Lillyl0vebraids
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But then Harvey had leaned in, close enough that Mike could smell him—cologne and power and something distinctly Harvey—and murmured something about skipping dessert and heading to his place instead.
Mike had been halfway out of the booth before Harvey even finished the sentence.
Now he was bent over the back of Harvey's stupidly expensive leather couch, his legs shaking, his hair damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead, trying to remember what the hell led to this moment besides bad decisions and Harvey Specter’s goddamn stamina.
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Or, once they start, they just can't stop.