AN: I'm so touched at the response to this story. Thank you so much for the kind reviews (and the crazy harassment from a few of you). The almond girls know who they are *winky face*. And a huge thank you to my beta wildmind_em who has been with me from the start of this story and in a way her energy exists in it, so it's a beautiful co-creation of her making my words flow so much better. This is a longer chapter that I hope delivers on your expectations and just a heads up that Elliot is not with Kathy in this, they are separated but details of that will come to light in later chapters, just wanted to confirm - no cheating is happening here. This will be a multi chapter fic with what I have in mind to include and no doubt it will be a slow, frustrating eotopian journey. I hope you can bear with me as inspiration hits across what I can only imagine will be many years lol. But in the meantime there is this. I think we can all agree it's been a very long, incredibly cathartic and emotional week and some eo loving is just what the (fertility) doctor ordered. X
She walks him closer to the bed, a small bout of nerves inching through his lower abdomen as their eyes lock. They had just spent several long, drawn-out minutes making out on the couch, leather cracking beneath their weight as playful, generous strokes of their tongues ignited a fuse between them, and now here they were, in Olivia's dimly lit bedroom.
She is staring at him silently before she moves forward, her hands slipping into his open shirt, her fingers smoothing across his ribcage, and he hesitates only briefly before he runs a hand up her back in response, slowly inching their chests closer. She angles her mouth upward until it's connecting with his, and the feel of her lips mutes any more thoughts. He is spacey — lightheaded, as if this were a dream he has had many times over and he is about to wake up.
They kiss tentatively, like teenagers on prom night, both equally unsure as to how far they'll go tonight, but when he feels her start to collect his shirt collar, her fingers drawing the material downward, that's when his heart begins to thrum with the overwhelming reality of it all.
She slides the fabric down his arms, her fingers wrapping around the cuffs at his wrists where it has bunched, and she gives it a light tug before his shirt drops to the floor.
His mouth is dry, parched from the wine and frayed from nerves, and his lips tingle from the feel of hers. A few beats pass before she slips her arms around his neck, and her covered breasts flatten intimately against his bare chest. Her body heat is a visceral charge now — curves, warmth, all in close proximity, and he suppresses a moan, immediately propelled back to Bushido and their cover. He breaks the kiss and breathes against her forehead, just focusing on the way her breath has similarly heightened, and he wonders if she is thinking about that night too.
His fingers curl into her lower back, cotton and lace swiping his pecs with each passing moment, and he silences the innate reaction that just itches to break loose.
His impulse with her is heat — action, no holds barred, the kind of visceral intensity he's always pictured would be their unraveling, but he is tamed by circumstance, trapped in a trance where only still waters flow, almost as if they were operating in slow motion.
Not a date.
Not sex.
She gently coaxes him towards the bed, his lower abdomen panging as the slightest nudge of her hip indicates where she suggests they go. He doesn't comply at first; instead, he intentionally holds her in place, his fingers smoothing into the dip of her lower back, caressing her gently as if he were subconsciously cataloging these last moments before they would be horizontal.
"Everything okay?" Her voice is low, and it seems to drip out of her effortlessly like caramelized honey.
He just stares down at her, watching as her irises adjust to his, and it's no surprise she is asking this of him. He's a solid wall against her, keeping them both safely stationary, vertical, and it's obvious as hell.
He's not okay — but he nods as if he were, as if he could fool himself into thinking this small fraction of intimacy between them tonight would be enough to satiate his ongoing need for her. He returns his mouth to hers and holds her lips in a lingering grasp, and she goes with it, her mouth parting under the pressure of his. Then it's his tongue that is driving forward, red wine, cinnamon, and musk all filling his chest at once. It ignites something in him, the taste of her — her receptivity, and he starts to move her slowly, and somewhat surely, turning her like they were mid-waltz until he lines her up with the mattress.
The backs of her knees bump against plush softness, and it's dazey the next steps — mattress bowing, her chestnut hair fanning, his fingertips numb as they slide up to cup her cheeks. Her body goes slack with receptivity; his ears are ringing, his heart thrumming as her fingers smooth up the plains of his bare arms as if she were desperate to hold onto something. A few beats pass before he leans down, nipping at her lower lip before his whole mouth covers hers fully, and he breathes through the moment, each second feeling so - damn - surreal.
