In his defense – and Jesus Christ, but isn’t that a familiar opener – Harvey hadn’t started off thinking about it. There wasn’t anything sexual, in the beginning, because Harvey didn’t come into any of these Harvard douchebag circlejerks expecting to find anyone worth hiring, much less anyone worth fucking, for which Harvey's standards are nearly as stringent. Besides which Harvey wasn’t stupid enough to fuck around with anyone at Pearson Hardman who worked directly over or under him, no euphemisms intended. If there’d been any rush, in the beginning, it would have been about the tiny mouthy genius gift that had just been dropped in his lap, a mini-Harvey, a maybe-Harvey, good enough to take a chance on, good enough to waste his time molding into something a little better – if there’d been any rush, it was narcissistic, a reflection of the greatness that is Harvey Specter, an extension of Harvey’s greatness, just more proof that everything he does, everything he chooses, everything that represents him is the best.
And that’s how it works, Harvey getting his ego stroked every time Mike delivers – which is surprisingly often for a rookie, particularly once the drugs and scowling friend leave the picture – and attempting to shape Mike a little more in his image, or at least a little more in the image of a successful adult, which is more difficult that one might think. Mike's like the boy who never expected to grow up, who got fucked over at twenty years old and gave up, and it shows. The kid's his own worst enemy, nine times out of ten, and it's almost criminal, the way he'd have gone no where without Harvey.
So to be totally honest, Harvey’s first thoughts about Mike hadn’t been about rimming his cherry ass until he cried.
But if that’s where it ends up, who’s Harvey to complain?
Their new case is a side product of a divorce turned nasty, a little archaic and thoroughly modern by turns. There was, apparently, an implicit understand the bride was a virgin, and the groom and his parents not only want the marriage dissolved, they were also trying to sue the plastic surgeons who reportedly performed the bride's hymenorrhaphy as they believe this constitutes fraud – which Harvey thinks is the kicker, really. It’s a case more suited to Europe, historically, but New York is a big city, and Harvey's seen weirder. Harvey’s seen it all, or nearly, and he assumes Jessica assigned him the case just to see if he squirms. Everyone’s flinging heaps of bullshit everywhere, and Harvey loves it, Harvey is in his element.
Mike, bleeding heart that he is, has decided the bride needs someone on her side.
"She's only been married for a month and her husband is essentially returning her and trying to get money out of it, her parents are trying to cover their asses so they don't lose their investment -- "
"That's what marriage is, for people like this," Harvey reminds him, because its just as much a merger as a marriage; the groom heir to an internet tech company that survived the dot-com crash, the bride and her parents all corporate headhunters. Their client is the plastic surgery group, so they’re marginally more on the bride’s side of things than the groom’s, but if Harvey has to throw her under the bus to win, so be it. "She knew what she was doing, she knew he might find out she lied about the surgery. People make choices. Occasionally stupid choices, but people can't all be me.”
Mike gives him a look that says they both know Harvey has made at least one incredibly stupid choice these past few months. “There’s still no way they’re going to win,” he grumbles, and Harvey raises an eyebrow.
"As great as I am, there's no sense getting cocky. Give me a precedent."
"In 2006, the French Supreme Court ruled –”
"An American precedent," Harvey says, and rolls his eyes. The French Supreme Court, what even. "It's like you've forgotten parts of the country are rules by the French-hating religious right."
"You're an ass," Mike says, but he's smiling.
"It's a fraud case, rookie. Intent to deceive. It's not that she wasn't a virgin, but that they lied about it, and the hymenorrhaphy helped them lie."
"You like that word too much."
"Gotta get used to saying it without sounding like I'm sneezing," Harvey says briskly. "Get in the car, we've got places to be."
"I don't know why people get so upset about virginity anyway," Mike continues, and at this point he's mostly talking to himself, so Harvey listens with half an ear, coffee in one hand, checking his email in the other. "Not to mention the double standards. If you're a twenty-five year old woman, you've got restraint. If you're a twenty-five year old guy, you're a freak," he says, and then stills.
There's a particular look Mike gets when he's said something he wishes he hadn't. A full-blown look of panic that is so incredibly obvious Harvey would be tempted to smack it off his face if it wasn't, this time, to his advantage.
"Don't start talking to Donna about gender politics," Harvey says, casually. "She minored in women's studies at Wellesley. You'll never get out alive." He takes another sip of coffee, Mike starting to breath again, and Harvey's going to have to find some way to tell him that giving the all-clear is just as big a tell as panicking in the first place.
He doesn’t say anything else, which takes a heretofore unknown measure of restraint he wasn’t aware he had, because when it comes to associates Harvey's a mock first, deal with the consequences later sort of guy - mostly because there aren't any consequences, who's going to fuck with Harvey Specter? - but he tucks it away to pull out and puzzle over and plot about later because what the fuck, how was rookie still walking around with his cherry? If - if Harvey deigned to imagine rookie’s sexual history, he would assume it was probably a lot like everyone else’s – messy, drunken, predictable, and therefore incredibly boring. Your typical twenty-four year old. But Mike isn’t your typical twenty-four year old; he’s so far from it maybe Harvey shouldn’t be surprised.
