7. Stripped
I'm honestly glad that Elliot is as good of a navigator as he is, because he's essentially doing this one blind. I've taken over his entire field of vision, when he actually manages to open his eyes anyway. I can't keep my hands still. They roam around the whole of his head- behind his neck, cupping the base of his skull; holding the smooth skin of his cheeks in place, so I can have better access to his mouth, supporting his strong jaw, where I can feel the muscles that are working to kiss the hell out of me flex and release.
Oh, God. Release. My body is aching for it, screaming for it and the mere thought of it causes me to tighten my thighs around his body and hike myself further up against where he holds me low on his hips in reflex. He groans into my mouth and my ass bumps into a wall. I guess I distracted him. Oops. And I'm not the least bit fucking sorry.
He drops my left leg to run his hand along the wall to get his bearings back and I quickly compensate by holding tightly to his hip with the back of my left knee until I feel him again grab a hold of my thigh. I somehow break my lips from his because I have to get them on the neck I've been caressing for the past…however long. Who the hell cares?
I throw my arms haphazardly over his shoulders and latch my open mouth onto the jugular region of the right side of his neck, allowing my hands to skim the planes and plateaus of his upper back. No one ever said that going for the jugular always has to be a bad thing. About death. I'm of the opinion that having his strong pulse underneath my lips and tongue is quite possibly the most enlivening thing I've ever felt. The invisible haze from the scent of his aftershave surrounds me and I fear I might pass out, which would be absolutely unacceptable in every way imaginable. It's a risk I'm willing to take. I inhale deeply as I run my tongue up one of many muscular indentations in his neck, feeling his warm and ragged breath at my ear.
"Fuck, Liv," he's able to grunt out.
I can only think "That's the point." But I can't say anything. Instead I just murmur an agreeable "mmhmm" against his skin.
He turns to the left and one of my knees hits the doorframe as we start to cross into the bedroom. I hardly feel it, though I'm sure it'll leave a bruise. "Sorry," he mumbles. He's been pressing kisses to my shoulder, even through his jersey, and I know he must be pissed that he has far more skin exposed than I do. I know he wants to put me down and I know he wants this jersey to come off; but if he puts me down, my height will drop considerably, which means I won't be able to reach his neck like this without a bit of a struggle.
Thinking as quickly as my brain will allow, I reach out with my right hand and grab the doorframe as we pass. He doesn't know and keeps walking, causing my arm to jerk the rest of my body backward and I have to secure myself to him by wrapping my other arm behind his neck.
It still pulls me back hard enough to tear my mouth from his neck. I look down at him and grin. I was right before…those eyes, the ones that turn cobalt when his pupils dilate, are the most magnificently sexy pair of irises I have ever seen. I stare at him, my grin widening, until he understands. It only takes seconds and I let go of the doorframe as he presses me up against the wall next to the open door. We stare at each other a few more moments, and my lungs welcome the reprieve to catch my breath. The rest of me wants the reprieve to go fuck itself…so I can fuck the senses out of Elliot Stabler.
He is, fortunately, as impatient as I am—God bless Irish tempers—and, taking an instant to readjust his grip on my legs (which, incidentally causes what is now undeniably a hard-on to crash into my pelvis, drawing a low moan from my throat), he shoots a glance down at the jersey, commanding, "Off."
He pushes me against the wall with his lower half and I have to strive to remember what it was I needed to do. Balancing on his hands and bracing on the wall, I drop my hands from him, crossing them in front of me and grasping the bottom hem of the jersey, which has bunched itself up around my waist. This mesh shirt has been mighty good to me. Maybe I'll ask him later if I can keep it. Don't worry, Rangers, I've got this one covered—just call it a breakaway. I yank the jersey over my head in one fluid movement and immediately try to bring my lips to his. He dodges my advance, shaking his head in a teasingly scolding manner. He lifts his chin to gesture at my tank top before telling me, "That, too."
