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The little dinner party you’d arranged at the tavern to celebrate your first proper foray into wine making has gone fairly well, all things considered. The wine is mostly drunk - peach has been declared the clear winner, with salmonberry the unfortunate stinker of the batch with a nearly full bottle left - and your friends have either called it a night already or taken to the floor to dance. You glance up at the remainders, watching Elliot twirl Leah around as Maru, by the look of it, tries to teach Shane how to dance the tarantella.
Harvey leans heavily against the table, chin propped up against the heel of his hand. He’s the last at the table, save for you. He looks strangely rumpled, unkempt hair even more askew than usual. His tie lies folded on the table, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. “You’ve done really well,” he says, swirling the last of his wine around the glass in a black-purple whirl. The blackberry seems to be his favorite, with almost two full glasses put away over the course of the meal. “The wine, I mean,” he adds a little slowly, a high flush across his cheeks and nose. “Though...just in general, too. With the...with the farm.” He laughs a little, shaking his head. “Sorry, I’m a terrible conversationalist when I’m sober. Doesn’t improve much when I’ve been drinking.” He tilts the glass up, draining the last. “I’m no good with my mouth. Always was better with my hands.”
There is an extraordinarily long pause before the reality of what he’s just said seems to dawn on him, and you just barely manage to contain your giggling as he blushes straight from his collar to his curly hair.
His hands are in all honesty, rather lovely. Long-fingered and fine, the sort you always associated with accomplished guitarists. The wine, it seems, isn’t affecting him alone, because your first thought is I’ll have to ask for a demonstration sometime. A second round of thunderstruck silence and your hand flutters to your mouth as you realize you actually said that aloud.
Harvey stares at you, blinking. The bluster you’ve come to expect from the broad nervous streak in his disposition doesn’t come, the alcohol putting him just past the reach of his own apprehension. He just looks at you, still blushing madly but suddenly intent, and you realize how overwhelmingly green his eyes are.
“I could give you one now,” he says, a little dazedly, as if even he can’t believe he’s saying it.
“Oh?” you say, mouth going dry. Your brain has almost entirely checked out now, autopilot fully engaged. There’s an intensity in his face you would have never anticipated. He is, in your estimation, a far more handsome man than he thinks he is. And if you’re honest with yourself, it’s not as if you’ve never thought about him like that. Never let your mind wander just a little when you sat on his exam table at the clinic with him hovering close enough for you to smell the vague hit of coffee and faint cologne that clung to him.
He nods, gesturing towards the hallway in the back passed the cola machine. “Storage room. Down the hall, past the restrooms. Give me a minute to buy a little time. If you’re serious, that is.”
Your head is swimming, and precious little of that is from the wine. Does he actually mean to…? A ridiculous question. Harvey is a lot of things, but even drunk you cannot imagine him as the type to lead you on. He stares at you, strangely patient, waiting.
“Are you sure?” you ask, pushing your empty wine glass away. “We’ve had quite a bit to drink.”
A small smile quirks the corner of his mouth. “Believe it or not, I have been far further under the table than this. But it’s up to you.”
You nod once, and when your tongue nervously darts out across your lower lip you watch his eyes drop to follow it. “All right,” you say, a warm tingle rushing up your spine. It’s a relief to find your legs are still relatively steady as you push yourself out of the booth and onto your feet.
The storage room is dimly lit as you push your way inside. Only one of the fluorescent bulbs fixed to the ceiling is lit, humming idly. You find a corner between heavy shelves lined with cases of liquor and settle against the wall, content at least that you’re hidden enough from view that should Gus or Emily happen to come in before Harvey does you shouldn’t have much trouble keeping your head down.
A minute drags on, then two, and you fall to checking your phone while your pulse keeps a bright and off-kilter tempo in your chest. When the music kicks on outside, the heavy bass a vibration you can feel through the wall, it startles you so badly you nearly drop your phone. The door creaks open and you clap a hand over your mouth, pressing yourself between the shelf and the wall, waiting.
Softly, you hear Harvey’s voice call out your name.
Sighing, you shuffle out of the little cubby. “Back here,” you say. “I take it the music was your idea?”
“A bit of cover,” he says as he moves to you.
“Scared the shit out of me.”
He laughs. “You’ll be glad for it in a minute.”
“A confident drunk,” you say, teasing.
He laughs, a touch of nervousness in it. “A horny drunk,” he corrects with just enough grace left to look abashed at the confession. “But I suppose it amounts to the same.”
He’s close, closer than he’s ever been, staring fixedly down at you and for a moment you’re sure he’s about to kiss you. So sure you’re already leaning forward, breath unsteady, and then-
“Turn around.”
It’s an instruction, not an order, said with a sort of off-handed, expectant authority that rocks you off balance. You’re turning before you even have time to process, a joke halfway to your lips (should I turn my head and cough? ) when he presses himself against your back, hands sliding around your waist, and you have to steady yourself against the wall. He nuzzles at your neck, not quite kissing, though you can feel the drag of his lips against your skin, as his hands roam over you.
