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st_aurafinaTitle: Some Assembly Required
Fandom: Person of Interest
Rating: Mature
Words: 3k
Characters/Pairings: Harold Finch/Grace Hendricks
Warnings/Content: Light bondage, sub!Harold, identity crises, kink negotiation
Notes: Thanks totalkingtothesky, lilacsigil and branwyn who all helped me get this fic done.
Summary: Harold is still putting Harold Martin's identity together, and now Grace wants to take it to pieces.
Also at the Archive
"How do you feel about letting me tie you up some time?" Grace brought the idea up at dinner at Le Bernadin.
They were bathed in soft light, surrounded by the quiet murmur of well-dressed patrons with high thread count napkins on their laps.
Harold took a moment to spread butter on a broken roll and gather his thoughts. "I didn't realise you were a connoisseur of such things," he said, carefully.
Grace smiled and shrugged, as casually as if she'd admitted she was into pineapple on pizza. "It's a thing. I don't like it with everyone but I think I'll like it with you. All that control you have. It would be amazing to see you let go of it."
Harold looked from side to side, but it seemed that the diners around them either didn't hear or didn't care. "I've never indulged before," he admitted. He was a little surprised that Grace had. Harold wasn't shocked, but it was strange to realise that he had certain preconceptions of people who tied other people up. Grace did not fit that image at all.
He and Grace had only been intimate a few times, and everything had seemed perfectly conventional. Lovely beyond imagining – she was captivating – but things had gone very much the way to which he was accustomed. It occurred to him that perhaps he was the conventional one, which, given his work with the Machine, was ironic.
"There's that control," she said, cheerfully. "Have you ever thought about lying back and letting someone drive you wild? Pleasure and frustration all building at once?" She sighed, dreamy and a little flushed. "It would look so good on you, I think."
Harold watched her, perplexed and intrigued. Grace was fascinating and wonderful, so open and honest about herself sometimes that he almost doubted her integrity. Nobody was that comfortable with themselves, surely. He certainly wasn't.
Right now, she was investigating the baby carrots on her plate, lifting them up with the heavy silver fork to see what had been used to tie them into an artful bouquet. Perhaps her train of thought had led her from bondage of a sexual nature to one of vegetable.
She caught him watching her and she smiled. "I love coming here but the food is so pretty, I feel guilty eating it. Well. Just a little guilty." Then she speared one and put it into her mouth, closing her eyes briefly. Harold imagined the cardamom honey glaze flooding her tongue, thought briefly about looking away while she had an orgasmic moment with honey-roasted carrots, and then decided that Grace was too beautiful not to watch in the throes of passion. He loved the way she enjoyed pleasure. What she was proposing was perhaps a little intimidating, but if it was what Grace wanted, it couldn't be bad.
Grace was everything he wasn't: open and expressive, brave and experimental. Harold wondered why the Machine had pushed the two of them together, when they were so different.
"You okay?" Grace said. "Did I freak you out? I'm sorry."
"No," Harold said. He reached for her hand, covered it with his own. "I'm not freaked out. I'm just amazed at how lucky I am to have met you. I love you, and I want you to drive me wild." He took a fortifying sip of wine. "You're driving me wild right now eating carrots, I can't imagine what heights of pleasure await me."
Grace laughed, and took a mouthful of wine too. Then she moved her hand so that it covered Harold's. This time she watched him carefully for a reaction. Harold stared at their hands, saw her fingers long and strong and flexible holding his still, and his breath caught. He felt a tension move through his body, felt his cock swelling under the table, felt the sudden roughness of the cotton undershirt against his nipples.
"There," Grace said, and her voice was soothing but no less arousing. "I think this is going to work out just fine."
The manacles were padded, but not the jokey fluffy pink kind Harold had seen on mainstream TV or at stag parties. They were leather, brown and glossy, soft and well-kept. His shoes were bespoke; he knew the smell of leather conditioner. He sat on the end of her bed and held them. Grace stood in front of him, and she showed him how they'd fit around his wrists, where they'd be attached to the bedhead. The padding was wool felt, thick and cream-coloured. He rubbed it between his fingers, curious.