But a virgin, Jesus, at twenty-four? Without a horrible skin condition or a Louis-like personality disorder? Not a religious thing, or a self-loathing closeted thing. An abuse thing, Harvey thinks for a moment, mind skittering over the possibilities, Mike's jumpiness, the constant movement, the need for validation - but he comes up with 'probably not,' and moves back to focusing on their meeting, Mike-related issues tabled for later.
Harvey used to think of Mike as a sexual being in a vague way, the same way he thought about pretty much everyone, slotting them into a few quick categories to make having to deal with them easier – gay, straight, opportunistic? Smart enough to keep his dick out of places it doesn’t belong? Was Mike more likely to get caught screwing an intern, a hooker, or a nice young man, all in ascending increments of shock value? To which the answers were a Three on a Kinsey scale, probably more towards a Four when high; smart enough, though never say never; and the idea of Mike with a hooker actually makes Harvey smirk for a moment, and he ducks his head to make it less obvious, even though no one is around to see.
Thinking about Mike's sex life used to be a source of amusement, if anything, and now -- now Harvey can’t stop about it. Mike’s big doe eyes, the way he always looks to Harvey for direction, for validation. The way he is clearly so fucking lost for someone so goddamn smart, and maybe Harvey is retrofitting the evidence – he’s always looking for his own angle, the support for his own story, nobody else’s – but there's the way Mike's eyes track Harvey whenever he's in the room, the way he relaxes under Harvey's hand, slowly, like he expects more, or maybe just doesn't expect anything at all, like maybe he's never had a kind hand on him in a very, very long time.
Which should be more depressing than anything, right? That's a depressing thought. Harvey's a little out of touch with parts of the spectrum of human emotion, but he's pretty sure he's supposed to find that depressing, not hot.
Tell that to his dick, though, because his dick thinks it's hot. And tell that to his hands - try to explain what Harvey's hands are constantly doing, pressing onto Mike's shoulders, thumb tracing over the vertebrae in the back of his neck; ruffling Mike's hair, nails dragging over Mike's scalp. Resting on the small of Mike's back for the briefest of moments, herding him this way and that, jump when I say jump, forget asking how high, as high as you can. And Harvey can't stop watching Mike, every move, the way he absentmindedly touches the ends of his ties, the way his mouth falls open when Harvey's done something particularly impressive. He's soft, he's wide-eyed, untouched and innocent like some goddamn baby animal only Disney could dream up, and all Harvey can think about is putting his hand over Mike's mouth the next time he opens it in some stupid protest, shoving two fingers inside, watching Mike's tongue work around them, confused, that stupid look on his face, but not trying to get away. Not making Harvey stop.
He really shouldn't be getting off on this.
He is, though.
For the record.
He tries to tell himself it’s not some evil lawyer thing – destroyer of innocence, defiler of virgins, though he thinks about making that a subheading for his next business card, just to see what Jessica would do – because Harvey’s never been interested in taking down the easiest of the herd, the weakest, the untested. He likes the challenge. He likes the best he can get, the hardest to get, and coaxing virgins into his bed, no matter how appealing, was never his thing.
A Mike thing, maybe. A rookie thing. He's never had an associate worth having, really, never had someone so in-tune with him, Mike's soft-hearted protests to the contrary. He's mistaking closeness for another kind of intimacy, is all. And as long as it never leaves his head, well, it's not going to cost anybody anything.| |
Harvey isn't the type of guy who get obsessed with things. That sort of laser-focus is as much a weakness as a strength - people like that get tunnel vision, they get blindsided because they can only see the end of the road. Harvey's good at what he does because he sees every angle. It's why he still trumps Louis, why Jessica keeps him around, why he's still always two steps ahead of Mike, even though some of them might be - arguably - more intelligent than Harvey is. Intelligence is good, sure, but application is at least half the battle, and Harvey has that in spades.
So wondering about Mike is, in its own way, not surprising. It's not an obsession, not the creepy kind that ends in restraining orders anyway. Harvey wants to figure him out - get all the pieces of the puzzle. Understand him. His past, his motivations, his wants. What makes him tick and what makes him crack. Mike nearly self-destructed in his first month at Pearson Hardman because Harvey underestimated Mike's affection for his drug-dealing douchebag of a friend - or underestimated Mike's survival instinct, it's still a little unclear. Point is, Harvey's working on it.
What counts as a virgin these days, for a man? Orgasm with another person, by another person? Oral? Or penetration? Maybe Mike only falls under the "technical virginity" category kids these day toss around, so they can wear white on their wedding day with a straight face.
Even if - even if Mike's done anything, Harvey wonders if Mike's ever been with a man. It's so different, so much more different than the obvious. Has Mike ever blown a man, ever fucked one, ever gotten fucked. He wonders if Mike's ever even touched himself down there, fingers pushing behind his balls, under, sweaty and shaking and unyielding, frustrated with trying to override his own screaming brain.
The first time Harvey gets off fantasizing about Mike, it's a full two days before he can look him in the face. He keeps Mike busy with excessive amounts of paperwork until he gets over his completely irrational guilt, and yells at Mike for screwing up another client meeting. He doesn't stop fantasizing, but he feels less guilty about it. It's not there during the day, when he spends his waking hours ordering Mike around, trying to impart his many pearls of wisdom, and goading Louis about his rookie's success; guilt has no place here.
