Chapter Four
He honestly never thought that Olivia Benson would be the sort of woman who would stand for being carried, regardless of the practicality of the situation. So it amazed him to see her sleepy eyes open, watching him as he pulled her blanket back before setting her down gently. He sat next to her, holding her carefully as he worked the robe down her shoulders, dropping butterfly kisses along her shoulder. The robe fell forgotten by the side of the bed while he shifted her to lie flat.
Her eyes were fighting to stay open. Her lips curled up at the corners. He desperately wanted to touch her lips, to taste her mouth, to slide his tongue against hers. But he forced himself to resist, telling himself that kissing her like that when she was half asleep would be taking something from her that she wasn't able to consent to. Instead, his lips grazed her temple, her cheek, her chin and he took pride in the contented sound she made that reminded him of a purring kitten.
Quite pleased with both himself and her reaction, he leaned over her and met her half-closed eyes. "Aren't you glad I ruined your date with whatshisname?"
Her lips spread slowly into a grin before a chuckle escaped from her. "You have no idea. Dumbass didn't have a clue where to put his hands."
His first instinct was to tease her, since they were both well aware that Elliot himself had no such shortcomings.
But that instinct was strangled by his second, which was pure, unadulterated disappointment. He thought he'd done a good job. He'd been sure that he'd impressed her to the point where he'd at least make her top five, which with his pitiful experience should have been enough.
Unfortunately, Elliot wasn't a big fan of second place and there was something he just didn't like about how it had turned out – despite his previous work, Olivia was still capable of both a full sentence and coherent thought. He'd fallen short of his goal. And that just wasn't acceptable.
Luckily in her state, she missed the flash of anger and displeasure on his face. He smiled as he nuzzled her neck, mentally writing a new plan. He could do better; he was sure of it. The cramp in his right wrist left out a repeat of his kitchen antics and the dexterity in his left hand was pretty much limited to operating the power windows in the car. And he'd already made the promise, even if only to himself, that the whole interlude was about her, which left out the part of his anatomy which was more than willing to fill in for his tired fingers.
His lips traced over her clavicle, opening to allow his tongue to taste the soft flesh. His hands were down for the count, but his mouth was ready for round three.
Assured that she wasn't as out of it as he'd originally thought, his mouth moved back to hover over hers. Her eyes were closed, enjoying both her release and his continued attention. He grinned.
"Olivia, look at me."
Brown eyes snapped open, instinctively following the command of the person who'd brought about such pleasure. Their eyes locked in a familiar display of solidarity, each one reassuring and seeking reassurance simultaneously.
And then his mouth descended on hers, secure in the knowledge that she was aware of her surroundings and her companion. His mouth wasted no time, falling open against hers the moment their lips met. Forever able to read him, she was ready, her mouth offering no resistance. His tongue jutted forward, delving into her mouth and learning the new taste. Sweet, musky, delicious, just as her skin had been, but more intimate. Her tongue slid against his, touching, feeling, but not commanding. She wasn't overwhelming him; she wasn't trying. She had acquiesced to his control in the kitchen and her trust continued to pour forth.
Some part of his brain wondered if he was really in control; he was only in control since she was letting him be. He seriously doubted it, but he didn't really care. So what if he wasn't in control. For the love of god, his tongue was in Olivia's mouth, his hand had been in her body, and in a few moments, he had every intention of tasting the most private essence of her.
If he had completely lost control of the situation, fuck, he never, ever wanted it back.
He wanted to tell her that he'd gotten over his psychological need to be in control of every situation. And fingering Olivia's body until she exploded around him twice was infinitely preferable to psychotherapy. Of course, he couldn't tell her that while he was sucking on her tongue.
The talking could wait.
Eventually, he retreated, withdrawing his tongue in an invitation for hers to chase it. The control see-sawed back to him, allowing her to taste and discover and enter his body.
And in less than a second, Elliot realized that the entire idea of control was really all an illusion after all. Because she was moaning into his mouth at the taste of him and he was groaning into hers at the sensation and he fully grasped the concept that neither one of them had any sort of control whatsoever.
Oh, no, nature was so pulling a fast one on both of them.
With a growl aimed at instinct, Elliot pulled away. He didn't mind surrendering power to Olivia, but he'd be damned if he was going to give up the notion of rendering her senseless because his DNA told his dick to procreate and Darwin commanded that men whose dicks had ultimate decision making authority survived.
Not that he'd mind procreating one friggin bit with Olivia Benson.
Promising himself there was time for that later, he returned his focus to her. There would be no more kissing, not when kissing aligned their bodies in such a way that, if not for his pants, he would have been inside her without conscious thought. He needed those conscious thoughts if he was going to get Olivia to grant that he, formerly monogamous man of one sexual partner his entire pathetic life, was the best lay she'd ever had. He was determined that he would meet his goal, and he would meet it with his pants on.
Because he was fairly certain that would absolutely guarantee a return invitation.
Not to mention that he knew his partner was every bit as competitive as he was, which meant that, if he did her right, she would undoubtedly feel compelled to try to one up him. Which he would so look forward to.
Apparently undaunted by his mouth's abrupt departure, Olivia switched tactics. Her hands immediately went for his pants, one deftly working the button before he even knew what she was doing, the other, which would be why he hadn't realized what she was doing with the button, grasping his hardness through his pants, squeezing and caressing until he thought he was about to lose it right there.
That was not going to happen. He was not going to explode in his pants while she was fondling him. Not unless her gun was in her nightstand and he could use it to kill himself before she knew what happened.
He grabbed her wrists, forcing them up over her head, holding them together and still in one hand. His eyes met hers, seeing her question, yet trust. He smiled to reassure her. "Not yet." He figured telling her that it wasn't going to happen, that she wasn't going to get the opportunity to see him reveal himself in that way, would only backfire. If she said no, if she stopped the game, if she demanded control, it would ruin everything.