"You're in computers," she said. "I thought you'll want to be careful of your hands, right? I dated a oboist, and she wanted hers treated like Jian tea bowls."
"It seems sensible enough to me." Harold passed the manacles back to her, and wondered at how easily she transmitted personal information: hello, I'm kinky, I'm bisexual, I like carrots and I know my Chinese porcelain. Her mode of communication was like a lesson in coding well.
She took the manacles, threw them easily on to the bed behind him, and then stepped forward to cup his face. "You doing okay? It's a lot to take in, the first time." Her face was serious, a little worried, but easy. She was being so careful not to frighten him, to make sure he understood that this wasn't vital to their relationship, that this was meant to be fun.
"It's a lot, but none of it is bad," he said. "It's okay, I'm on board so far."
She bent then, and kissed him, her mouth opening around his. It was different to the way they'd kissed earlier this evening: she dictated pace, she held his head at the angle that suited her. Her hand felt so good at the back of his head, certain and sure. He could feel each of her long fingers against his scalp. He closed his eyes, let himself fall into the sensation of being led and guided by her.
She was sitting astride his legs when their lips drew apart. Harold was breathing fast by then, and leaned in when she stroked his cheek. He was astoundingly hard, and there was no way she didn't know that, not sitting as she was, pressed hard against his groin.
"Just one more thing, okay?" she said. He felt her fingers move up his back, nails firm against the fabric of his shirt, not enough to tear, but enough that he was well aware that they were there. "Do you know what a safeword is?"
"Yes," he said, chasing her mouth with his own. He held her at her waist, palms on her hips, fingers spread across the soft flesh there, imagining her dress gone, the white of her skin, the salt smell of her arousal.
"Harold," she said. "Look at me. I need you to concentrate."
"I am," he said. "It's just that you're so beautiful."
She took his hands and held them. Then she smiled and kissed his knuckles. "I like red, yellow, green. Like traffic lights."
He grinned at her, feeling goofy and turned on, wishing he could slide her dress off. "Traffic lights, got it."
"Red means stop, yellow means wait, green means all good." She held his hands, looked into his face, checking for understanding.
"Can I say green now?" Harold rubbed his cheek against her fingers wrapped around his.
She stood up, though she didn't let go of him. "It's serious, Harold – I can't relax and enjoy myself if I am worried you're not okay."
"Green for go, yellow for uncertainty, red for if I am worried or unhappy," he said. "Is that the gist?"
She kissed him. "That is the entire gist," she said, and reached for the manacles.
She didn't undress him before she cuffed him. "I think I'll like you all rumpled and dishevelled," she said, and slipped one leg over his hips to sit on him. He felt the warmth of her thighs through the fabric of his trousers, thought about how close she was, how easy it would be to slip inside her, and he arched under her without thinking.
Grace laughed as his hips lifted her up, then leaned over him, brushed his forehead with her fingertip. "I love how eager you are. You're a man of hidden appetites, and now I get to find them all out."
Not being able to move his arms made Harold's skin prickle, an anticipation of where Grace's fingers would trail next. She slid off the tie bar and held the slim silver feather in her palm to admire the engraved detail.
"Oh, Harold, this is beautiful. I can tell that you love it," she said, tracing the silver vanes with one careful fingertip before putting it on the bedside table. Harold followed it with his eyes; the clip was something he had put on this morning without thinking. Grace was correct: it was a custom piece he'd had made for himself, not specifically tailored to Harold Martin's identity.
They were at Harold Martin's place tonight: a solid but elegant brownstone overlooking Washington Square Park. Grace had been here several times, and he already knew she loved the high ceilings, the way the light flooded in through the front windows. Now, cuffed to the bed that had been chosen by an interior designer given a profile of Mr Martin, Harold realised Grace might learn things about Harold Martin that neither of them knew. He had not realised that information exchange would be a part of the process tonight, and it worried him.
Grace loosened his tie, and he watched her long fingers stroke the silk: saffron with a bottle-green pinstripe. Harold had picked up early that Grace loved colour and texture, hence Harold Martin's wardrobe had evolved a certain flamboyance that none of his other personae had.