After a while Harvey starts to think it's mostly in his head. It's not Mike, for God's sake, Harvey's just discovered a weird little fetish - and not even all that weird, really, in the scheme of things; he doesn't want his dick anywhere near clowns or feet or dolls, thank God - and he's just projecting onto Mike because it makes more sense than anyone else, obviously, and it's not like Mike's hard on the eyes. And it would be so, so satisfying to get Mike to shut up, for once - with Harvey's cock, preferably. Harvey's libido is pretty clear on that one. Mike's mouth isn't as smart as it will be someday, his tongue isn't as clever, but he's got the talent, the beginnings of a great lawyer. The beginnings of a great cocksucker. Right now, Harvey imagines - he imagines that Mike's not very good, but he's eager. He moans a lot. He might protest a bit, at the beginning, and then it's Harvey's fingers at his lips, the edges of his jaw. Curled in his hair.
Then Harvey thinks - no, he'll go one better, a gag - all the moans, the groaning, the sighs - muffled, and wetter. Could leave Harvey's dick to other... orifices. He can't imagine leaving the gag on for long. He thinks about fucking Mike, fucking him hard, gag off, everything spilling out of him, every noise, face pushed into the bed, breath on the curve of Harvey's hand.
They're having a working lunch - sashimi for Harvey, bad Chinese for Mike - paperwork sprawled all over one of the meeting room tables, when Rachel comes in with appellate briefs for their case and slams them on the table next to Mike.
Mike's reaction is startled - though who could blame him? Harvey's lucky he was looking up at that moment, or there would be soy sauce all over his tie - and Rachel's response is a touch more severe than Harvey expects from her. One of the things Harvey likes about Rachel is that she doesn't take bullshit, and she deals it back in a particularly sassy not-my-problem kind of way. She's doesn't get mad - she'll just bury your requests at the bottom of the pile, and good luck getting anything done then. A quiet, competant sort of vindicativeness that Harvey has to appreciate.
So for Rachel to be angry - that's personal, that's about Mike - and despite the anger it's something petty, something she's willing to forgive, otherwise it would be the cold shoulder. And she’s still flashing him signals, ones that say 'you could probably fuck this out of me, and the copy room's just around the corner,' and Mike looks more uncomfortable than interested, like all he's seeing is the anger and the resentment, and he's probably planning to buy her flowers and apologize, Jesus Christ, he is a virgin.
“So you’ve never,” Harvey says once she leaves, and Mike tilts his head up to look at him.
“Never..." Mike trails off, and tips his head to the side when Harvey doesn't pick the sentence back up. "Never what?”
“Never,” Harvey repeats, almost insanely delighted, like when some dumbfuck opposing attorney just stumbled and hasn’t realized it yet, like every time Louis opens his mouth these days, like Christmas come six months fucking early. “Never,” he says again, his gaze on Mike’s face as good as a touch, skimming over his cheekbone, the corner of his lip, his chin, and Mike flushes.
Harvey stands up. "I have to run something by Jessica. Finish with these, and I'll see you downstairs at six."
Mike still looks mostly confused. "Six? Harvey, what's at six?"
Harvey makes reservations at Perry St. for seven-thirty. It's more casual that Harvey's usual, maybe, but he can occasionally afford to be generous in his choices. Mike, predictably, is nowhere to be found until well after six, whereupon he appears in a flurry of papers, his briefcase, and a hastily thrown on tie.
"Uhm," he starts, and Harvey holds out both hands.
"Don't care." It takes fifteen seconds to fix Mike's tie while he shrugs back into his jacket. "All right. You look presentable."
Mike is barely restraining himself from rolling his eyes. "Thanks."
"-- for where we're going," Harvey adds, severely, and pushes Mike towards the door. "Out. In the car. Go."
"Where are we going?" Mike asks. "Hey Ray."
"Ray," Harvey says, and resists the urge to shove the kid in the car. "We're going to dinner, and if you don't shut up about it, I'm going to make you pay." And that brings up all sorts of interesting images that don't have anything to do with money, and Harvey takes a deep breath before ducking into the back of the car himself.
"Why are we here?" Mike asks, bluntly, the minute they're seated. It's a two-person table, just catching the sunset, and any normal person would be enjoying it.
"Dinner's on me," Harvey says. "Save your suspicions for later, all right?"
"Okay," Mike says after a moment. He looks at Harvey strangely for about the next ten minutes, but the food goes a long way towards fixing that. Harvey smiles a little into his appetizer. Clothes, car rides, advice - all met with suspicion, but food? Consistently accepted.
The way to a man's heart, Harvey thinks. It's all a muddle of baser instincts after all.
They get through dinner without any more potential landmines. They talk about the case, Louis' latest and most annoying attempts to insert himself in Harvey's business, Mike natters on about his grandmother and his douchebag ex-friend - ex-douchebag friend? - and his sojourn in rehab, and Harvey tricks Mike into ordering dessert. Mike could stand a little weight gain, to nudge him just over that 'scarecrow' line into something more like 'slim.'
