THE COVER, PART 2


She slips across the small space between their bodies and it's seconds before she is moving a leg across his thigh, settling down onto his lap like it's nothing.

Then it's official.

She is straddling Elliot Stabler.

He had reclined the seat in preparation so she sinks down onto her forearms, her breasts hovering just above his face. This was all planned - the straddle, the recline, the angle but what wasn't planned was his hands on her hips, which she assumes is an added necessity to stop her breasts from face planting into his chin from the angle.

She swallows, how did they think this was a good idea?

Why did they think this was a good idea?

"1 block."

She can do this.

They can do this.

His hands are warm, so warm, too warm, she's already sweating and she can feel he is too. He has a tight grip on her hips and she swallows when he finally looks at her, her heartbeat hammering as their eyes lock for the first time tonight. There is about an inch left between their lips and it's way too soon to act - they have to wait for the cue.

Three cars.

That was the cue before she was supposed to lean in and fucking rupture their partnership but she wonders for a second if Fin has forgotten, because surely one block wouldn't last this long.

"10 cars."

Jesus.

She lingers mid air, her hair slipping from behind her ear, falling forward and swiping his cheek. She holds her breath, her chest pounding in preparation.

How is this happening?

Why is this happening?

"7 cars."

She presses her eyes closed at the prolonged anticipation - this is all too much, Fin was counting this down like it's was a goddamn space shuttle launch. She feels his hand lift up and tuck the strands of hair back behind her ear and she shivers in response. She knows it was meant to be a helpful gesture so she could see but when she opens her eyes she finds him staring at her mouth.

Fucking-fuck.

Her forearms are still resting parallel to his face and when she adjusts herself in his lap, their hips draw absently closer in proximity.

Jesus.

"4 cars."

Her eyes do a double take and it's a question.

Is that close enough to three?

Should they just do this?

Get it over with?

Rip the fucking bandaid?

His eyes don't answer her so she just takes the lead, leaning in, grazing his lips with hers but he turns his head before she makes complete contact. She blinks back at the side of his cheek in shock, her arm muscles tensing in response. He wasn't ready it seems, the sharp intake of breath tells her as much and yet it looks as if she couldn't have waited a second longer to get her mouth on his.

This - was - fucking - torture.

She should be embarrassed but she's too busy trying to recall out how many cars they were up to.

"3 cars." Fin confirms.

He moves back to her then, his lips grasping hers intently and it's part moan, part surprise when their lips finally do meet, like she had forgotten this was the entire plan all along. He holds her mouth in a firm lingering peck, his hand slipping up to cup her cheek as they wait for their audience. His unexpected touch causes a flurry of goose bumps to break out across her skin and she can't remember if 'cheek cupping' was in the script but it's so damn welcome she doesn't care. It hits her then, they'd discussed everything down to her damn underwear colour but they hadn't actually discussed the logistics of the kiss.

The depth, the intensity – the rules.

How far?

How long?

Church kiss?

Open mouth?

Tongue?

She tells herself to just follow his lead, let him take the reigns which he seems so intent on doing tonight but she also needs to breathe and she'd forgotten to take a breath in preparation. Her lips part against his, drawing in oxygen, not realising she'd parted his mouth with hers. He goes with it, grasping her lower lip, tugging it between his and sucking.

Fuck.

She wants to moan.

So this is what it's like to kiss Elliot Stabler.

A decade of wondering.

Gentle or soft?

Heated or slow?

Smooth or rough?

She can hear the perp a car length away now and she knows it's time to shift this into overdrive. She nips his lower lip before grasping his top lip firmly between hers and she moans for effect, the sound vibrating against his lips.

She can feel eyes on her from outside the window, her purposeful moan extending out onto the street.

Perfect.

This is what they wanted.

An audience.

An audience as their mouths fought for dominance in front of this sick fuck.

She should be on edge knowing what was ahead but couldn't help it, she was overcome by the feel of her partners lips against hers – the taste, the warmth, the way his possessive hand dug into her hip as he drew her determinedly down with the other. He is much more receptive now that it was showtime and a pang of adrenaline courses through her lower belly with every nip, every suck, every scrape of denim against her bare inner thighs. His lips are still tugging at hers when she parts his mouth and without thinking she slides her tongue in to meet with his.

He groans.

Fuck.

It hits her then.

This was just a cover.

Tongue was not necessary.

But it was fucking muscle memory she tells herself.

That's how she kisses.

It was a literal slip of the tongue.

Maybe he'll buy that excuse when she tries to reason with him later.

He pulls back, her glossy lips leaving his and he stares at her in bewilderment, but it doesn't last because the car door is being ripped open and she knows what's coming next.

She is yanked out by her hips, feigning shock and alarm as she stumbles back onto the pavement.

"Move." The barrel of the gun presses into the back of her head as Riley's pushes her towards the off-white panel van by her upper arm.

This asshole has a fixation on 'cleaning up' local neighbourhood hookers mid job and it would seem he had just wrangled his very last call girl.

He shoves her towards the waiting vehicle and she expects that at any moment her squad will swarm but it's a violent blow to the back of her head that catches her first.

She stumbles forward, splitting pain overtaking as she reaches out to seize the open door of the van.

What the fuck?

She doubles over, only just keeping herself upright as the pain intensifies.

She hadn't anticipated that, that wasn't part of his MO - there had been no reports of violence on site but the son of a bitch had just king hit her with the butt of his gun.

Maybe she's been made.

She blinks against the harsh street light and she hears it before the perp does, the crack of Riley's jaw as Elliot's fist connects with his chin, knocking him clean onto his ass.

Fin's voice calls out somewhere behind her, asking her if she's okay but she is fixated on the way that Elliot isn't stopping - pound - after pound - after pound.

Fuck.

She moves her hand to the back of her head to check.

No blood.

But her head was panging to no end.

She nods her answer to Fin because it's all she has.

Yes, she is okay, despite knowing that after fucking kiss, she was anything but.

TBC