And those hands. They travel up first, curving around your ribs with a slow deliberation that’s enough to make you wonder if he’s counting the spaces between them. Then up and up to cup your breasts through the material of your shirt, stroking over the rising peaks of your nipples. You sigh, pressing yourself into his hands, and he squeezes in response.
“As much as I want to take this slow, we really don’t have that kind of time,” he mumbles apologetically in your ear as his right hand slips back down, fumbling the catch on your jeans, and pushes past your underwear.
You’ve had more than your share of overzealous lovers who were certain they knew how to bring a woman off. Most of them favored a technique that seemed to be inspired by bicycle spokes on a playing card. This, though. His touch is slow but firm, fingers together, rubbing against you in small circles. You hardly need warming up tonight, anticipation and good wine have taken care of most of it, and his fingers slide easily across your folds. A touch that was only meant to tease parts you easily, and he hums approval against your neck as you gasp.
“You have done this before.”
“Mm. I got around a bit back in med school. I was quite attentive in anatomical studies.”
“I can see that.”
He chuckles. “Tell me when,” he says.
“What-” you start to ask before your breath leaves you in a rush as he sets to work properly.
He varies the touch, giving you just enough time to adjust and respond before pressing harder or lighter or changing direction, and when at last he finds the combination he’s been looking for you grapple at his arm, fighting to choke down a cry, and press yourself instinctively back against him. The laugh that had begun to bubble up from him turns abruptly to a groan. He is almost unbearably hard, a warm, solid length pressing against your backside.
“Unfair,” he says raggedly with an involuntary thrust.
You want to respond, you really do, but all you can manage to stutter out is a single broken, “f-f-f-fuck!”
Outside the music grows louder, the bassline reverberating through the wall and down your arm. He’s right. You are glad for it. Try as you might you cannot keep quiet, and the more you press against him the louder he gets, too. A call-and-response of stifled desperate moans.
“Not much longer,” he pants in your ear, and for a moment you’re unsure if he means for you, for him, or for the music outside. Perhaps it’s all three, because he nudges your feet apart just a little wider and those long fingers dip down, curling into you with a surprising strength. Not thrusting but rocking and grasping , the heel of his hand grinding incessantly against your clit.
There is nothing stifled about the sounds he wrings out of you like this. His left hand leaves your breast and gropes for your mouth. He means only to cover it, to quiet you, but that’s not enough and everything else is too much and you take his fingers into your mouth, sucking greedily as you grind against him, caught between the delirious attention of his hands and the clothed, teasing pressure of his cock.
He bucks against you, swearing roundly, words you would have never imagined hearing from his lips before. But then again, if someone had asked you when you woke up this morning which scenario seemed more likely - Harvey expertly fingering you in the storeroom of the Stardrop Saloon until your legs shook or Harvey saying “fuck” - you know which option you would have chosen.
He is close, but you’re closer. One short, strangled yelp escapes you as your orgasm hits, high and bright and sharp, and you buckle in his arms, spasm after spasm rippling through your body. It’s only by virtue of his arm around your waist and the wall in front of you that you stay on your feet. The fingers inside you slow, coaxing you down, his hips still juddering against you as you still.
He starts to say something, but you hear the catch in his voice through the ringing in your ears, the tremor that says perhaps he isn’t past all of his own apprehension tonight, not when it comes to his own pleasure, at least. And so you let yourself sink, knees giving way almost gratefully, turning to face him. His face is astonishingly red, hair a little damp at the temples, pupils blown and mouth agape. He is so hard you can see him pulse through his slacks.
“Are-are you sure?” he asks as you reach for him. He licks his lips, hands flexing. The fingers of his right hand still glisten in the low light. The only response you can give is to pull his slick fingers into your mouth as you work at the buckle of his belt, tasting yourself until you can taste him. He’s so hard it’s a trick to pull his cock free without yanking his pants down to his knees, but at last you manage. It bobs in time with his pulse, precome dripping steadily from the bright pink head. And when you finally take him in your mouth he groans again, deep and ragged, bracing himself against the wall.
He’s still close, so hard in your mouth there’s no way he’ll last. But you make the most of it, bobbing eagerly along his length before pressing down and down and down, feeling your throat open, hearing him babble incoherently as you take him down to the root and slowly swallow around him.
“I’m- oh fuck - you have to - oh - I’m - oh fuck- fuck! ”
He bucks into you sharply as he comes, biting down on his knuckles to stop from crying out. Again and again he pulses into you, so long and hard his knees begin to quake, thighs trembling from the strain of keeping upright. He gives one last, shuddering keen around his fist as you suck the last few drops of come from his cock and make a small show of swallowing it all down.
Outside the music fades out to the sound of raucous, drunken cheers as you carefully put him back together. He’s still panting, knees quaking like a newborn giraffe, and as you pull yourself up he leans into you, laying his head on your shoulder.
He tries to speak, but his voice breaks. He clears his throat, laughing nervously, and tries again. “You didn’t have to,” he says.
“I wanted to,” you say, running a hand up his side. “You more than earned it.”
“I think maybe I should buy you a coffee. I think I should buy us both a coffee.”
“Oh?”
“I think I’d like to remember this in the morning.” His laugh turns a little giddy. “And besides, we both still have to walk home.”