Warning: This chapter really should be rated MA, but I can't figure out how to change the rating to MA. It seems I can only downgrade the rating, not upgrade it. So anyhow, please consider this story MA and don't read it if you're not prepared for graphic sex and violence.

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"Are we still partners?" Elliot asked, looking at Olivia with his patented blank expression.

"I don't know, are we?" Olivia asked.

"Because if we are, I'm not sure I should be doing this," Elliot said, unfolding his arms from across his chest and reaching over the table to rest his hand on Olivia's. He wanted to lift her hand to his face and place it over his eyes, blocking out all thought and leaving room only for sensory input. But even a six-pack couldn't make him do that. In fact, his hand was shaking slightly. He stared into Olivia's eyes and waited for something to happen.

Nothing did. Olivia sat across from him as if she were a statue, not moving her hand, either to embrace his or to shake it off.

Ok, asshole, Elliot told himself. You screwed up. Again. He started to take his hand away, when Olivia surprised him by putting her other hand on top of his.

"Don't," she said, confusing Elliot completely. "Don't take your hand away." She paused for a moment. "I need it."

They sat that way, staring at each other for what seemed like forever. Elliot felt more awkward than he had before his first kiss, back at Catholic school. So much more was at stake now, and he had no idea which direction was right or wrong. His mind was what had gotten him into this mess in the first place, so he concentrated on letting it go blank and just feeling Olivia's hands surrounding his own. He leaned forward over the tiny table and very gently brushed Olivia's cheek, barely making contact.

"Crumb," he mumbled, one side of his mouth turning slightly upward.

Olivia blushed, her dark brown eyes seeming to melt.

"Is this totally insane?" Olivia asked, grasping Elliot's hand tightly.

"Probably," Elliot answered, moving his finger to brush against his partner's lips.

"Another crumb?" Olivia asked.

Elliot actually smiled, for the first time in what felt like centuries. He was no longer worried about right or wrong; his mind had disappeared into someplace totally inaccessible. He'd forgotten what desire felt like, and his body was making up for lost time. He seemed to materialize next to Olivia's chair in one fluid motion. She rose to meet him as he bent down toward her. Elliot started to stroke her breast through her shirt as they kissed, then grabbed it, hard. Olivia moaned and pulled him closer, although Elliot wasn't sure he could have stopped even if she'd pushed him away. He half carried her into the bedroom and onto his spare but neatly made bed. Within seconds he was fumbling impatiently at the buttons on her blouse, needing to feel her nipple against her skin.

"Take it easy," Olivia said. "You'll rip the buttons."

"Fuck the buttons," Elliot muttered, breathing heavily as he ripped the shirt open and pulled her breast out of her bra. He pinched her nipple, hard, reaching for her pants at the same time. The zipper gave him far less trouble than the buttons. He'd hardly finished pushing her pants and underwear down past her knees before he took of his own and slid inside her, grabbing the one exposed breast and biting her neck.

"Elliot! Stop! You're hurting me!" Olivia screamed. She was wet and panting herself, but she felt as if both her body and her partner were betraying her. This was not what she'd imagined, not by a long shot.

Elliot ignored her and moved faster and faster, plunging deeper and deeper into her. He didn't even register the taste of blood in his mouth as he lost control and broke the skin of Olivia's neck when he climaxed. His entire body was shaking, partly from his orgasm, but partly from something much more primal. And frightening. He lay panting on top of Olivia, unaware of anything at all, until she pushed him off and sat up, crying.

"You fucking bastard," she said, between sobs. "I can't believe it. You of all people..." she broke down, crying too hard to continue. Elliot sat up and tried to put an arm around her, but she shoved him away. "Don't touch me! Ever again. Though maybe I should be thanking you," she snarled. "Now I know how my mother felt."

Elliot's jaw literally dropped open. "What the Hell are you talking about? Maybe I was a little rough, but you wanted it just as much as I did!" he shouted.

"I wanted my shirt ripped off? I wanted you to hurt me? I wanted you to ignore me when I told you to stop? Stop means stop, asshole," she said, frighteningly composed.

Elliot's thought process finally returned, and he wished like Hell it hadn't. She's right, he thought, dazed, as he silently watched the woman he loved get up, turn her back on him, and pull a torn shirt around herself. What the fuck is the matter with me? I just raped Olivia. I'm one of the sick pricks I've spent ten years putting away. He sat up on the bed, rested his head in his hands, and sobbed. He couldn't bring himself to look up, and he was sure if he did, she'd be gone.

The slam of the front door confirmed the worst. Elliot got up and pulled up his pants, and then just stood there, shaken, unsure what to do next. It suddenly occurred to him that not only had he just lost his partner and any chance for anything more, but he'd lost his job, as well. Olivia had probably already called in the rape. Fuck. A couple of unis would probably show up at his door any minute now. Hell, he'd lost more than his job. He'd lost his fucking freedom. Elliot's self-hatred turned into rage. He picked up the bedside lamp, yanked it free from the outlet, and threw it across the room. The crash wasn't nearly satisfying enough, so he picked up the bedside table and threw it across the room, too. It was heavy and well made, and simply bounced and fell over on its side, unscathed.

"Shit!" Elliot shouted. He turned around and smashed his right fist through the bedroom window. It felt good, so good that he smashed his other fist through the remaining shards of glass. Breaking the window had been pretty clean, but hitting the shards hurt like hell. It felt like a thousand pieces of glass were embedded in his left hand. Elliot relished the pain. God knows he deserved it. He deserved more. He walked toward the kitchen, trailing blood like a crime scene behind him, intent on smashing the kitchen window, too. But his head and feet wouldn't cooperate. His vision started to disappear, and something was ringing very loudly in his ears. All thoughts faded away as his knees gave out and he fell, head first, on the tiled kitchen floor.