16. Finger-Paints and Bucking Bulls

I shake my fingers loose from his, flattening my hand over the top of his on the cushion, all while my right hand lifts the arm from his stomach and repeats the motion on his other side, both my hands now pressing his into the couch. I apply pressure until the muscles in his arms relax, shoulder to fingertip, then lift my hands. My hands, which are now gliding up and over the ridges of his stomach, across the flat planes of his pectorals, to the tops of his shoulders, smoothing inward until they curve around their respective sides of his neck, my thumbs just in front of his ears. I lean close, my hair falling down over his arm, studying his jawline from mere inches away, trying my best to really look.

God knows I've been up close and personal to that jaw and neck plenty today; but, let's face it, I was preoccupied. I'm not ignorant to the fact that there have been times on a case where Elliot would incline his face toward mine, voice low, to share information, and I would catch myself watching his lips. Or his throat when he would swallow. His jaw when he'd grit his teeth.

But, it's different in this moment. Because I have permission. I have freedom. And I cannot keep my lips from his skin any longer, something I don't admit to myself until after I find them softly resting against the right side of his jaw. They don't rest for long, lightly kissing their way along his jawline as my hands begin to slide away from his face, down the curve of his neck. I've reached the end of his jaw, my face in front of his. I catch myself zoning in on his lips, which are parted just enough to allow the passage of his still somewhat measured breaths against my skin. I drag my eyes to meet his and drop a small kiss on his chin, hands now having slipped off the fronts of his shoulders, lying flat on his chest.

I push up off my hands to prevent simply surrendering to the heat in his eyes. As I do, a small discoloration appearing between two of the fingers on my left hand catches my attention. I spread my fingers a bit wider and lean down for a closer study. It's newer, still an angrier pink color, the scar probably a bit wider than it needed to be – the result of a quick ER stitch-job combined with Elliot likely not doing anything in his life differently to protect the site or "take it easy" and still having the sutures removed 10 days later. I brush my thumb across it, feeling the slight indentation in the muscle. A small sigh escapes my lungs. A sigh of…sadness? Regret? Guilt? I lay my forehead against my left hand.

"I should've been there," I mumble against my hand.

"Liv?" he grates.

"I should've been there," I repeat, though not much louder.

Out of the corner of my eye, even through the curtain of my hair, I see his right hand clench on the couch. "There's noth-"

"Don't tell me there's nothing I could do. I should have been there, Elliot. I was there. I should have walked in and taken my job back. It would've been me taking you to the hospital. If it happened at all," I add quietly.

Not quietly enough.

His voice is a rumble. "Olivia, you can't always save me."

I drop a small kiss on the scar before sitting back on my heels, hands in my lap. "Of course I can," I state simply, not born of arrogance, conceit, or fantasy, but merely of my own need to believe it to be true.

He offers a soft smile and his voice rumbles even deeper this time. "Of course you can."

Lips together, I return his smile. My eyes do that thing where they drop to his mouth and, God, I want to kiss him.

And the bastard knows it.

His stomach tightens as he starts to pull himself up off the couch toward me. God, I want to kiss him, but this game isn't over yet. I still have exploration to conduct and, if I kiss him now, nothing will stop me from letting him flip me onto the couch and do whatever the fuck he wants.

I plant my left hand on his chest and give him a firm shove. "Honor system," I scold.

He cocks an eyebrow. "I thought the rule was I couldn't touch."

I run my hand down his chest, over his nipple, watching him bristle at the contact. "Hmm," I hum, while using one finger to lightly trace the lines of his stomach because I can touch. "And what would you do if I let you sit up right now?"

I'm not the only lip-watcher in this duo. Blue eyes fall to my mouth only for a moment. His gaze is steady on mine when he answers, every bit of Brooklyn in his DNA tinting his voice. "Kiss that goddamn grin off your face."

I bite my lower lip. "And then?"

He doesn't blink or falter, but his voice gets impossibly lower. "Then, I'd touch."