He is not drunk, but he feels inebriated from the euphoria, and it takes effort to deny every nerve ending within telling him to just propel forward. He deepens the kiss with caution, holding back his visceral reaction as she rakes her hands down his chest, his mind still catching up with the fact that this is her touching him — this is them.
She breaks the kiss, and he lifts his mouth from hers until their eyes lock for a long, drawn-out moment. He wants to say something to her, give this moment weight and tangibility, but he is struck into silence, his throat an iron vise as she runs her hands across his breastbone. She smoothes her fingers over the small patch of hair between his pecs in quiet contemplation, and it's effortless, like they've done this a thousand times over. He says nothing, does nothing, just watches on as her eyes move slowly between his, as if she were mentally committing this to memory too.
He feels eerily present yet somewhat detached: one moment he feels her trailing her fingers lightly down his chest; the next she is unbuttoning her jeans between their bodies, and he can't seem to keep up. He rests the bulk of his weight on his forearms and lifts himself off of her, watching from above as she unbuttons and unzips denim, the muscles in his jaw tightening as the next barrier between them starts to fall away.
She begins to slide the denim down her hips, and he gives her the space to drag the material down her thighs, his eyes unabashedly drinking in the smooth expanse of her thighs as if he were incapable of looking away.
She kicks the denim off her feet, and when his gaze sweeps up to her petal-pink lace panties his mind begins to spin. He is thrown by the out-of-character color choice, but mostly he is confused because, when his eyes move up to her white t-shirt, he spies more pink beneath, and it's very clear that some sort of preparation has occurred on her part. He should be embarrassed for staring so blatantly, but he is catching it out of his peripherals; she is just as lost in the sight of his bare chest, both of them silently exploring each other's exposed flesh.
He slowly moves forward, slipping her t-shirt up both sides of her torso, his fingers skimming her ribs before the base of pink starts to fill his eyeline. His heartbeat is hammering with each passing second at the notion that he is about to see his partner stripped down to her underwear. This isn't a cover; this isn't a drunken indiscretion after a rough case — this is intentional, orchestrated, premeditated — purposeful.
He slides cotton over underwire, but his moment comes to a standstill when she reaches out, halting his hands, and he looks down at her in question, realizing he may have just jumped the gun.
"Maybe we should.." she whispers, shifting herself up and onto her elbows, and he blinks back at her. "Keep that on.."
His eyebrows knit together slightly, and he's somewhat thrown. He wasn't expecting that, but he gets it, he does.
Not a date.
Not sex.
And getting to see his partner topless isn't exactly a mandatory requirement in what they were about to do.
He is stationary above her, unmoving, until he slowly slips his hand from her ribs, and she must have caught the disappointment in his eyes because she is cupping his cheek, running her smooth fingers across his jaw line.
"That okay?" she whispers, her voice slightly hoarse from her position, and it's out of character the way she is touching him — soothing him; then again, this entire evening is.
He nods quietly, giving her a small smile before he drops his mouth back to hers — wavering briefly, waiting for confirmation before she lifts upward, and they hold each other in a deep, lingering peck. He's already seen her in her underwear — he knows what it's like to feel her lace covered breasts scrape across his chest, but he understands her decision: she is just trying to keep a semblance of a barrier between them, as redundant as it may seem.
He sinks downward, his bare chest meeting with her covered breasts, and he realizes quite quickly that her t-shirt doesn't disguise the curves he feels beneath. The thin cotton is more than enough to ignite a fire in his lower belly.
He nips at her top lip before parting her mouth once more, and then he feels it — the swipe of her tongue moving through his recesses, and it's a visceral charge, some sort of permission he thinks, and his hand is moving up her ribcage and closing over her breast. He squeezes her fullness before his eyes slip open, and suddenly he is stilling himself in place.
"Shit," he murmurs in a breath. "Sorry."
His lips skim down to her neck as he quickly retracts his hand from her breast, feeling like an absolute idiot. He is questioning everything now — every hand movement, every shift of his body. It's as if he's back in high school, awkwardly fumbling through second base with his girlfriend.