This brought home the understanding of Harold Martin as a work in progress. He had been trying to build a perfect partner, because of course Grace deserved only perfection. The problem was that perfection was asymptotic: the closer he got to that ideal, the clearer it became that he would never reach it.
"Let's loosen a few buttons," said Grace, and pulled on the tie. As it slid through his collar, Harold had the urge to reach for it and hold it back, retain every flimsy piece of Harold Martin he could. The chains rattled, loud against the heavy wood, and Grace frowned.
"You okay?" Grace cupped his chin. "You tensed up all of a sudden. You want to give me a colour?"
Harold opened his mouth to say green, because he was fine. Of course he was fine. What sane man would have a problem with this scenario? Then his stomach clenched, because he didn't want to lie to Grace, not Grace who was honest and open and trusted him. And what was he doing, but deceiving Grace with bright colours and expensive dinners and this house that belonged to a man who barely existed?
"Oh, Harold," said Grace, and leaned up to undo the cuffs. "It's okay, it's okay, sweetheart."
He started to protest, but she arched over him, kissed his cheek, his eyelids, and he felt the damp of tears where her lips touched his.
"It's okay, it really is," Grace said. They were sitting on Harold Martin's leather sofa. Grace had grabbed for the plaid blanket folded on the arm and wrapped it around his shoulders and her own. It was soft and artfully faded as though Harold Martin had owned it for years. Probably threw it over his bed at college, and it had lingered ever since, worn and comforting. It was so easy to fabricate these details of a life and it had never bothered Harold before. Now that he was weaving Grace into that fabric, Harold was less certain.
"I'm sorry. I don't want you to think I wasn't into it. I was, until I over-thought it." He hadn't really cried, not much, but his eyes felt raw and red-rimmed.
Grace leaned her head against his. "It's surprisingly intense. I'm sorry if I rushed you into it."
Harold breathed in the smell of her, felt the warmth of her body start to warm him too. "Please don't apologise. And…" He tried to structure the words as truthfully as he could. God, this was hard. Harold had never enjoyed struggling to get things right. This was the chronic issue of the gifted: one was good at things from the outset. "I liked it, I really did, until it felt like you were taking me to pieces."
Grace kissed his ear. "The undressing wasn't good?"
Her mouth felt good against his skin, set off little impulses that shivered all the way down his back, waking him up, chasing away fear. "I think, maybe not good right now."
"But the cuffs…" Grace spoke against the curve of his ear and he drew in a breath, remembering the pleasant frustration of not being able to touch her, of not being allowed to touch her. The cold, heavy panic in the pit of his stomach had almost abated.
When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse. "The cuffs, I liked. A lot."
Grace knelt up on the sofa, touched his face, cupped his chin and turned it towards her. "Tell me what you liked about the cuffs, Harold. And maybe we can put them on again."
Harold gazed up at her, imagined his arms restrained, and tried to find the words to explain. "When you're in charge, then I'm here only for you," he tried. "I can't anyone else but the person making you feel good. And I want you to feel good, Grace. So good." He craned his head to press his lips to her wrist where she still cupped his face, then paused, waiting for permission. Grace smiled, and held it for him to kiss.
"I think I see a workaround for this," she said, as he lavished attention on her palm. "One where everyone gets what they want."
Grace sprawled in the armchair, naked, a centrepiece of pale skin and red hair against the dark green velvet, watching Harold with an indulgent expression, expectant and kind, awaiting her due. She was beautiful, her pale skin blushing the softest pink in the warmth of the living room.
Harold knelt, glad of Harold Martin's preference for thick carpet. His hands were cuffed again, but this time behind his back, so his thumbs brushed the orange satin of his waistcoat. He gazed up at Grace, astounded by how much he wanted her, the things he would promise to do in order to gain her favour. He was hard again, so hard it hurt, so hard it made him kneel up straight because bending forward was painful. All for her, it was all for her, and perhaps that was the key to Harold Martin: all this extravagance, all for the woman he loved.
Grace curled her legs up, rested her arms on her knees, easy and comfortable against the lavish upholstery. Harold remembered meeting the interior designer for the house, how she had delicately questioned whether green velvet was a little too baroque for today's modern man. He smirked. Perhaps there was no such thing as too baroque for Grace.