"Exactly." I roll my eyes. "Look, if your hand needs something to do that badly," I let my feet drop to the floor and stand, straddling his legs. I twist to my right and grab the bottle of syrup from the table, pleasantly surprised that it has still maintained some warmth from being heated in the microwave earlier. I reach down with my left hand, prying a small space between his legs before straightening and carefully lifting my left leg, placing my knee on the uppermost part of his thigh, my shin running the length of his quads, the top of my foot lying over his knee. Leaning forward, left hand on the edge of the couch for balance, I repeat the motion with my right leg until I'm effectively perched on Elliot's lap. I'm not entirely sure if he can see up the jersey, but he makes an immediate grab for the hem of it between my legs because he's an asshole and can't wait for me to finish what I was saying.

"Not that." I smack his hand away from my lap. "What you can do," I reach around the back of my neck with my left hand, collecting my hair over my left shoulder with a gentle twist. Leaning forward then, feeling the muscles in his legs shift and tighten to accommodate the alteration in my center of gravity, I set the syrup bottle on the couch next to him, using my grip on it to balance, "is hold this." I hold the twist of hair to the side.

He eyes me curiously; but, not one to turn down an opportunity, he reaches up with his right hand. Because he has to push it, he doesn't just replace my hold with his own. Instead, he reaches as far behind my neck as he can, mimicking my earlier motions, sweeping the hairs that I didn't miss in the first place off to the side, not at all shy about trailing the tips of his fingers along my neck, gathering all the strands in his grip, sliding his hand down until it dislodges my own. I let mine settle next to him on the couch.

"Thanks. I'd rather not get syrup in it."

My words get his attention first and he's probably trying to look me in the eyes to see if he can figure them out, but I'm too busy looking at his chest. What gets his attention next is the audible "pop" of me flicking open the flip-top on the syrup bottle with the thumb of my right hand. I'm damn sure the bottle moving in the air until hovering over him got his full attention.

I bring my left hand from the couch and lay it on his stomach, and scowl at him when my head is pulled to the side as I try to straighten up a bit. He acquiesces, allowing his hand to follow near my neck and shoulder. I invert the bottle a couple feet from the freckled surface of his skin and give it a squeeze, watching the amber-colored liquid emerge from the spout and begin a languid pour downward. When the start of the stream hits him between his pecs, Elliot flinches, though I know it's neither too hot nor too cold. It is Goldilocks fucking perfect.

I tilt my wrist slightly, drawing a lazy river that stops at the base of his sternum, before righting the bottle, snapping the top closed, and tossing it onto the couch. The weight of the syrup has started to pull all of it downriver. I plant my right forefinger at river's end, drawing it upstream, pushing syrup as I go, lifting it only when I reach the top end of the line. A heavy drop of syrup threatens to fall from my fingertip. Before it can, I dab the offending drop onto the flat muscle above his left nipple.

From that drop, I paint outward – four small, heart-shaped leaves that I polish off with a tiny, curved stem. Finger-painting a shamrock on the skin of an Irishman? Cheesy as hell. Finger-painting with maple syrup or other edible goods on the skin of a half-naked, distinctly dominant man? Sexy as hell. Finger-painting a shamrock in maple syrup onto the skin of your half-naked, domineering, broody, all-male Irish partner? Sexy as so many fucks that I don't care one iota if it's cheesy.

Besides, I'm pretty sure he has no idea what I just drew on him. I am absolutely sure he doesn't give a damn, either, because the look in his eyes right now, watching as I lift my paintbrush to my mouth, closing my lips around it, is nothing short of predatory. I slowly twist my finger between my lips, allowing my tongue to clean it of all traces of sticky sugar. His breaths quicken and rise from his diaphragm to fill just the uppermost volume of his lungs. Cleaned and still wet with saliva, I pull the tip of my finger along my lower lip, all the while trying to distinguish his enlarged pupils from the excessively darkened blue of his irises, and his hand tightens in my hair.