"I'm not eating licorice ice cream," Harvey says, when Mike tries to coax him into just one bite. "You're on your own."
"You don't like licorice?"
"No. Or cotton candy. Or candy corn. Because I am not a child," and from the way Mike grin at him they both know its hyperbole. Harvey hopes it goes well tonight, all of it; not just because of the obvious, but because he likes this - he likes the moments of the ridiculous, the fist bumps, the jokes, the things no one else gets. He doesn't want to box that back up again.
He kisses Mike outside Perry St., in front of a few dozen New Yorkers he might never see again, or who might walk into his office tomorrow, because that's how this city works. He doesn't care either way. And the licorice taste in Mike's mouth - he could live with it.
"Ray's waiting around the corner," he says, easy, while Mike's eyelashes flutter, once, twice, and then pop open, like he's seeing the world for the first time. "You can come home with me, or he can take your back to your apartment. It doesn't come back to work either way. And if you don't want to, we never talk about it again." Harvey puts his hands in his pocket and leans back. "Your choice."
"My choice," Mike says, steady enough that Harvey isn't too worried about this blowing up in his face. Steady enough that Harvey might have been just obvious enough.
"I thought about kidnapping you," he says dryly, "but that's maybe fifteen years, and I can't leave Louis without supervision that long."
"Fifteen without sexual misconduct," Mike corrects, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and Harvey has won.
"Twenty-five easy," he agrees. "My place?"
Harvey tries to keep his hands to himself in the back of the car. The voice in his head is stern - a lot like Donna, which is alarmingly, but not entirely surprising - but it's not far to his apartment, and despite Ray's consistent discretion there's no sense in having him see or hear something he doesn't need to see or hear; exhibitionism isn't one of Harvey's newly found kinks.
Mike, on the other hand, keeps darting glances at Harvey, jiggling his leg up and down. Some part of him always in constant motion. Anxiety or anticipation this time, Harvey wonders.
"Look at me," he says, not quite his best closer voice but pretty similar; shut-up-and-pay-attention, Harvey has something to say. "Look at me," he says again, and Mike turns to stare at him, barely a foot away in the back of the car. Too close and too far, in different ways but in equal measure. Harvey puts his hand on the side of Mike's face, tilting his chin up just that extra inch so they're properly eye to eye. "All right?"
Mike breathes out. Warm air sailing across Harvey's wrist, his palm. "All right," he says, and there's maybe a thin candy coating of 'freaked' on top of it, but Mike is solid underneath.
"Good," Harvey says, and sets the tip of his thumb to the inside of Mike's mouth, the very edge of the wet inside, so he can feel the drag against his skin. "Good."
Mike's eyes resemble those of some sort of animated woodland creature right now, but the rest of the ride is quiet.
On the elevator ride up to Harvey's not quite penthouse flat - silent as well, and also too long - he puts his hand on the back of Mike's neck. Two seconds. Barely a touch. Harvey doesn't know why he did it - checking on Mike, maybe, or a reassurance for the both of them. It's something he could do in public, has done in public, without arousing any suspicion at all. But Mike shudders under it the way a cat would, full-bodied, and Harvey pulls away from Mike like he's been shocked, and shoves his hands in pockets, lines of his suit be damned.
"Last chance to run," he says when the elevator reaches the top, and he's not quite joking. Once he gets his hands on Mike for good, the kid won't know which way is up - how the hell's he ever going to find the door?
Mike pushes ahead of him into the apartment, and that answers that.
The first thing Harvey realizes is how out of place Mike looks in his apartment. Not that it would take much. Harvey's apartment is a thing of beauty, if the modern and streamlined sort of beauty. The wall-to-wall windows are one-way glass, polished to perfection. There's the expensive furniture Harvey paid someone else to pick out, suited to tastes he didn't know he had, to give off just the right impression. Harvey made himself fit this place, to fit the whole life he has, and not so much the other way around. Mike doesn't belong here. Not really. Not yet, is what Harvey thinks, because he could belong here when he's out of his cheap suit, nothing but skin against Harvey's sheets - he could belong there. He could belong to Harvey.
He's been staring, Harvey realizes, and not saying anything. And Mike hasn't moved. Just turned to look back, standing under the scrutiny, waiting. So Harvey takes another minute to look him over, deliberately, the way he doesn't let himself even when he lets himself. It's always been about keeping an eye on Mike, or making fun of his tie, or making sure he doesn't screw up, and that he does what he's supposed to. It's never been about Mike, about how Harvey looks to Mike, what it means - or Harvey told himself it wasn't, and that nearly makes it true, if he's not aware of it on any conscious level.
And here, now, when it is... it could be overwhelming, Harvey thinks, surprised. It almost is, all the things he wants, the things he could do. The possibility.
It's tense, whatever's between them - suddenly tense and growing exponentially, by leaps and bounds. Harvey can't stop himself from reaching out, his hands on Mike's waist, Mike's hand on his arm, yanking him close, pressing him closer still.