"It's okay," she whispers, blinking up at him reassuringly, cupping his cheek before she slowly tries to draw his mouth downward.
"Wait," he whispers, their lips knocking awkwardly as he deflects the kiss. "Liv, I'm going to need some ground rules."
He cannot believe they didn't discuss this prior; all they'd spoken about was minimal foreplay, but short of a laundry list of do's and don'ts, it's as if he were feeling around in the dark.
Literally.
"Can I touch you?" he whispers nervously, and it's selfish, but he is desperate for the permission.
She smoothes a thumb across his cheek.
"Yes," she responds quietly.
A weighted breath leaves his chest; the permission makes his entire body ache.
"Where?" he prods, knowing this is throwing her too but needing to get confirmation as to where.
Her eyes move nervously back and forth between his.
"Wherever you need to.." but her sentence trails off, and he is left to fill in the blanks.
Need… not want.
Have to… not desire to.
Wherever you need to touch to get the job done.
He stares down at her somewhat awkwardly; it wasn't exactly the permission he was hoping for but he nods, confusion still brimming. He settles for cupping her cheek, sighing deep into her mouth and driving his tongue back into her recesses. Her tongue grazes his, and then it's a few passing moments of playful strokes before he feels her fingers brush against the belt on his pants, as if testing the waters.
He looks down at her, and when she doesn't feel resistance from him she begins to remove the leather from the clasp, his mind racing, his heart hammering as she begins to unzip him. He drags his mouth off of hers, latching onto her neck, pressing into the crux — kissing her intently, sucking and nipping, praying that kissing her like this is okay, hoping she will stop him if it's not.
She starts to drag the material down his hips, and he closes his eyes.
This is actually happening.
But it's too fast.
All he wants in the world is to take his time with her, but he knows they are poles apart mindset-wise: she doesn't seem intent on dragging this out.
She gets his jeans as far down as she can before her hands leave his pants to roam across his pecs, and she nips and sucks at his lower lip. He shifts his hips, helping her out by dragging his pants down the remainder of his thighs, and she uses her feet to push the material their final few inches downward. They get lodged somewhere around his ankles, and then he is moving his mouth back to hers, his body sinking down before his covered erection presses against her inner thigh.
She lets out a deep moan from the back of her throat, and it's the first verbal reaction he's heard from her all night. She stills against him as if she only just realized this herself, and his mind reels at the feel of lace against his belly. His mouth parts to say something apologetic about his hard-on, but she is already shifting her hips beneath him, a quiet sigh escaping when the tip of his cock meets with her covered centre.
Fuck.
His mouth slips down to her neck, and he aches to groan openly, but he kisses her intently instead, firmly against the throat, his lips skimming all the way down to her cleavage, stopping just where the scoop neck t-shirt starts.
He can tell she is turned on by the heat in her cheeks, the way her breathing has all but stopped and her nipples are erect and scraping against his throat as he kisses the top of her chest.
He moves back up her body and his eyes slip closed when she drags a hand across the front of his briefs.
He moans into her neck.
Liv. Her name trips in his throat.
He hadn't expected that.
His cock twitches, and he bites into his lower lip as she starts to stroke him through his cotton briefs. The words minimal foreplay are filling his chest, but she needs him hard, and this is most likely the least invasive way to get him there.
She strokes him methodically, with intention, and his chest aches to take this slower, to explore each other's bodies organically because you only get one shot at a first time after all.
But the moment slips away from him because her hand is inside his briefs now, just far enough that her fingers brush his tip, and he exhales sharply at the contact. He's hardening by the second now, and he can tell she is turned on too, her breath just as jagged as his. He does his best to push the disappointment and confusion to the back of his mind and just focus on the way her fingers are sliding blissfully down his length, wrapping around him and starting up a purposeful, torturous stroke.
He opens his eyes to meet with hers, and he stares down at her.
His voice aches to say things like how much he's wanted this — thought about this with her... but not quite like this.
He is desperate to move his hands, to have them travel inward, to touch her in the same intimate way she is touching him, but he resists, instead just focuses on the way she continues to build the tension in his groin.