"Is that a little smile?" Grace asked. "So this is going a little better?"
Harold laughed. "I was remembering when I bought that chair. I didn't know it would be put to such good use." He sighed, and gazed at Grace, sitting in her chair like some languid empress at her ease. Then he remembered her question. "Yes, yes, a lot better," he said, then with reflexive courtesy, "How are you?"
That made Grace laugh, easy and bright and happy. "Why, I'm just fine, Harold, thank you." She eyed him. "Would you like to make me feel wonderful?" she asked.
"So very much," Harold said, the words escaping fast. "Please?"
"Of course you may," she said, and spread her legs, hooking them over the arms of the chair. She was glorious, open and wet and inviting, utterly at ease in Harold Martin's house.
Harold leaned forward to press his lips to the soft skin of her thigh, and followed it with tiny kisses upward, eager to please and perfectly at home at last.
Grace's body was soft in Harold's arms, muscles relaxed, breathing even and calm. She'd fallen into sleep slowly, her words blurring, the pauses between them growing longer and longer.
Harold Martin's bed was comfortable and now comfortably rumpled. They'd made love again, this time with Grace above him, riding him, driving the pace and directing his uncuffed hands. Harold had loved watching her body move and bow against his as she came, had loved holding her through the aftershocks, had loved the way she wrapped around him now, pliant and content. He could hardly believe that he was in her life, and she in his, or more truthfully, in Harold Martin's.
Harold Martin changed a little each time he was with Grace, but surely that was a normal process, a part of every couple's life? The fact that Harold Martin was a fiction was irrelevant. Anyway, each memory he and Grace shared made Harold Martin more and more real. Harold Martin had become more real tonight.
Harold stroked Grace's hair, bent over her to kiss an ear. "I love you," he said. She couldn't hear him, but that was fine, that was the intention, this first time he said them to her. He wanted to be sure – that he could say them, that they would sound honest when filtered through the reality of Harold Martin's life.
He would never willingly lie to Grace. It was just that perfect honesty was not an option.
Fandom: Person of Interest
Rating: Mature
Words: 3k
Characters/Pairings: Harold Finch/Grace Hendricks
Warnings/Content: Light bondage, sub!Harold, identity crises, kink negotiation
Notes: Thanks to
talkingtothesky, lilacsigil and branwyn who all helped me get this fic done.Summary: Harold is still putting Harold Martin's identity together, and now Grace wants to take it to pieces.
Also at the Archive
"How do you feel about letting me tie you up some time?" Grace brought the idea up at dinner at Le Bernadin.
They were bathed in soft light, surrounded by the quiet murmur of well-dressed patrons with high thread count napkins on their laps.
Harold took a moment to spread butter on a broken roll and gather his thoughts. "I didn't realise you were a connoisseur of such things," he said, carefully.
Grace smiled and shrugged, as casually as if she'd admitted she was into pineapple on pizza. "It's a thing. I don't like it with everyone but I think I'll like it with you. All that control you have. It would be amazing to see you let go of it."
Harold looked from side to side, but it seemed that the diners around them either didn't hear or didn't care. "I've never indulged before," he admitted. He was a little surprised that Grace had. Harold wasn't shocked, but it was strange to realise that he had certain preconceptions of people who tied other people up. Grace did not fit that image at all.
He and Grace had only been intimate a few times, and everything had seemed perfectly conventional. Lovely beyond imagining – she was captivating – but things had gone very much the way to which he was accustomed. It occurred to him that perhaps he was the conventional one, which, given his work with the Machine, was ironic.
"There's that control," she said, cheerfully. "Have you ever thought about lying back and letting someone drive you wild? Pleasure and frustration all building at once?" She sighed, dreamy and a little flushed. "It would look so good on you, I think."
Harold watched her, perplexed and intrigued. Grace was fascinating and wonderful, so open and honest about herself sometimes that he almost doubted her integrity. Nobody was that comfortable with themselves, surely. He certainly wasn't.
Right now, she was investigating the baby carrots on her plate, lifting them up with the heavy silver fork to see what had been used to tie them into an artful bouquet. Perhaps her train of thought had led her from bondage of a sexual nature to one of vegetable.
