AN- Sorry for the wait! But better late than never!

As much as I ship Jarvey, and as hot as they are, this is the hardest thing to write! But the people demanded and I am but a servant so I'm just gonna finish this off with a slightly citrusy chapter. That gives a glimmer of resolution at least. Had to change the rating to an M… Tried my best with this, but alas.

Saw the trailer for season 3 though, so we should be getting some Jarvey material out of that hopefully. Love you guys

There is a way which seemeth right unto a man, but the end thereof are the ways of death.

Funny how that singular thought should occur to him right then and there, just at the precise moment when he was sliding himself into the woman. The Woman.

The end thereof are the ways of death.

Death. Capital D, small –eath.

There is a way which seemeth right unto a man… Like how she felt around him. One hand on her hip, the other holding her thigh in place. His neck, his lips, his teeth in the crook of her neck. His eyes shut. All his senses shut down, all his mind shut down so that the only part of him with any function at all was his dick inside her. And probably his heart, because he could hear the deafening sound of his own blood in his ears.

Slower than ice melting, hell, slower than ice freezing, he sank into her with a combination of him thrusting up and she grinding down on him.

A way that seemeth right…

It definitely did seemeth right, for damn sure… As if all his life had been leading up to this moment. As though it was all worth it. As though his naively gullible, broke-down father hooking up with his road trash mother had had a greater purpose besides just randomly creating two fucked up children. As though his mother had been destined to fuck his life up just enough to make him just pathetic enough for Jessica be interested enough to send him to Harvard and concerned enough to care enough to not mind being fucked by him against his kitchen counter.

Breathe…

And stop…

He stilled.

All of this, all the nakedness and the smiling, and the inhaling other people's scent, and the tongue-tasting, and skin-tasting, and the phone-book and all the general feels and emotions and that fucking sensation in his belly like the world was exploding. Or imploding. Whatever the fuck.

This was not what Harvey Specter did.

Stop.

Mayday!

Fucking mayday, jackass! Abort!

Alarms were going off all over the fucking place. Sirens were screaming. Volcanoes were erupting. Thunderstorms. Mudslides. A fucking monsoon of emotion. A maelstrom of chaos, discord and red-hot bloody carnage was descending upon him with all the grace of a tsunami conjured by Poseidon himself.

Like Achilles, he was playing with dangerous things. Dangerous people. People who could crush him if they wanted to. Crush him and then fly back to the cushy seat on the pantheon of almighty gods.

And he'd just be the discarded man.

He did not do love.

Not falling in love. Not making love.

Mild affection was supposed to be the cut-off point. Hadn't he decided on that? Five minutes after he'd seen her that first time in the corridor, arm in arm with a younger, less shitty Hardman. She hadn't even noticed his existence that whole day… That whole week…

And why exactly was his life flashing before his eyes?

Stop.

He should have stopped when he'd kissed her hand. But he hadn't.

He should have stopped when he had his tongue inside her mouth. Coffee and fucking vanilla. But no, he had persevered.

He had asked.

Now he was receiving.

And he was confused as fuck.

One does not simply bend Jessica Pearson over a counter and fuck her. He should not have his dick inside Jessica Pearson.

…Death?

As in punishable by death? It had to be illegal, what he was doing. Striping her out of her armour and her Jessica-ness and sticking his lowborn dick inside her like she was just some artificial vagina on a cow farm. Not really. Like she was some common pheasant woman who he'd pumped a couple drinks in. Like she was some secretary, some real estate agent, some banker, some model, some weed-pusher's sister, some human woman.

Sacrilege, wasn't it? Like going to an art exhibit with a can of spray paint. Like dry humping Michelangelo's David.

He should pack a bag for Mexico, get a fake ID, burn off his fingerprints…

What the royal fuck was he doing? He should run. Head for the hills. Castrate himself for his sins...

His teeth grazed her skin, as he angled up inside her. "How's that feel?" he heard himself ask in a voice he couldn't recognize for the life of him. Low, gravelly, disgustingly guttural. Like some kind of animal…

He might be an animal. Loyal basset hound, monkey, dragon, whatever… but she was Jessica Pearson.

She was Jessica fucking Pearson. The woman who had fucking nurtured him in her metaphoric womb for five, six fucking years, never mind the cunt who did it for nine months and made it out to be the biggest regret of her life.