That's fine. I hold his stare a moment longer, narrowing my eyes at him as a reminder that the hand in my hair has a job to do, before placing a hand on either side of his stomach, fingers wrapping down around the curves of his ribcage and sliding them away from me, my upper body following them until my mouth hovers just over my painted canvas. I flatten my tongue against the glistening design, which already doesn't resemble much of a shamrock anymore, the unavoidable consequence of creating art in the unpredictable medium of Grade A Anderson's on Irishman.

I need to sit up again because I'm trying desperately to avoid my stomach brushing against the front of his track pants. Once that zone of play is open for action, I plan to stay there. I straighten just a bit, enough to take each of my thumbs and run them, one right behind the other, up what remains of my amber river. They carry their collected supplies to their designated canvases; though, I admit, I have no loftier artistic goal than to smear a breakfast condiment on my partner's nipples. Fingers splayed out to the side, each thumb lands on its respective target, leaving a glistening, sugary coating in its wake. First things first, I need to help the river dry up. Keeping my thumbs in place, I bend, the hand holding my hair obediently following, and pull my tongue in a single, long swipe up the length of his breastbone.

In the world of delectable salty-sweet concoctions, maple syrup on Elliot Stabler wins.

Definitely worthy of another taste.

I repeat the motion and can feel him adjusting his grip on my hair, loosening his hold enough to allow the strands to wrap around his hand with a twist of his wrist, still dutifully keeping it from falling into the syrup pitfall. Turning my attention to my left, I lift my thumb, replacing it with a swipe of my tongue. There are miniscule bumps of gooseflesh on the darker skin that surrounds each of his small, hardened nipples. His breath hitches for a mere heartbeat or two, but he remains as maddeningly quiet as he has for most of my expedition across his body. I grate my top teeth over the skin my tongue just laved and he hisses at me, more of a sharp exhalation than a vocalization. Careful to keep my thumb lifted so as to not redress his skin in maple, I move my head to the right, lifting that thumb before closing my lips over the painted skin, my tongue cleaning it of all syrupy traces. I drop a kiss there before raising my body from his, pressing off four fingers of each hand, my thumbs still carefully held above his skin.

I slowly lift my right hand, balancing on my left, bringing my thumb to my lips, admittedly anticipating the reaction this got me before. His eyes flash at me when I pull my thumb along my lower lip, my tongue then retracing the same path until my lip is no longer glossed in maple. When my lips surround my thumb, a guttural sound lodges in his throat. Thumb clean, I set my right hand back on his chest, raising my left.

The hand that snatches my wrist, having dropped from my hair, catches me by surprise and I know I let a gasp escape before I could stop it. Within seconds, my hand is close enough to Elliot's mouth to feel a single breath against it before his lips are wrapped around my thumb. My partner never was one for following rules.

Truth be told, I'm finding it difficult to give a damn, because the second his tongue makes contact with the pad of my thumb and begins a slow, but insistent, cleaning routine, every muscle in the core of my body immediately clenches. I'm all too aware that if I were straddling one of his legs, there would be the beginnings of a prominent wet spot on them now. I don't mean for the nails of my right hand to begin digging their way into his flesh, but they do. His eyes refuse to leave mine as he cleans the last evidence of syrup from my thumb, which honestly took him a bit longer than was likely necessary. He pulls gently on my wrist until my thumb slides from between his lips, slipping his hand up to hold mine.

I will myself to take a steady, deep breath. "That was definitely against the rules, Stabler."

He shrugs easily. "So, sue me." One corner of his mouth lifts. "You've gotta throw a guy a bone, Liv."

I purse my lips and look upward, thoughtful. "Interesting choice of words," I say, casting him a knowing glance, arching an eyebrow. "Because I think you're the one throwing bones." Bracing myself against the hold he has on my left hand, feeling him press back against my weight, balancing me, he only has time to raise his eyebrows at me before I've snaked my right arm down between our bodies, hand wrapping over and down fully between his legs before drawing it up over the length of him, my hand sliding across the fabric of his track pants.