Standing in the doorway, cradling Mike's jaw in his hand, cradling Mike’s jaw in his hand, practically wrenching his mouth open, biting his bottom lip, hard, the swell of it caught between his teeth. The other at the small of his back, pressing Mike to him while both of Mike’s clench in the front of Harvey’s shirt. Almost desperate. Certainly less practiced than most of Harvey’s partners. Harvey goes for the best, and the problem with the best is they always *know* it, they want to be the best in everything, and as a result its not so much recreation as competition – its showmanship, its one-upmanship, and trying to score points without showing the other person you’re at all affected. Mike can’t play that game. Doesn’t stand a chance. Rulebook out the window.
“What the look for?” Mike asks, bluntly, and Harvey can’t help his smirk.
“Nothing,” he says. “What have I told you about skinny ties?”
“Rene gave me this one,” Mike protests, tie falling to the floor. “Well, I say ‘gave,’ but I think ‘paid a ridiculous amount of money’ is closer to the truth.”
Harvey hmms. “You’re allowed to say no to Rene.”
“But he scares me.”
Rene scares most people, and rightly so. “The shirt’s nice.” Though you couldn’t tell the way he’d been wearing it.
“But better on your bedroom floor?” And that’s the right sort of smile, exactly.
"Not just a pretty face," Harvey says, voice dropping an octave to an almost-purr, and he can feel the way Mike's heart beats triple-time.
About two minutes in, Harvey realizes the kid’s problem – he can’t get that gorgeous, gorgeous brain of his to shut up long enough to enjoy it.
"No wonder you've never had sex," Harvey tsks. "It's like trying to wrangle a squirrel on a sugar high."
It's probably not surprising that Harvey is pretty much immune to the kid's offended face these days.
"I'm not - " Mike says, and Harvey interrupts immediately.
"Oh, you are," he counters, because no matter what the kid was protesting, it was a token protest, and it was a lie. "And don't argue technicalities with me. You'll lose." Harvey ignores the pout slowly sliding onto on Mike's face, very nearly a reflex by now, and concentrates on learning the shape of Mike's mouth.
Except Mike has gone stiff again, posture ramrod straight, like he's got a nun waiting behind him with a ruler, and none of that in the sexy-fun way.
Harvey slides his hand down to one of Mike's belt loops and pulls back to give him a look, better than any question, or reassurance.
Mike stares back for a minute before rolling his eyes. "High school was not kind, okay," he says, wry twist to his words making it something of an understatement. Harvey can only imagine. Too smart, too smart-mouthed, and - knowing Mike - not willing to dumb himself down for anyone. No parents, bad neighborhood. A best friend like Trevor. A perfect storm.
"I was a little hung-up on... someone." And Harvey takes that to mean either Trevor or his entirely too naive girlfriend. He's almost insulted by Mike's taste. Almost. Harvey's been working on Mike's taste just as much as anything else. "How did you..."
"You told me," Harvey says. "Or as good as. The Vashti case. You gotta work on your poker face, newbie." There's a lot to work on, really, but the poker face is more for Mike than anyone else.
Mike's looking at a point somewhere over Harvey's shoulder, which is just - unacceptable.
"Hey, eyes here," Harvey says, and at least the way Mike's attention snaps back to him is gratifying. "I don't care. Not like that." Or exactly like that, quite possibly. But whatever mildly alarming kink Harvey might have, it's directly connected to Mike, and coming to terms with that is it's own kind of revelation.
"Trust me?" Harvey asks, and Mike gives him a look, like Harvey is an idiot to be asking this now, to be asking this at all. Because their relationship is equal parts "trust me" and "you're on your own" - and the second part of that's all right, because Harvey knows Mike can handle it. He knows exactly how much Mike can take.
Say it, he nearly asks, just say it, because he wants to hear it.
"I trust you," Mike says, and his mouth slides open under Harvey's.
Harvey spends a moment thinking they could spend some time here, just kissing - and they could, it's barely after ten, hours and hours before either of them should be anywhere. And the idea of kissing Mike - only kissing him, Mike's hips moving needily against his, against his leg, trying to get off on the friction, grasping onto Harvey harder and harder until there are bruises on Harvey's shoulders, tiny nailmarks cut through the surface of Harvey's suit -- well.
Not forever, though, Harvey thinks. He doesn't have forever. Until the morning. Until what they've done sinks in, until Mike realizes he's in farther over his head than he's ever been, until Harvey pushes too hard or too fast or wants too much, until their secret is found out or destroys what they have from the inside. No way to tell. Only that time isn't something Harvey should be wasting.
He knows what he wants. He's been thinking about it for weeks. Not non-stop, no, but he's spent enough of his preciously little free time wondering that he knows exactly where this should be going. And what he wants, more than anything - what at this point feels like an actual, physical need - is for Mike to fall apart. For Harvey to be able to watch it, every moment.
It doesn’t take much, sometimes – and it wouldn’t take much if Harvey was cruel, certainly, but that’s not it, that’s not what he wants. He wants the other end of things. He wants Mike to forget he has a brain, to forget angles and possibilities and plans, to just fall apart. Harvey would think the things he wants to do were illegal if he didn’t know better. It should be illegal to feel the way he does. The manic way he’s thinking, the destructive, obsessive things he wants, the impossible way he wants them. How much he wants. Which, as always, is everything. All of it. All of Mike.