She caught him watching her and she smiled. "I love coming here but the food is so pretty, I feel guilty eating it. Well. Just a little guilty." Then she speared one and put it into her mouth, closing her eyes briefly. Harold imagined the cardamom honey glaze flooding her tongue, thought briefly about looking away while she had an orgasmic moment with honey-roasted carrots, and then decided that Grace was too beautiful not to watch in the throes of passion. He loved the way she enjoyed pleasure. What she was proposing was perhaps a little intimidating, but if it was what Grace wanted, it couldn't be bad.
Grace was everything he wasn't: open and expressive, brave and experimental. Harold wondered why the Machine had pushed the two of them together, when they were so different.
"You okay?" Grace said. "Did I freak you out? I'm sorry."
"No," Harold said. He reached for her hand, covered it with his own. "I'm not freaked out. I'm just amazed at how lucky I am to have met you. I love you, and I want you to drive me wild." He took a fortifying sip of wine. "You're driving me wild right now eating carrots, I can't imagine what heights of pleasure await me."
Grace laughed, and took a mouthful of wine too. Then she moved her hand so that it covered Harold's. This time she watched him carefully for a reaction. Harold stared at their hands, saw her fingers long and strong and flexible holding his still, and his breath caught. He felt a tension move through his body, felt his cock swelling under the table, felt the sudden roughness of the cotton undershirt against his nipples.
"There," Grace said, and her voice was soothing but no less arousing. "I think this is going to work out just fine."
The manacles were padded, but not the jokey fluffy pink kind Harold had seen on mainstream TV or at stag parties. They were leather, brown and glossy, soft and well-kept. His shoes were bespoke; he knew the smell of leather conditioner. He sat on the end of her bed and held them. Grace stood in front of him, and she showed him how they'd fit around his wrists, where they'd be attached to the bedhead. The padding was wool felt, thick and cream-coloured. He rubbed it between his fingers, curious.
"You're in computers," she said. "I thought you'll want to be careful of your hands, right? I dated a oboist, and she wanted hers treated like Jian tea bowls."
"It seems sensible enough to me." Harold passed the manacles back to her, and wondered at how easily she transmitted personal information: hello, I'm kinky, I'm bisexual, I like carrots and I know my Chinese porcelain. Her mode of communication was like a lesson in coding well.
She took the manacles, threw them easily on to the bed behind him, and then stepped forward to cup his face. "You doing okay? It's a lot to take in, the first time." Her face was serious, a little worried, but easy. She was being so careful not to frighten him, to make sure he understood that this wasn't vital to their relationship, that this was meant to be fun.
"It's a lot, but none of it is bad," he said. "It's okay, I'm on board so far."
She bent then, and kissed him, her mouth opening around his. It was different to the way they'd kissed earlier this evening: she dictated pace, she held his head at the angle that suited her. Her hand felt so good at the back of his head, certain and sure. He could feel each of her long fingers against his scalp. He closed his eyes, let himself fall into the sensation of being led and guided by her.
She was sitting astride his legs when their lips drew apart. Harold was breathing fast by then, and leaned in when she stroked his cheek. He was astoundingly hard, and there was no way she didn't know that, not sitting as she was, pressed hard against his groin.
"Just one more thing, okay?" she said. He felt her fingers move up his back, nails firm against the fabric of his shirt, not enough to tear, but enough that he was well aware that they were there. "Do you know what a safeword is?"
"Yes," he said, chasing her mouth with his own. He held her at her waist, palms on her hips, fingers spread across the soft flesh there, imagining her dress gone, the white of her skin, the salt smell of her arousal.
"Harold," she said. "Look at me. I need you to concentrate."
"I am," he said. "It's just that you're so beautiful."
She took his hands and held them. Then she smiled and kissed his knuckles. "I like red, yellow, green. Like traffic lights."
He grinned at her, feeling goofy and turned on, wishing he could slide her dress off. "Traffic lights, got it."
"Red means stop, yellow means wait, green means all good." She held his hands, looked into his face, checking for understanding.