I glare at him through the narrowed slits of my eyelids. He's not getting the upper hand quite yet. Besides, I'm fully aware that between the white tank and my bra-less, very much aroused breasts, I may as well be in a wet T-shirt contest. That's all he's getting right now because I intend to take full advantage of the time I have to explore his body while his own hands are occupied keeping me propped up. This is a one-on-one. A game of trying to outsmart and outmaneuver the other. It's a dance we do well, so it may as well apply in the bedroom. Move one way, duck the other. Charge, retreat, break, shoot, score. I twist my lips wryly at the more than appropriate analogy. I press my hips into his, successful in securing my advantage when all he can do is groan and drop his head against my chest.
He can hold it there himself this time. I have other things on my mind.
I find his hands where they grasp my thighs and I fleetingly wonder if I'll have bruises from his fingerprints later as I start at his wrists and run my hands up his arms. I curve my fingers around the contours of his forearms, flatten them and allow them to mold to the rounded forms of his biceps, over his shoulders and down his triceps. I squeeze lightly just above his elbows and let my hands roam back up to his shoulders. Jesus Christ, this man has incredible arms. Fascinating arms. Arms that bear the scars of his career and the inky brands of his convictions. I've seen his arms many, many times; but I've never really known them. They are arms that have protected me for years, arms I've trusted my life to, yet arms that I've only ever felt around me before now when I was lying on the traffic-worn tile of a bus terminal bleeding from what turned out to be a superficial slice on my neck.
They are arms now relinquishing their hold on me, his hands sliding up my thighs, over my hips, forcing my legs to drop and me to set my feet on the ground. As I lower, my hands, still on his shoulders, are now stretching my arms upward. Convenient for him, it turns out, because his hands keep right on going, trailing fire up my sides and over my ribcage, sliding under my tank top as they go. He hooks his thumbs on the hem and continues to raise his hands. I anticipate his timing and my hands lift from his shoulders at just the right time, letting him pull the top off and fling it behind him before I release my arms limply to my sides.
My eyes have been locked on his through this process; but as his hands start to drift back toward me, I close them, frankly expecting him to go straight for the breasts. He doesn't. Bastard. He settles them on my waist, strong fingers urging me closer. I didn't think we could be much closer, but I was wrong. I stumble a step toward him, wrapping my arms around his neck as far as I can manage, dragging myself up to his mouth. The friction of his rigid chest against my already hardened nipples is enough to make me hiss a sharp intake of breath before I crash his lips to my own. His tongue is eager to stake its territory in my mouth, though I've known for years it's only belonged to him.
The very tips of his fingers trace the dip of my spine and it's enough to nearly make me shatter then and there. As it is, my panties are becoming proportionately uncomfortable with the increasing wetness between my legs. I swear I'm beginning to throb and my hips are desperately seeking his; but goddammit, those four pesky inches have him placed a bit too high. His hands are just starting to come around to my breasts…breasts can wait. I struggle to wrap one of my legs as high around him as I can, hoping he'll take the hint.
We've always been better at non-verbal communication. He reaches down and picks up one of my legs, then the other, hoisting me up and I immediately grind my hips into him, dropping my head to his shoulder and biting back a moan. He walks over to the bed, but abruptly turns around as he reaches the edge of the mattress so that when he falls back onto it, once again abandoning my legs for my waist, I land on top of him with a glorious slam against his bulging erection. I cry out something completely unintelligible. Whatever it was, he apparently understood it because he responds by holding my hips and thrusting up against me once.
I feel my eyes roll back into my head and I have to blink several rapid times to reestablish some sense of awareness. I'm a grown woman, for Christ's sake. Teenagers who still don't want to go all the way have orgasms with their underwear still on, not me. I have got to hold out because, Lord, if I do, I've got a hell of a ride to look forward to. His hands have made it to my breasts now, supporting their weight on the crook of his thumb and forefinger before brushing his palms up and over them. I groan and fall forward onto him, bracing myself on my hands above his shoulders. He tightens his abs, curling his upper body off the mattress enough to get one of my nipples in his mouth. He hooks his hands under my arms, holding my body steady so he can continue his ministrations. His tongue laves on one, then the other, sucking, nipping, licking and my head is screaming at me that I've got to touch him. I can't. If I do, I'll have to move my arms and I might just drop as dead weight on him, my muscles rendered useless.