Besides, he was pretty sure that one more time, with the powerful reactions she'd had to his touch already, she'd be finished and he'd have proven his point. Which meant that he might well end the night fucking her until he found the same release he'd given her.
When her arms relaxed, he moved his hands, starting at her face and sliding down her body. He touched her neck, her shoulders, her sides, her waist. His mouth started at her neck, finding a spot at the hollow of her throat that made her whimper. He sucked on it until he was sure there would be a mark on it in the morning. He wanted to be able to look at it, at her, across their desks in the morning, even knowing that he'd probably wind up jerking off in the precinct bathroom more than once over the sight.
His mouth continued to travel, moving with his hands to her breasts. His hand worked her right breast, rubbing and caressing. His mouth found her left. He felt no qualms with taking his time, starting in the center of her chest and slowly trailing a circular path of wet kisses around the perimeter of the tender flesh. His left hand continued moving, cupping her while his thumb plucked at her nipple. His mouth kept kissing, the circles getting smaller and smaller until his lips finally closed around the peak. He sucked on it, seeing her skin tug upward as he pulled her into his mouth, flicking across the hardened bud with his tongue.
He'd never say it, but he hadn't ever honestly been that confident in the bedroom. His goal had started out as a teenager to simply not hurt Kathy when he took what felt good to him. As he grew, he tried harder to lighten his touch, to read her and find things that she liked. But he'd always wondered if all those jokes about women faking it were true. Kathy had rarely refused him when he reached for her, but there had been many, many times over the years when she'd found an intense release much faster than others.
And after seeing Olivia, after touching Olivia, after feeling Olivia, his steely, strong, determined partner, after watching Olivia writhe with abandon in his arms he couldn't swear he'd ever actually seen his wife of well over twenty years climax.
Because she'd certainly never clawed at the skin of his scalp while her legs knotted around his waist and held his face to her breast while she screamed and twisted and arched and shook.
Olivia's death grip on his head, his waist, fell away and he felt her chest heaving under his face and hand. Confused, he looked up to see her eyes closed, her mouth open, her sweat-coated body shivering.
Holy fuck, had she just…
He hadn't even been trying, not for that, not yet. He couldn't help it; he started to chuckle.
He was taking out a full page ad in the Times. It was official.
Elliot Stabler was the best fuck in the world.
So good, in fact, he didn't even have to fuck.
In retrospect, it was actually kind of disappointing.
He propped himself up on his elbows and smiled, watching her come back to herself slowly.
Her eyes opened, seeming almost too heavy for her to move. Her arms and hands lay limp at her sides. Half of her mouth curved in a smile. "Laugh all you want." She paused, fighting for breath. "Just don't," her voice trailed off as her head fell to the side. After a moment, she seemed to remember that she'd been saying something. "Stop. Never." Apparently sentences, words even, were too much for her.
He nodded, his smile changing from amused to proud. He'd never seen his partner so content, so relaxed, so happy. And he'd made it happen. "Wasn't planning to." He leaned down, dropping a kiss on her abdomen. "At least not at the moment."
Initially, his plan had been to devote as much attention to her right breast as he had to her left, but he couldn't. She was tired, exhausted, as he'd wanted her to be. He knew she only had one more orgasm in her, in her slack muscles, in her tired, aching body, and he wanted that to be the best, the most intense.
And he wanted his mouth clamped around her center when it happened. He wanted to taste all the stress flowing out of her. He wanted to look up into her eyes when he pushed her so hard into oblivion that last time that she might be unconscious afterwards.
He watched her eyes slip closed as he pushed himself further down her body. Careful to keep the contact just light enough to let her feel it, his head dropped down as he did so, letting his lips brush her skin. He let his mouth, his tongue, explored her body, her narrow, muscular frame. He could feel random shutters still running through her, remnant shockwaves of pleasure echoing even as his endeavored to build her back up into an almost painfully tense state.
Because the fall, his last shove, wouldn't be nearly as intense as he wanted to make it if he couldn't wind her up further than she'd been all night. Which he knew would be an impressive feat in and of itself.
His kisses rained around her stomach while his fingers glanced across her hips. His erection, which was beyond the point of pain, found some relief in the gentle pressure as his body slid lower on her bed. He let his tongue dart out, pressing into her belly button, watching with glee as her weak body clenched at the contact. Her arms were still limp, but her shoulders had tensed, allowing her body to arch slightly into his mouth.
He'd been right. She was nearly spent, but not entirely so. His hands cradled her hips, helping support her body since she was obviously tired. Her body already shaking from the effort of lifting itself that little bit. He shimmied further, his hands pulling her hips along with him, until his knees slipped over the foot of the bed. He settled himself comfortably, knowing it wouldn't do for a cramp in his back or legs to interrupt him.
He moved his hands down further, teasingly brushing her dark curls as they relocated under her legs. He lifted her legs up, bringing her knees to rest on his shoulders before his hands slid under her ass. He pulled at the globes, fisting his hands as she angled her pelvis toward his face.
"Jesus, El, please."
He was distracted by her words, wondering if perhaps his ministrations to her body had converted her to Catholicism. He'd certainly never heard her call on a deity for help. He grinned upon seeing her hands twisting the sheet mercilessly. Yeah, he was on his way to hell, but seriously, he didn't give a fuck, not as long as they were going there together.
Besides, there was a simple truth he'd learned just a moment earlier.
Olivia Benson's pussy was a religion all its own.
And Elliot was quite happily on his knees before it.
He'd gladly worship until the day he died.
But first, he had to show her that he was worthy.