At what point my partner decided to behave like the bull he is, or if the decision was made for him by a traitorous body, I don't know. I do know that at the same time an expletive tore from his throat, his hips bucked up at me hard, bouncing me off his thighs, his legs coming apart slightly, a noise I can only really describe as a shriek leaving my mouth. And now, I find myself on the floor, tangled with his legs. Can't really say I was expecting quite that extreme a reaction to just my hand on him. On a clothed him.

This could get interesting.

"Jesus, Liv. A little warning next time."

I blow my bangs away from my eyes. Placing a hand on each of his thighs, I pull myself to my knees, glaring at him from between his legs. "I could say the same for you."

He glances down at me, noticing for the first time, I think, where I've ended up. He bites down on his lower lip, probably to keep from laughing and offers me a "Sorry."

I plant an elbow on each thigh, resting my chin on interlaced fingers. I do my best to level my gaze at him, keeping a neutral expression on my face. I study him for a few long seconds, allowing a small, closed-lip smile to spread. "Not as much as you're gonna be." His mouth opens to say something, but I don't let him. "Consider that your warning, El."

Whatever response he'd been cooking up is choked back down on a sharp intake of breath as my right hand lands squarely on top of his hardened length, grasping at him through the material of his pants. My left forearm lies along his thigh from elbow to where my left hand now rests, fingers splayed across where his hip and thigh meet. I begin a slow and deliberate stroke up and down his erection, sometimes wrapping my hand around him, sometimes just letting it run flat over him, reveling in the feel of steely flesh encased in the slick, smooth polyester fabric. He isn't as shockingly reactive this time, his hips periodically both rolling into and drawing away from my touch with less severity than his earlier buck-off tactic. His body can't decide if it wants more of or to evade my touch. It's an indecisiveness I've felt at his hands more than once over the past several hours.

If I ever find myself sitting with a track-pant-clad Elliot on the couch watching something on TV – a hockey game, perhaps – I'd be in trouble because, I swear, I could do this for hours. Hand in his lap, just mindlessly stroking. Of course, all good things must come to an end. In this case, for something better.

I slide both hands upward until my fingers curl underneath the elastic of his waistband. The damp spot that has materialized on the front of his pants doesn't escape my notice and I briefly think it's revenge for my own dirty laundry sitting in his bathroom. I slide the fingers of both hands toward one another, feeling for the drawcord, but also encountering his cock along the way. I push it along with my one hand, and when my hands reach the middle of his waistband, I peel the elastic up and back until the glistening tip of him is exposed and pointing back at him. I'm not surprised at all to find the drawcord untied, given how low the pants were resting on his hips.

The elastic effectively strapping him down against his abdomen, I slide my left hand back toward his hip, fingers still beneath the waistband of his pants. My right hand I pull away and use to grasp his cock where it's still concealed by fabric. I'm rather liking this new view, and bite my lip in hopes of somewhat concealing a smile as my hand plays over him with short, upward, almost kneading strokes. I watch as a bead of clear fluid appears at the tip of him, reveling in the sound of his deep, rumbling sigh, and continuing my handiwork until gravity and arousal have pulled the fluid into a flowing trail that finally touches the skin of his abdomen where light brown hairs lead the way down to my ultimate goal.

Guess I didn't bite my lip hard enough.

"Enjoying yourself, Benson?"

Busted.

I tip my chin up to look at him and, what the hell, allow myself to smile at him. Really smile. I know I flashed some teeth there, only for a brief few seconds before rolling my lips against my tongue to moisten them and again taking my lower lip hostage with my top teeth. I curl the fingers of my right hand back under his waistband, both hands now poised over their respective hips. I begin to pull back with both hands, but feel his thighs tense at the same time he speaks, stilling my motion.

"Wait."

A/N - okay, so I get a breather to finish up chap 17, right? You read it, please review it - I like happy thoughts :)