Fuck that.
I sit up, dragging him with me with a death-grip on his triceps. He sits with his legs outstretched, knees slightly bent so when I go to sit back on my heels, I instead fit perfectly into the "V" of his thighs and hips. My fingers snake behind his neck and I sweep my tongue over the roof of his mouth. He slants his mouth over mine and I can't tell where his lips end and mine begin. I'm wrapped up in making love to his mouth, constantly arching my back to try to pull myself closer to him, inadvertently rocking our hips together each time I do. His fingers tangle in my hair (God, how I've missed them there) and I press myself down onto him reflexively.
His head jerks back from mine as he draws a sharp breath. "Jesus, Liv. You are an evil, evil woman."
Oh, he has no idea.
I grin at him and, never breaking eye contact, I drag my thumbs into the waistband of my panties. With minimal effort and movement, I wiggle my way out of them, tossing them aside then take him again by the backs of his arms and twist our bodies so that he lies directly on top of me, cradled between my thighs. It was sweet of him to think I might want to be on top and, with any other man, it probably would have been true. With any other man, this would mean nothing and I'd prefer to be in complete control.
But this is Elliot. Elliot, who is anyone but any other man. Elliot, whose passion for many things I have witnessed over the years. That's what I want directed at me. That's what I want to take control of me. I reach down and snap the waistband of his boxers against his skin. He winces only slightly before I give him the same command he gave me earlier. Turnabout is fair play. "Off."
He raises an eyebrow at me. I return the favor. He stands at the foot of the bed, his retreating body sending a rush of cold air over the wet skin between my legs. I close my legs at the knee, blocking myself from the cold. I'm wondering what the hell is taking Elliot so long. I glance up at him and his boxers remain firmly in place.
He's just standing there. One forearm is crossed over his abdomen and he's using the fist of that hand to prop up the elbow of his other arm. The raised hand is rubbing his chin and jaw in an almost contemplative manner.
"What?"
He doesn't answer. My heart races faster than it already was and I clench my thighs tighter together, feeling suddenly and completely naked. Stripped. It's as I start to move my arms to cover my chest that he speaks, halting me.
"Don't." The hand rubbing his jaw temporarily makes a stop sign before returning to his cheek. "Just…let me look at you."
My mouth, which had been hanging open loosely, closes as I swallow hard. This is another no-no for me in the bedroom. I don't just let men look at me. Either the lights are going to be off or I'll keep them busy enough to never give them the chance. I think, though, that I just really didn't want any of them to see me. This man standing in front of me, however…shit, he already knows me inside and out. He already sees me and he's seen me at my best and my worst. His eyes tell me to trust him, so what else can I do?
I fold my hands on top of my stomach and watch him watch me. He leans down and takes my ankles, gently coaxing me to lower my legs and pry the imaginary magnets on my knees apart. I remind myself to just keep breathing and I'll be okay. He straightens up and resumes his earlier stance. This is like watching a really fucked up live interpretation of The Thinker sculpture. His hands drop to his hips without notice and he sighs heavily. "El? What is it?"
He shakes his head in what I'm reading as disbelief. I know the feeling. I'm lying naked on my partner's bed. Seriously.
"You…you are the most extraordinarily beautiful sight I've ever laid eyes on."
Whoa. Big pill to swallow. Big pill. Not going to choke. I point a wobbly finger at him, gesturing sharply. "Off," I repeat.
The boxers fall with no further ado and I'm taken aback by how amazingly Elliot Stabler, in his entirety, is sculpted. Perhaps my Thinker metaphor wasn't too far off, because the planes and ridges of his body are each so well-defined they easily could have been carved by an artist who had the utmost appreciation for the male form. I smirk lazily at him. "You're not so bad yourself, Stabler. Come here."
