it. Why the change? Weren’t you sure
it was what you wanted?” 



The idea might have angered her a week, even a day
ago. But the way he was holding her, the tone of his
voice when he said her name, told her that if he
hadn’t been sure three months ago, he was now. That
was all that mattered. The key to deciphering Harm was
knowing when to let some actions speak louder than
others. 



He snorted in gratifying disbelief and gathered her
against him again. “Yeah, right. This is what I’ve
wanted for a long time, Mac. I mean . . . not just
*this,* but everything we’ve had over the last few
weeks that we didn’t before.” 



She mulled that over for a few seconds, decided she
liked the sound of it. “Well – and don’t think I’m
complaining, because I’m definitely not – but why
didn’t you say something? I’d’ve been a lot quicker to
join the game if I’d known how it would end.” 



He chuckled at that, as she’d intended, then caught
her fingers, pulled their left hands out in front of
them and marveled at the differences as he formed an
explanation. 



“I guess I didn’t know what to say,” he began
haltingly. “I mean, I couldn’t just go up to you and
suggest we give it a shot. I thought maybe I could . .
. ease you into it.” 



He could all but hear her eyebrow rise skeptically.
“Ease me into it?” 



He huffed, impatient at his uncharacteristic lack of
eloquence and tried another tack. “How many chances
have you given me, Mac?” 



She hesitated, then shrugged, baffled by the question.




He answered for her. “At least a dozen this year
alone. How many more are you willing to give?” 



“Well, how many more do you think you’ll need, Harm?”
Her voice was wary and helpless with the knowledge
that, no matter how high the number, she would somehow
have to find whatever patience he asked of her. She
didn’t have a choice anymore, hadn’t for a long time. 



He understood all she didn’t say, kissed her neck, her
jaw, her cheek in humble gratitude. He wasn’t proud of
taking advantage of her soft, forgiving nature but was
prepared to make up to her for each time he had. “I
didn’t want to find out the hard way,” he admitted
wryly. “It’s just . . . I’m so tired, Mac. Of this
distance between us and of forcing myself to keep it
in place. My body’s tired, my mind. My heart. I know
what I want – hell, I’ve known for a long time. But I
was afraid it was too late to go after it.” 



Her eyes filled with sympathy and hope and an ache of
love. The quiet joy of it trembled in her voice. “Why
didn’t you just tell me that?” 



Harm rolled his eyes in chagrin. “What was I supposed
to say, Mac? That I want you? I think that’s been
pretty evident over the past six years. That I need
you? That’s no secret. That I love you, that I’d do
anything for you, that you’re the most important thing
in my life?” He bumped her forward with his shoulder,
tilted her chin so he could look her in the eyes when
he said it. “You already know that, Sarah. Maybe all I
can tell you that’s changed is that I’m ready. Ready
to let go of whatever I was holding onto that kept us
apart. What about you?” 



Tearfully, she took it in, memorized every word, every
nuance to replay the confession whenever she needed
it. She figured her reply was pretty evident, given
her behavior since they’d entered the apartment. She
didn’t do that with just any man who signed his name
on her back, after all. But his eyes were so blue and
unsure, she thought she’d better spell it out for him.




“I’ve never been an ‘easing into it’ sort of girl,
Harm.” Her tone was warm and suggestive, her eyes even
more so as she spun demurely to face him. She sparkled
with the knowledge that it was her turn to have fun
now. Inch by inch, her hands climbed his thighs as she
melted temptingly closer. “Why don’t you just lie back
and let me show you my philosophy?” 



His eyes lit with awareness and arousal. The little
sailor who should’ve been about gasping his last had
suddenly hit his second wind and rose intrepidly to
the challenge. There was just one more thing . . .  



Resolutely, he placed his hands over hers, ensnared
her in a gaze gone solemn and sweet. “Tell me you love
me, Sarah.” It was more need than demand, more a hope
than an order. 



Her smile was more beautiful than anything he could
imagine, the hint of her tongue on his lower lip the
most erotic thing he’d ever felt. “I love you,” she
whispered, heart shining in her gaze. 



He smiled back, utter contentment with a glint of
anticipation. “Then I’m all yours.”  



And lifted his hands in surrender. 



-Thanks for reading!