This woman had made him.

"It feels good," she gasped. Just as he pulled out.

"Yeah?" He took two steps back… filled his lungs with actual air. "I call that the invasive manoeuvre."

"Harvey?"

Annoyance if anything. A scolding was coming. A spanking… He couldn't help that last idea. Blame the audiobook of Fifty Shades on his phone. Yes, it was a chick book. Mommy porn. But it was about a guy with legendary sexual prowess, how could he not read it? For comparison sake…

Then he'd started really thinking about it.

And Jessica being Jessica really wasn't making it any easier. He'd swing either fucking way for her. He'd take the spanking and the riding crops… Or he'd dish it out. If that was what she wanted. He'd build a fucking playroom around her. Dedicate it to her, if that was what she wanted. Some kind of sexual awakening…

But by the sweet love of Christ, he doubted it. Any more sexual awakening between the two of them and somebody would die. Just keel over dead.

Most likely him because he was losing his shit. Or having a small stroke, possibly. He reached around her, grabbed the bottle of wine and swallowed a couple of deep gulps.

What to fucking do now?

Stare-down.

Naked stare-down.

Mexican Standoff II

He'd done the hard part already. She was there. In his house. Naked. Wet and willing and wanting. Repeat, naked. From the waist up and from the waist down. Full frontal naked in his house.

His elbows found the counter and he tried his damned fucking best to pull off blasé.

"Chickening out?" she shot, "Or you're just now remembering you have an std and you're wondering if you should disclose this before or after this gets done?" Lips still red. Full. Hair, a little tossed, even more perfect since it had been his hands that had been through it, doing the tossing. And the pulling.

"No." Blasé. "I'm just running through all the templates I have in mind for this situation, deciding which one is best."

"Your pocketbook of sexual fantasies about me," she grinned, mockingly. "I'm flattered."

Blasé. "It's just a general playbook. I operate by the one size fits all philosophy."

"Well, decide on something before I put my clothes back on because your window of opportunity – and that is what this is for you in case you're confused – is closing. Rapidly."

"I know," he said wistfully. Lazily. "But I don't want to waste this on a casual five minute fuck…"

One of her eyebrows arched up slowly. Dangerously. "I don't do blowjobs so don't even think about it."

"I'd never ask you for one. That's what I keep a hooker on retainer for."

"I don't do anal, either."

"I've got a hooker for that too."

"So what do you want?"

Typical Jessica. Negotiator Supreme. "I want… you… to…" his lips curled up into a smile as he set the wine bottle down with a thump. "Ask for it."

Cue the trademarked J. Pearson I'mma-crush-your-ass smirk.

Nothing more foreboding in the world… Divinely arousing as well. Fear was creeping up his spine. His heart was beating so fast, his dick was so hard, he literally didn't have enough blood getting to his brain.

Amazing, really, that he was still hard...

Surprising, really, that he was still conscious.

Like trying to fuck Godzilla… Like attempting verbal foreplay with Godzilla before you fucked it. "Ask for it," he repeated, backing away, step by step by step. "Just so we're clear here on who is providing the service. Who is doing whom the favour. You know…" he shrugged, "For bookkeeping."

"I don't have to ask for it." Flat.

"Well, I'm not gonna, so maybe we should put our clothes back on… finish this bottle, which is really good by the way… and you can go back to the office… finish up whatever paper work you have to…" He used his toes to pick up her underwear from the carpet. Black, mesh and lace. Effortlessly classy. He spun it around on his finger like a flag. "I've been to London… I've been to France. Something something underpants," he sing-songed.

She only stared at him. Cold hard. "That's not how it goes."

"I fucking care how it goes?" he smirked. "You're fucking naked in my fucking apartment and fucking wet for me, I, Harvey Specter… And before you deny it, remember that I was already inside you like 2 and a half minute ago. I've been there. I have felt the tightness, the heat ... and the humidity so none of this is random conjecture." He reached the bookcase, looking for a place, and spotted his old boxing trophy from the old days… He deposited the set of panties in the cup. "You don't mind, do you?"

She didn't move. Didn't blink. Just stood there… like Hera, ready to smite.