"Can I say green now?" Harold rubbed his cheek against her fingers wrapped around his.
She stood up, though she didn't let go of him. "It's serious, Harold – I can't relax and enjoy myself if I am worried you're not okay."
"Green for go, yellow for uncertainty, red for if I am worried or unhappy," he said. "Is that the gist?"
She kissed him. "That is the entire gist," she said, and reached for the manacles.
She didn't undress him before she cuffed him. "I think I'll like you all rumpled and dishevelled," she said, and slipped one leg over his hips to sit on him. He felt the warmth of her thighs through the fabric of his trousers, thought about how close she was, how easy it would be to slip inside her, and he arched under her without thinking.
Grace laughed as his hips lifted her up, then leaned over him, brushed his forehead with her fingertip. "I love how eager you are. You're a man of hidden appetites, and now I get to find them all out."
Not being able to move his arms made Harold's skin prickle, an anticipation of where Grace's fingers would trail next. She slid off the tie bar and held the slim silver feather in her palm to admire the engraved detail.
"Oh, Harold, this is beautiful. I can tell that you love it," she said, tracing the silver vanes with one careful fingertip before putting it on the bedside table. Harold followed it with his eyes; the clip was something he had put on this morning without thinking. Grace was correct: it was a custom piece he'd had made for himself, not specifically tailored to Harold Martin's identity.
They were at Harold Martin's place tonight: a solid but elegant brownstone overlooking Washington Square Park. Grace had been here several times, and he already knew she loved the high ceilings, the way the light flooded in through the front windows. Now, cuffed to the bed that had been chosen by an interior designer given a profile of Mr Martin, Harold realised Grace might learn things about Harold Martin that neither of them knew. He had not realised that information exchange would be a part of the process tonight, and it worried him.
Grace loosened his tie, and he watched her long fingers stroke the silk: saffron with a bottle-green pinstripe. Harold had picked up early that Grace loved colour and texture, hence Harold Martin's wardrobe had evolved a certain flamboyance that none of his other personae had.
This brought home the understanding of Harold Martin as a work in progress. He had been trying to build a perfect partner, because of course Grace deserved only perfection. The problem was that perfection was asymptotic: the closer he got to that ideal, the clearer it became that he would never reach it.
"Let's loosen a few buttons," said Grace, and pulled on the tie. As it slid through his collar, Harold had the urge to reach for it and hold it back, retain every flimsy piece of Harold Martin he could. The chains rattled, loud against the heavy wood, and Grace frowned.
"You okay?" Grace cupped his chin. "You tensed up all of a sudden. You want to give me a colour?"
Harold opened his mouth to say green, because he was fine. Of course he was fine. What sane man would have a problem with this scenario? Then his stomach clenched, because he didn't want to lie to Grace, not Grace who was honest and open and trusted him. And what was he doing, but deceiving Grace with bright colours and expensive dinners and this house that belonged to a man who barely existed?
"Oh, Harold," said Grace, and leaned up to undo the cuffs. "It's okay, it's okay, sweetheart."
He started to protest, but she arched over him, kissed his cheek, his eyelids, and he felt the damp of tears where her lips touched his.
"It's okay, it really is," Grace said. They were sitting on Harold Martin's leather sofa. Grace had grabbed for the plaid blanket folded on the arm and wrapped it around his shoulders and her own. It was soft and artfully faded as though Harold Martin had owned it for years. Probably threw it over his bed at college, and it had lingered ever since, worn and comforting. It was so easy to fabricate these details of a life and it had never bothered Harold before. Now that he was weaving Grace into that fabric, Harold was less certain.
"I'm sorry. I don't want you to think I wasn't into it. I was, until I over-thought it." He hadn't really cried, not much, but his eyes felt raw and red-rimmed.
Grace leaned her head against his. "It's surprisingly intense. I'm sorry if I rushed you into it."
Harold breathed in the smell of her, felt the warmth of her body start to warm him too. "Please don't apologise. And…" He tried to structure the words as truthfully as he could. God, this was hard. Harold had never enjoyed struggling to get things right. This was the chronic issue of the gifted: one was good at things from the outset. "I liked it, I really did, until it felt like you were taking me to pieces."