He twists his hands in Mike's hair, pulling his head back, and it's never been a sweeter, softer kiss. Mike makes a noise against his mouth, not quite a gasp.
"Still with me?" he asks, and Mike - Mike rolls his eyes.
"I'm not totally - " Mike begins, crossly, and scramble for the exact word. "- this is not entirely new, okay? I'm not traumatized with inexperience. Stop with being so - creepy."
"Creepy," Mike says firmly, but the corner of his mouth tips up, lightning-quick. "I guess I'm probably just lucky you didn't light candles and buy me a corsage and..."
"You are out of your mind," Harvey says, and he's swung back around to delighted, look at that. "Okay," he agrees, "no more creepy," and he brings out his best shark's grin. "No more slow." The one that should be making Mike consider if what he's asked for is really what he should be wanting. "No more holding back."
"I can handle it," Mike says, too-serious eyes, like he's reassuring Harvey. And maybe he is. Maybe Harvey went a little too far with the white glove treatment - but in his defense, breaking Mike on the first go-round would have been really bad form.
"Hmm," Harvey says, and takes a step back. It's easy enough to push off his jacket, unbutton his shirt, roll off the undershirt - and he's actually wearing an undershirt, thank God, maybe Rene won't kill them both the next time Mike comes in - and throw them on the floor. Stop with his hands on the curve of Mike's hips and kiss Mike again, scratching over his ribs – a little too skinny, still too skinny, maybe dinner more often – as he tries to connect the freckles on Mike’s stomach, catalogue the way he shivers.
"On the bed," he says, do-it-now-don't-argue voice, and it's telling, perhaps, that Mike doesn't bat an eyelash.
Mike is lying on the bed, practically wall-eyed as Harvey looks down on him. Harvey's mouth has inexplicably gone dry.
Harvey loosens his tie. Unbuttons his jacket and turns around - turns his back deliberately, because no one could ever say Harvey misses a power play - and puts his jacket over the back of a desk chair.
When he turns back he takes a good look at Mike, this time. The long lines of him, almost too - too tall, too thin, too stretched out. Just pushing the boundaries of it. Especially when he's so still, so goddamn wide-eyed, and watching every move that Harvey makes. Like a mouse watching a snake, and shivering,
“You tell me to stop, I’ll stop," Harvey says, before anything else. He's not one for safewords - he's a bit more traditional.
MIke visibly swallows. “And if I don’t say stop?”
Is it really a smile if Harvey doesn’t show any teeth? Or he shows too many? It’s a question for better men. Men who don’t have named Mike Ross in their bed.
“Okay,” Mike says, faint. His hands clenched in the sheets. “Okay.”
Not a stop, Harvey thinks. Not even close.
Harvey's next step is stripping the rest of Mike down - seeing everything else under those clothes, seeing everything. Everything that Mike's been hiding away from him and the rest of the world.
The problem, Harvey thinks, as he settles on the bed, knees on either side of Mike's hips - the problem is that its not a bad idea, keeping everything tucked away. There's a reason Harvey favors three-piece suits, penthouse suites with one-way glass. The things you project are your armor, the things you use to distract, to force others to form opinions about you. The things you keep tucked underneath are your own. With Mike, it's more of a defense mechanism than a strategy, but its one that's served him well so far.
He pushes Mike's hands up above his head and tells him to hold them there. No moving. Harvey wants to explore him. Watch his face, his reactions. The way he blushes outside of a suit, the flush on his chest, and down. The way he bites the inside of his cheek instead of his lip.
“Look at you," he says, and he can't quite believe the way he sounds. Pleased as fucking punch. The same tone he gets salivating over the newest Tesla car. It might be the same sort of pleasure - owning something, even temporarily, exploring it, and how far and how fast it can go. He leaves a hickey on the side of Mike’s knee, possibly just because he can.
“What - are you doing,” Mike says, rising to not-quite a shriek.
"Exploring," Harvey says, smug. "Quiet time, rookie," he adds while Mike huffs, before shifting up to put his fingers on Mike's mouth, pressing inside, slipping past his teeth and over the curl of his tongue. Harvey takes a moment to bite the curve of Mike’s neck, then his collarbones, so hard it leaves little indents, one for each tooth, red and bruising.
He thinks about pressing on those bite marks tomorrow, tucked under Mike’s shirt. The way Mike might try and hide his wince. Might shiver under Harvey’s hand, or suddenly still. Variables, still, and Harvey has to test the curve the same way he always does. So he throws Mike a softball, deceptively easy, and then goes for it just the way he wants to. He touches Mike soft, and safe, and uncomplicated, and when Mike asks for more, Harvey gives it to him, tenfold, lightning fast. He does it with fingers, and teeth, and tongue, and filthy words, random and quick, keeping Mike far enough off balance to stay a lightyear ahead.
"Turn over," Harvey says, and that gets him a blush. The slow one, that means Mike’s been unexpectedly thrown off.
“Turn over,” he says, lower, and gives Mike a moment to settle, to put his hands back above his head. To squirm against the sheets and press his face into the pillow.