"Just tell me what you want to do," he pressed on, casual as ever, drifting languidly through his living room. Peacocking… for lack of a better phrase… If peacocks were known for strutting around with their dicks out and their balls swinging. "I mean," he reached the back of his couch in his living room and leaned against it, arms bracing him lazily, "I don't mind fucking you… If that's what you want." He pointed to his erection, the almost painful, seriously distracting flagpole, jutting up from his hips. "I'm good to go whenever you are. However you want to do it – standing; sitting; on your back; on your belly; upside down; missionary; dirty missionary; holy missionary; cowgirl; reverse cowgirl; shepherdess; batgirl; Boom-Boom Boomerang; plank; side plank; reverse side plank; cowgirl on a side plank; stampede; crazy scissors; the pogo stick - you'll have to do most of the work in that one, but you've got the abs for it, obviously; the Triple Lindey; Moonlanding; Apollo 14; Concubine in a Car Crash – but you'd need to be less than 5"2' so cross that one out; the Ballerina; Ballerina 2; Ballerina 3; Ballerina in Pakistan; Ballerina with a machete–"

"Ballerina with a machete." Her eyes twinkled as she mirrored his easy stance, leaning against his polished marble counter… Kitchen Counter to Living Room Sofa. Could have been miles between them. Could have been millimetres.

The Standoff of the Two Sexiest People on this Earth Continues… Read all about it. NC-17.

"I don't have a machete," he answered with another shrug.

"So why'd you mention it?"

"Fine. I have a machete. Honest answer – I don't trust you with a machete."

"Oh, come on," she rapped her nails on his countertop, looking just the slightest bit bored. "Yolo," she said yawning.

"Hm," he shrugged again. Hard to do when you don't have clothes on, but he was managing all right, he'd say.

Then out of the blue. "How many women have you had here on this counter?"

"19."

"Only?"

"I do most of my work in the bedroom, as antiquated and prudish as that might seem."

"And how many on the floor?"

"In this apartment, you mean, or the grand total of women I've carpet-fucked in my entire life?"

Bland, "On this particular carpet."

"24."

"How many in the shower?"

"Before or after I retiled?"

"After."

"7. Only the ones I let sleep over. Zoe and Scotty you know. Michelle, Sarah, Kimberly, and a twin from Chinatown. You remember that caterer Louis recommended when-"

"Kitchen?"

"Zero. Because that's where I eat."

"And Donna." Causal as rain in the rainforest, she just slipped that in.

"Again, not where I eat. She's a work colleague."

"And I'm…"

"You're Jessica, remember? Rules don't apply to you."

She sighed. "You're a whore, you know that? A dirty man-whore."

"Can we get on with it?" he tilted his head a little. Copied her yawn. "I know it's been a while since someone's fucked you–"

She flinched visibly.

"Fucked you properly, at least." He bent down, scooped up her dress from where he had flung it, enjoying the feel of the material in his hand… "But if you wanna go, I'm not stopping you. Come and get it."

"Bring it."

"You're the one who wants it… Needs it... You're a big girl, Jess. Accustomed to taking what you want… Come. Take it..."

God, she was beautiful. His fingers tightened defensively as she approached him. There really was no way he was letting her get her clothes back on. He'd burn the fucking dress on his stove if he had to. Damn the lack of a fireplace when you need one. His breath tightened a little bit. A third element mixing into his Flight or Fight Response. Coincidentally starting with an F as well. No exaggerated swaying hips, no overt attempt at seduction, just Jessica being Jessica. Effortlessly sensual. Mind-numbingly powerful… Categorically stunning, as always. With a killer smile.

Like fucking sunshine.

She came right up to him, naked, barefoot, and half a centimetre taller than him, one hand on his cheek, condescending as hell… "Who says I want you?"

"I say it."

"You flatter yourself, but you've got balls. I have to give you that."

He leaned into her "You've had a grip on my balls for over ten years and you're just figuring that out?" Flicked his tongue out, caught a little bit of her lip. "Seeing is believing, though…"

The cocky, distracting smile still hadn't left her lips. Red. Always red lips. Her hand slid from his cheek around to grip his jaw, fingers strong… "How am I supposed to play into your fantasy, huh? Am I the Schoolteacher? The Nun who doesn't wear panties? Hmm?"