Grace kissed his ear. "The undressing wasn't good?"
Her mouth felt good against his skin, set off little impulses that shivered all the way down his back, waking him up, chasing away fear. "I think, maybe not good right now."
"But the cuffs…" Grace spoke against the curve of his ear and he drew in a breath, remembering the pleasant frustration of not being able to touch her, of not being allowed to touch her. The cold, heavy panic in the pit of his stomach had almost abated.
When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse. "The cuffs, I liked. A lot."
Grace knelt up on the sofa, touched his face, cupped his chin and turned it towards her. "Tell me what you liked about the cuffs, Harold. And maybe we can put them on again."
Harold gazed up at her, imagined his arms restrained, and tried to find the words to explain. "When you're in charge, then I'm here only for you," he tried. "I can't anyone else but the person making you feel good. And I want you to feel good, Grace. So good." He craned his head to press his lips to her wrist where she still cupped his face, then paused, waiting for permission. Grace smiled, and held it for him to kiss.
"I think I see a workaround for this," she said, as he lavished attention on her palm. "One where everyone gets what they want."
Grace sprawled in the armchair, naked, a centrepiece of pale skin and red hair against the dark green velvet, watching Harold with an indulgent expression, expectant and kind, awaiting her due. She was beautiful, her pale skin blushing the softest pink in the warmth of the living room.
Harold knelt, glad of Harold Martin's preference for thick carpet. His hands were cuffed again, but this time behind his back, so his thumbs brushed the orange satin of his waistcoat. He gazed up at Grace, astounded by how much he wanted her, the things he would promise to do in order to gain her favour. He was hard again, so hard it hurt, so hard it made him kneel up straight because bending forward was painful. All for her, it was all for her, and perhaps that was the key to Harold Martin: all this extravagance, all for the woman he loved.
Grace curled her legs up, rested her arms on her knees, easy and comfortable against the lavish upholstery. Harold remembered meeting the interior designer for the house, how she had delicately questioned whether green velvet was a little too baroque for today's modern man. He smirked. Perhaps there was no such thing as too baroque for Grace.
"Is that a little smile?" Grace asked. "So this is going a little better?"
Harold laughed. "I was remembering when I bought that chair. I didn't know it would be put to such good use." He sighed, and gazed at Grace, sitting in her chair like some languid empress at her ease. Then he remembered her question. "Yes, yes, a lot better," he said, then with reflexive courtesy, "How are you?"
That made Grace laugh, easy and bright and happy. "Why, I'm just fine, Harold, thank you." She eyed him. "Would you like to make me feel wonderful?" she asked.
"So very much," Harold said, the words escaping fast. "Please?"
"Of course you may," she said, and spread her legs, hooking them over the arms of the chair. She was glorious, open and wet and inviting, utterly at ease in Harold Martin's house.
Harold leaned forward to press his lips to the soft skin of her thigh, and followed it with tiny kisses upward, eager to please and perfectly at home at last.
Grace's body was soft in Harold's arms, muscles relaxed, breathing even and calm. She'd fallen into sleep slowly, her words blurring, the pauses between them growing longer and longer.
Harold Martin's bed was comfortable and now comfortably rumpled. They'd made love again, this time with Grace above him, riding him, driving the pace and directing his uncuffed hands. Harold had loved watching her body move and bow against his as she came, had loved holding her through the aftershocks, had loved the way she wrapped around him now, pliant and content. He could hardly believe that he was in her life, and she in his, or more truthfully, in Harold Martin's.
Harold Martin changed a little each time he was with Grace, but surely that was a normal process, a part of every couple's life? The fact that Harold Martin was a fiction was irrelevant. Anyway, each memory he and Grace shared made Harold Martin more and more real. Harold Martin had become more real tonight.
Harold stroked Grace's hair, bent over her to kiss an ear. "I love you," he said. She couldn't hear him, but that was fine, that was the intention, this first time he said them to her. He wanted to be sure – that he could say them, that they would sound honest when filtered through the reality of Harold Martin's life.
He would never willingly lie to Grace. It was just that perfect honesty was not an option.
no subject
Date: 2020-05-05 10:16 am (UTC)