He feels her thumb swipe across the tip eliciting a sound from his throat, and his fingers curl into her hair. He moans a little more, desperate to seek out the heat he just knows is culminating between her legs, but it's those wide brown eyes blinking back at him that takes his full attention.
He feels her start to slide his underwear over his ass now with her free hand, and he breathes against her face, his chest pounding, reality overtaking as his body aches for the contact she is implying, but his mind is spinning out into its own orbit.
She gets his briefs just below his ass cheeks before she moves her hands to her hips and begins to tug hers down too. He is looking into her desire-filled eyes, and his heart constricts at the fact that this seems far too easy for her. She barely has her panties down her hips when he reaches out suddenly and stills her hand.
"Wait," he whispers from above, his eyes moving between hers, his heart racing, and it's a lot to take: the confusion, the nerves, the embarrassment emanating back at him from those chocolate pools. He slowly slides his briefs back up his backside, moving the material over his erection.
He can't do this.
He just can't.
Not like this.
He is too in his head, while she doesn't seem to be in hers at all.
He slips off of her body, knocking her knee a little before he moves down the bed and into a sitting position. He drapes his legs over the edge of the mattress, and he sinks forward, dropping his face into his hands, his heart beat hammering as he says the words.
"I'm sorry," he whispers against his palms, and the words are so muffled he's not sure she's heard them.
He is still painfully hard, his body in wild conflict, but it's his mind that is working overtime now. He knows he needs to finish that apology and fast because it's shitty to leave her dangling over a precipice like this.
"I just…" he whispers, his mouth painfully dry. "I just need a minute."
Perhaps he needs several... thousand, because he doesn't know where he is going with this. It's not what he expected to happen — this was his idea after all — his suggestion, but he can't seem to push through the sudden resistance he was feeling when it all became such a startling reality.
"It's okay," he hears from behind him, and her response is unexpected. He should feel a surge of relief that she isn't pissed at him for this, but he'd caught the underlining tremble in her words.
She probably thinks this is about her, or him — or his marriage.
She probably thinks they've just ruined everything — for nothing.
"Liv I…" he begins, but his words trail off because he isn't sure exactly how to articulate what's in his mind.
This was about them.
What he wants for them.
Far more than just this.
His heartbeat shows no sign of slowing, and he is suddenly terrified of making this all irreversibly worse.
After a few uneasy moments of silence he starts to feel movement, sounds of her shifting and sheets rustling beneath limbs. He thinks she is going to walk out of the room to give him some space, but instead she is moving into a sitting position of her own.
"It's okay if you've changed your mind."
The lights are out, but there is enough street light seeping through the curtains that he knows he will be able to catch her worried expression if he even dares to look up.
"I know this is—" Her voice is low through the darkness.
"I haven't," he whispers, turning towards her because he wants her to know this. "..changed my mind."
That's not what is happening here, but he can tell by her expression that she isn't so convinced. He notices then that she's left a couple of inches between their thighs, as her bare legs line up parallel to his.
"I just think the barriers are throwing me," he treads carefully, before letting out a breath. "I don't want to do anything wrong."
She moves slowly, and he doesn't deserve it, but he feels her clutch his forearm reassuringly, and they could just as easily be in the precinct locker room with her consoling him after a particularly brutal case.
"El," she whispers quietly. "You're not going to do anything wrong."
He stares back at her, and it throws him how seemingly comfortable she is with all this.
"I think we just need to get out of our heads.." she whispers. "And try not to overthink it."
"Is that what you're doing, Liv?" he asks, something flickering within, his tone partly accusatory. "Not thinking about it?"
She blinks back at him before her hand slips off his entirely, and she looks away.
He stares at her profile.
"Trying not to.." she admits through the darkness, and a small bout of relief moves through him at the realization that she may appear cool, calm and collected, but there is a lot more brimming beneath the surface.
He reaches over, skimming her wrist, and he turns it slowly until their fingers interlock. It's a bold move, and he watches her for a brief moment, her eyes staring back at him, her lips parted in uncertainty before he slowly tugs her.