“You can’t,” Mike stutters, and he must realize his mistake a half-second later, because even he stills, his hips shoved into the sheets.
“Can’t I?” Harvey says, and he rubs the small of Mike's back with his thumbs, digging into the dimples there, hard, while Mike groans. It’s not even skipping from zero-to-fifty, it’s more like zero-to-two-hundred, it’s not fair, not fair at all, Harvey knows. But he’s thrown Mike in with the sharks before and the kid can float along when he can’t swim, and Harvey’s the one always tugging his head back above water anyhow. "No one tells me 'can't,' newbie."
Least of all you, he thinks, because he won't take 'can't' for an answer. He'll take 'no' or 'stop' - he's not a monster - but 'can't' is wide open to proving possibility. It's amazing what people are capable of. Harvey sees the worse side of that, usually, but he doesn't think that's what's going to happen here. He doesn't think that 'can't' is going to hold. And he's not worried, because the kid has proved himself more than capable of telling Harvey no, and it's been at times a hell of a lot more inconvenient than this.
"What couldn't I do," Harvey murmurs, and he's not sure if that's a warning for Mike or for himself. He'll do what he wants - he'll do everything he wants, everything he thinks he can get away with. It's the one night, that's all - more on the table, maybe, more implied, but like most things you can't get in writing, without any guarantee.
Mike shivers a little with each curl of Harvey's tongue, clenching the sheets, shoving them back and forth, desperate to hold onto something - to control something, even if just the feel of the fabric between his fingers. Shoving his face into the pillow to smother his sounds, to cool his rapidly heating face.
"You wanna know why people get so excited about virginity?" Harvey asks, because he's starting to figure it out himself. "Means you're mine," he says, and Mike makes a noise that puts anything he's made up until now to shame, Jesus, and Harvey repeats the word just to hear Mike make it again. "Mine," he says, Mike shaking like he's coming apart at the seams, joints locked, teeth grinding against one another. "Because even if we never do this again, if you quit tomorrow, and moved to Timbuktu - which I wouldn't recommend with your skin tone, rookie," Harvey continues, leaning up to bite down gently on the curve of Mike's ass - soft, pale, freckled - "You'll never forget me. Never be rid of me. Some indelible part of you branded with Harvey Spector, forever."
"Like that was even an option," Mike gasps, half-laughter, ever so slowly shifting towards hysterical.
“Breathe,” Harvey orders, pleased when Mike obediently shuts the hell up. "Just breathe for me, all right, deep breaths," he says, and when Mike's breath starts to hit an even keel, when his legs fall farther and farther apart - relaxed, for a given value of relaxed, pushing up against the bedspread -- Harvey spreads him all the way open with one hand, fingers of the other pushing in.
"Oh, don't -" Mike mewls again, and he's quick, at least, he learns, because he jumps right back around with, "obviously you can, I mean, but I'm a little..."
"You're not backing out on me now," Harvey says, and there's a question sewn into it, even if Harvey doesn't ask - is Mike backing out on him now?
"No," Mike says, after just the right amount of pause. Like he started to think, and realized he didn't care.
"Good," Harvey says, "good boy," and the shape of that in his mouth is as good as it gets. It's - dizzying, the rush of acceptance, the not-fighting, and it's - an offshoot of the same rush he gets at work sometimes, when Mike stops second-guessing and starts trusting him, when he says "okay, Harvey" and means it, and they synchronize perfectly, step step turn and Mike's there with the briefs or subpoenas or something brilliant that becomes the two of the one-two punch Harvey didn't even realize he was setting up.
"That's it," Harvey says, and he lets himself go, a little - pushing in with his tongue, just a little bit harder, the way he wants to. Mike pushing back against his mouth - and then forward, to shove his cock against the sheets. He's three fingers into Mike now, slick, the other hand still pulling on him, holding him back, and -"that's it, sweetheart," slips out of him, unbidden, his dirty little secret, and he's hoping Mike's too far out of his own head to even realize.
He does it until Mike is shaking all over, ducking his head, pulling up his shoulders in fits. The picture of a man undone. It would go nicely on his wall, Harvey thinks. A silver emulsion print, everything shades of grey, everything a mess of sheets until you see the line of Mike's back, the curve of his hip, and the man emerges from the mass of shadows.
"The thing is, you need a keeper." Mike makes a noise, something like a mewl - a protest, an agreement, Harvey doesn't fucking care. "You do, you really do, I'm amazed you made it to twenty-four without someone chaining you to their bed -- " and definitely a moan that time "--I think that's what I would have done if I hadn't hired you." And Harvey takes a minute to indulge in that particular mental picture, skipping out on hiring the rest of those self-absorbed Harvard dickwads, having Mike blow him right then and there. Fast-forward to Mike as his unusally low-priced rent boy, too eager for attention and affection and for someone to understand just how wonderfully unique his brain was to bother with something as common as money. If anyone ever finds out about their little scam, it's good to know Mike has a back-up position as Harvey's boy toy.
“Harvey,” Mike says, voice breaking, and broken. “Harvey, Harvey, Harvey –” over and over, too close, his cock pulsing in Harvey's hand, and Harvey - Harvey is greedy. He isn’t ready for Mike to come, for this to be over. He wants to wring it out of Mike himself.