"Oh, that's an old one. Been there, done that. With an actual nun. Who actually didn't wear anything at all in terms of underwear."

"Yeah?" And suddenly her hand was on his cock. The smile flaring just a little brighter at his involuntary reaction. "You want me so bad–"

"So fucking bad–" His lips found hers again. 'Crashed down on hers,' if a romance novelist/part-time court stenographer was in the room with them. His tongue found hers, and it seemed he just couldn't get her mouth open enough. "Same way you want me. The same way you love me. Because you know that no one on this planet will love you the way I will. No one can." He wanted to be dramatic and get his word out, but he could keep his mouth off of her.

Like a cannibal, in a weird, erotic way.

As much as cannibalism can be erotic.

"I know you want me. Despite what I believe and what you believe, you are human. And you can't help it. You don't want to be here. I know that. You want to be in your high tower on your high throne..." And then one of his hands started to drift… Down between her breasts, he'd resist that temptation for now, down her belly, down, down down… And then he went up on his toes to whisper in her ear. "But even Galadriel, the Ice Queen of all Ice Queens, had needs. Even she had desires. A secret garden that needed tending." He trailed his finger through her hair, slid casually against her slit, avoiding her clit with clinical precision. Nevermind the heat. Nevermind the moisture. Nevermind the fucking throbbing of his own sex. "I can be your fucking Celeborn." He let a finger push up into her. "I can be the Aragorn to your Arwen. Just tell me what you want."

Silence.

Except for the sound of his fingers working her.

"Anything you want… you got it," he dry hummed slow into the shell of her ear, as he stroked away, "Anything you need… you got it. Anything at all… you got it. Baby, you got it."

"All I've got so far is a finger," she purred right back into his ear. So odd hearing her speak, when she was so close he could feel the air vibrating inside her. Like thunder.

"You want to feel me go balls deep inside you?" He kissed her again, rough, "So hard, you won't be able to stand, sit, walk, even taste food? Cause I can do that - fuck the taste out of your mouth. I can make you forget your own name." A hand went to her hair, making a fist of it, her eyelids fluttering close, lips parting in one sinful erotic gasp. "All you have to do is ask. And we'll get this on like Donkey Kong."

And she laughed. Right there in his face. "I cannot believe I call you my best closer. Lord of the Rings and Donkey Kong referenced in the same breath. Secret Garden? Seriously."

Eh? "That was just off the top of my head. I really wasn't expecting you to come here today."

"Or you'd have prepared a better argument than this," Doubt and condescension thick in the air. "Surely."

"Most surely." What is happening here? Because it felt unerringly as though he was getting lectured from his boss. What?

She sighed. Took his face in his hands. "This was not smooth."

He nodded.

"Way too much thinking going on, considering that this is you and me. If I showed up for a fuck session at Mike's house, or God forbid Louis' house, I'd expect this talk of Lord of the Rings and Donkey Kong–"

"So we're just going to have a random, non-descript… fuck-session..."

"Which part of me getting naked in your kitchen was unclear?"

"No strings attached?" I want strings, dammit! I want strings. I want a legally binding document. I want at least a fifty-year contract. Kinda like marriage but more binding.

"Well," she leaned in, her forehead touching his for a cool, calm moment. The fingers of both her hands traveling up from his cheeks… into his hair… mussing it up, undoing an hour of careful labour. "I'm not opposed to strings."

He couldn't help but chuckle, "And how do you feel about slip knots? Metaphorically."

Yes, cheesy, I know and not limey enough to qualify as a lemon, but this is all I could come up with! I have not mastered the Jarbey Lemon. It is a complicated thing to do and I have a new deep respect for everyone who was brave enough to try.

And that's it for this fic, but I'll most likely do some one shots at the very least when S3 starts. LOVE THIS SHIP LIKE CRAZY! :o It's crazy, but you can see it clear as day if you squint a little and slant your head just a little. I HAVE to believe that it's intentional. No way they have all that crazy sezy chemistry for them to end up sworn enemies... Unless they end up in a Batwman-Catwoman Love-Hate thing which I'd be okay with.

Come on, Jessica walks into the bathroom to chew him out and all I'm thinking is this must be the sexiest chew out any man has ever received from his boss in any workplace ever. "Boy..."