The come-hither motion I make with the same pointed finger may have been overkill, but either way, he's climbing back onto the mattress—onto me. I scoot my heels back toward my ass, allowing my thighs to drop open and give him a place to settle. His face hovers inches over mine and I can feel the tip of his cock teasing at my entrance. He's braced on his right forearm next to my head and his left hand twirls a section of my hair around his fingers.
"I meant it, Liv. Every word. You're stunning."
I tip my chin up, whispering against his lips. "Thank you."
He kisses me lightly before whispering back at me. "You sure you want to do this?"
I nuzzle my nose quickly up against his. "Never wanted anything more."
His tongue sweeps into my mouth at the same instant he pushes himself inside me, effectively swallowing my gasp of surprise. God, it's been too long since I've done this…and goddamned well worth the period of circumstantial celibacy. I arch my back up off the mattress, trying to pull him as far into my body as I can. I push up off my heels, shoving my pelvis up to meet his. It isn't very ladylike; but then, Elliot knows I'm no lady. He's big, but somehow not bigger than I'd expected, and…well, let's just say that not all parts of my body seem to be on board with getting him as deep as possible.
I circle my arms up under his so I can grab onto his shoulders from behind for leverage. We're only about three-quarters of the way there, and my grasp on him is just in time because when he slowly pulls the length of himself out, my vision gets starry. When he drives back in, his motion is deliberate, with measured strength. He manages a bit deeper, and I really do think I might just pass out. I dig my nails into his shoulder blades, dropping my head back to a pillow. "Oh God, El."
He lowers his forehead to mine. "I know." He does it again, and sweet heaven above, he's as far in as he can go.
"Jesus Christ."
"I know." And again.
What I know is that I—this—is not going to last very long. And I'll be damned if I'm not going to get every bit out of it that I can. This tortuously slow pace can wait for another time. I throw my left leg over his waist, pulling him as close as I can. "Just let go, El. Please, just let go." For the first time in my life, I know what I sound like when I beg. I catch the flash of worry on his face. "I'm covered and I trust you."
He exhales hard, closing his eyes and brings his left hand down to grab the back of my right knee, stretching my leg upward. The pulling on my hamstrings is tight, but bearable. Definitely bearable. I let him hook that leg high up on his arm…and holy mother of God.
I have nothing left to do but continue to grasp at his shoulders, his back, his neck—anything I can reach—as he drives into me relentlessly now. We're both sweaty and my hands keep slipping and I'm constantly having to readjust them with the way he is roughly rocking my body back and forth. Then his mouth is by my ear and he's using that voice. "Come for me, Liv. Come for me."
I don't know if it was the rumble of his voice or the quick swipe over my clit (when did he get a hand down there?) that sends me flying, but it's all over for me then. My right leg drops from his shoulder, and I cry out his name, clinging desperately to his back as he rides out the spasms with me. I'm shaking all over and I don't know how my fingers have any strength left to grab at him, but it's either that or let go and I'll be damned to fucking hell if I let go. Not now. Not ever.
His own release is not far behind mine and the tension I could feel building in his body is liberated fast and hard. If I had thought mine was over, I was wrong. As his final adamant thrusts hit me somewhere I'm not entirely sure I knew existed, I buck up against him and he muffles a loud groan against my shoulder as I feel an unfamiliar warmth spread throughout my body as the tremors subside. It's new to me, I realize, because Elliot is the first man I've ever let do that to me…with me. There just was never any point to it before. Why bother taking the risk with men I hardly knew? I'm a sex crimes cop, for crying out loud. Condoms came as a prerequisite for sex with me.
But this? This, oh God. This is Elliot. And I don't know why I'm even thinking about any of this or anything at all other than the fact that my partner just fucked me on his bed, I had not one, but two earth-shattering orgasms and he came inside me not sixty seconds ago.
He hasn't spoken. Then, neither have I since I screamed his name like a prayer to a personal god. I run a hand over the back of his head, where it still rests on my shoulder. I feel him press his lips against the side of my neck in response. When he starts to push himself up, I pull him back down. "Stay," I request, turning my head to kiss him gently as he lies back down on top of me.
And he does.