“Just a bit more,” Harvey says, soothing, smooth, not sure if he's reassuring Mike or himself. Probably both, if he's honest, but that's not really his business. "Almost there." He pushes his fingers back in, hard, Mike clenching around him erratically, shoving his dick into Harvey's hand while his snarls turn into whines, sharper and higher, needier. Spine arched almost too far back, caught in too much sensation to even know which way to move. He keeps his grip on Mike hard, a little too hard, not-quite pain to keep Mike in place, edging towards cruel and he knows it. It's been more than long enough, from the way his jaw's aching, the sweat keeping Mike half-stuck to the sheets. The heat of Mike's cock in his hand.
“Fuck,” Mike yells, halfway to a snarl, and he bucks up under Harvey, hard enough to do some damage. This is ending, soon, one way or another. "Harvey --"
"Come on sweetheart," Harvey murmurs, and he only wishes he could see Mike's face, "that's it, you want it," he says, running his thumb over the head of Mike's cock, "good boy, come on," and there's a burst of heat and slick in his hand, Mike collapsing to the bed with a sob while Harvey strokes him through it, easy.
The debate, then, is how badly Harvey wants to fuck Mike - sweet Christ in a sidecar, does Harvey want to fuck Mike - but when he does he's going to be in the running for the best, not just the first, not just two pumps before he comes his goddamn brains out. He'll drag Mike along with him.
He settles for shoving his pants down instead, sliding Mike onto his side and rubbing up against Mike's hip and thinking about the wet opening just below, about slipping the head of his cock inside, just inside, the slick pop, the pressure, the heat - the way Mike would clamp down around him, the noise he'd make -
Mike's eyes are wide but glazed over, tiny little pupils, and he noses at the curve of Harvey's neck when Harvey crushes them together. The slide of Mike's legs between his, the cut of Mike's hipbones against this, the heavy, pliant weight of Mike against him - Harvey can't help coming, sticky and hot in the curve of Mike's hip, and he can't help smearing it over the heave of Mike's belly with hands he knows must be shaking. He feels the painfully too early twitch of Mike’s dick against him when Harvey licks the pad of his thumb.
Harvey rolls over to catch his breath, and the sheets feels strange, like a second skin he wasn't quite ready to shed. He ignores the urge to bury his face in his arms and turns to look at Mike - how most of his body is flushed, face to torso, limbs thrown askew, and it takes a few minutes for Mike to settle, to come back into himself.
"So that's it," Mike says, slightly awed, voice steady - scratchy, a little raw, but steady - though even that can't quit hide the question underneath. Harvey can nearly pinpoint the moment Mike’s brain kicks back in, when he starts wondering if he needs to get up, and out, and away, and what it means for work, really –
The thing is, if you stop to think about it, there are dozens of firsts ahead of them - blowjobs, handjobs, frotting, Harvey fucking Mike, Mike fucking Harvey, and that's just the basics. What about all the other things Harvey wants? The things Harvey could let himself want? What about using some of Mike's truly horrendous ties to tie him to the end of the bed? What about going down on Mike until he chokes, until Mike slips down his throat and air becomes a secondary concern? Does Mike really think Harvey's going to miss the way Mike's jaw is going to drop the first time he comes on Harvey's face? Not to mention the way he wants to strip Mike naked, and spread him over his lap and hit him, open hand, until his ass was flushed red, mottled, and Mike comes all over Harvey's leg, nothing but Harvey's hands and the friction of Harvey's suit - and Harvey will sacrifice a suit for that one, he will sacrifice gladly. He wants to come inside Mike, no condom, and he wants to keep doing it until Mike can't, until he chafes, until he begs Harvey not to touch him, and Harvey does anyway, just once more, holding Mike in his mouth, wet and warm and plush. He wants to hear Mike's voice in the mornings after, like gravel. He wants Mike to ride him, gangly, and stiff, until the precise perfect moment he forgets where he is and what he's doing, only that it feels good. He wants to watch Mike get himself off, slow and torturous, and he wants Mike on his knees under Harvey's desk at Pearson Hardman, and in the back of the car while Ray drives, and in the bathroom at some stuffy client dinner.
And he wants to watch Mike eat breakfast, and figure out how he likes his coffee - because its not really black, if the face he makes while he drinks it is any indication - and dress Mike in the mornings, shoes to cufflinks to tie, every last detail. He wants to know the parts of Mike's body better than his own, and the noises Mike makes when he sleeps. He wants to crack Mike open and pull out every secret he has - Trevor, and his grandmother, and how he got the scar on his left elbow, and what dark depraved thing he jerks off to when nothing else works. Harvey wants it all.
You think that wouldn't surprise Mike so much.
Harvey rolls on top of him. Holding him down, easily, riding out the surprised jerk of his body. "Once, really? You think I couldn’t do better than one orgasm for your first time?" he asks, 'dumbass' implied in his tone - heavily implied, and Mike's eyes widen, like he's finally figuring it all out. It's strange, but he looks like a lawyer, then, like he knows something no one else does.
"I'm not done with you," Harvey says, and there's as much warning there as promise. "Not even close."