Harvey does it by accident. He grabs Mike's shoulder to lean over and look at the brief he's writing. Mike tenses, waiting for Harvey to make some kind of rookie comment, but Donna calls him away.
Harvey goes to outman whoever was dumb enough to get in his way, and his fingertips absently drag across the small space of Mike's neck exposed by his collar. Mike makes a small noise, but Harvey doesn't think anything of it. He has a crisis to solve, bets to make, wagers to settle, scores to collect and men to topple.
Mike's not thinking of that any of that. He's thinking of that small slide of Harvey's fingertips, light, against his skin. Just a bit warm from the mug of hot coffee he was drinking. Thinking of the way Harvey touched him as he said, "Good work," in passing.
Mike goes home that night and tries to be dignified. While he can be professional enough to hold it together at work, his dignity doesn't last long at home, it never has. He's all for instant gratification; why wait to get what you can get now? No point in ignoring the arousal that's been settling in his stomach all day, and now that he no longer has to worry about Trevor banging down the door, he can dump his messenger bag on the table and take his time.
His hand reaches down, and he touches himself. Lightly at first, just trailing his thumb at first, and even through the fabric of his pants, he twitches. He thinks of Harvey, thinks of touching him, the way Harvey would grab his wrists in one hand and make sure he did all the touching and not Mike. Mike starts palming himself, and he licks his lips. He starts squirming in his seat thinking how good this is going to be once he gets his pants off. He starts undoing his zip with his free hand, thinking if Harvey can do this to him with just a little touch, what can he do if --
Mike comes, suddenly and unexpectedly. His hips snap up, and Mike tries to pump his cock through his pants to ride out his orgasm for as long as he can. He bites his lip, but he can hear himself whining. It's better, he supposes, then coming with Harvey's name on his lips.
"How would you like to come home with me?"
He must see the look of protest on Mike's face, because he smoothly adds, "I'll play a jazz record, one of my favorites, not one of yours. The lights won't be out, because I'll want to see every movement you make."
He does all this without touching Mike at all, just leaning in close and whispering against his ear, and God does Mike want to say yes. For now, he closes his eyes and his breathe quickens.
"If you think I'm meticulous with my cases wait until you see how much attention I'll give you when I take you to bed. We're not going to have one of those fumbling unplanned encounters against a table, a wall, the edge of a desk; we'll save those for later. This will be planned, methodical. You think you've seen me at my best closing a client? Just wait until I have you on my bed waiting -- "
Harvey leans forward, one hand braced against the back of the desk. Mike wants now, they can get to the bed when they get to the bed; the desk is perfectly fine with him. The heat of Harvey's other hand is beneath his waist, warm pressure pushing in and down until Harvey finds the jut of his hip. And then his thumb starts rubbing circles and his fingertips knead and Mike is more than willing to lean back against the desk so Harvey's other hand can touch him.
Mike grabs the hem of Harvey's jacket. But Harvey blows a, No, into his ear and takes the lobe of Mike's ear between his teeth.
"I'm going to have you making all these sounds you're making now, but -- "
And Mike's suddenly very aware of how hard he is and how very embarrassing it would be to come in his slacks and go home that way. His hips push forward, still asking for more.
Instead Harvey pushes his hand into Mike's just shy of uncomfortable, but the heat and pressure is good, and Mike squirms. Harvey squeezes more and Mike starts biting his lip.
"And there'll be none of that," Harvey adds. "I'm going to make sure I wring out every noise you can make." And then Harvey slots his mouth against his, swallowing all the noises Mike makes.
"Christ, you love this don't you?"
Mike stops biting his lip to let out an embarrassingly loud moan.
"Yeah, you do."
Harvey keeps rubbing his thumb at the tender and soft skin over his pulse, the rest of his hand curving across the back of his neck, across the top of his spine, the fingertips brushing the other side of his neck. Mike bucks his hips up, wanting Harvey's hand there, but the bastard pushes his hand up his shirt and against his back, starting to get sticky with sweat.
Mike whines. He'd tell Harvey to get on with it, but he can't think with Harvey touching to him and talking like --
"Can come without me touching you?"
Mike tries to give him a look that says I'm not seventeen, but Harvey gives him one of those looks that says Don't get cocky with me, I've got your balls in my fists. And the last thing Mike wants to do is piss Harvey enough for him to take his hands away.
"Harvey," is about all he can manage to say.
"Mike," he replies indulgently, stilling his hands.
"Keep going," Mike moans, rubbing his neck against Harvey's hand, trying to push Harvey's other hand lower.