She moves forward, and he's ushering her lips a little closer until their foreheads meet. He cups her cheek with his palm before dropping his mouth onto hers, and he ghosts across her lips until he is nipping — sucking, holding her steady as he kisses her with intention.
He has nothing to contend with now, not her body or her breasts — just his mouth on hers, lips sliding as silent promises he can't offer her lay dormant on his tongue. He hopes she can hear them — feel them, all the ways in which he is going to make this right one day. She parts her mouth obligingly, and her tongue drives inward, swiping across his, and he makes a quiet, unintelligible sound at the contact. She breathes through her nose, and he moves down to clutch her hip, maneuvering her until she is gripping both of his shoulders and sinking into a straddling position, resting her backside on his thighs.
The tip of his hard-on connects with lace, and he sighs into her mouth, his fingers biting into her waist just beneath her t-shirt, and it's almost painful— the ache he has for her now.
She sighs as their foreheads connect before both of them begin to rock slowly against each other in an unspoken rhythm. He can feel the cheeks of her backside against his thighs, the heat of her core against his briefs, as if this position were somehow less intimate than before, as if this won't be something that will keep him up at night. He still doesn't know what to do with his hands, so he just leaves them firm on her hips as she continues to move her body against his in the darkness.
"You can touch wherever you want, El." She breathes against his mouth as if reading his mind, and she takes his hand then, running it up and across her breast, holding it in a firm squeeze.
He is deathly silent as he swipes his thumb against the raised nub, taking what she is offering and watching her eyes draw closed as he thumbs over cotton and lace.
She sinks down against him once more, shifting her body until his erection practically penetrates through damp lace, and his mouth parts, all of his thoughts slipping away at the feel of their lower halves aching to connect.
His mind starts to miss steps again: material is being dragged downward, his brain foggy as he just focuses on the heat of her body, her breath, her heartbeat against his, and suddenly he is filling her.
A deep groan leaves his throat as she sinks downward on his erection, and he angles his hips until she moans in response.
"God," she chokes out, using the word as if God was responsible for this — for her, for them.
He presses his eyes closed; she's warm, wet, soft and achingly receptive, and she smells like soap, lavender and peach.
She is somehow still kissing him throughout all this, and his breath is starved, limited oxygen making its way to his brain, his mind muted by the aching blissful rock and sway of her hips.
"Liv," he groans into her mouth, his voice low, intentional words wanting to escape in that moment, but it had come out more of a question than anything else.
"Mmmm," she responds, half obligingly, half distracted by the pleasure building between their bodies, but he knows better than to finish that thought, let alone sentence.
She's not going to respond well to what he really wants to say in that moment, so instead he starts to increase the pace, and her fingers curl around the back of his neck in response as he fills her entirely.
"This okay?" he asks instead, quickening the pace and she doesn't respond in words, just nods against his cheek, breathless gasps coming out of her as the friction heightens between them by the second.
"I want you to come first okay," he breathes into her neck, just in case she was under the misguided impression they were only going to get him off tonight. "You first, then me," he tells her as he grips her hips, aiding the motion as they both breathe through the friction.
"'Kay." She manages through the darkness, their foreheads brushing, and it's messy, disjointed, rushed and awkward, but it's still them — still her.
"Kiss me," she says suddenly, and he's taken aback by the request, but he moves forward, capturing her lips, opening her mouth to his and driving his tongue inwards. He tries not to groan at the combination of their mouths and slick bodies meeting in unison, but she is making sounds of encouragement so he swipes her tongue again. This time she flits her own back against his and it's complete and utter sensory overload. Slick sounds of their bodies continue to fill his ears, and when he sucks on the tip of her tongue, her groan vibrates against his mouth as her fingernails sink into the back of his neck. He knows then, she needs this — his tongue, his lips on her to get her off, almost as if she is picturing his mouth sliding between her folds and swiping against her clit.
God he wants to go down on her.
It's a painful need now.
She moans once more as he grips her hips, holding her against his lap as his tongue drives into her mouth repeatedly and with purpose, and it's all he can do for now, show her with his mouth what it would be like. She catches on, and she's whimpering in response, grinding her lower half into his erection until she is tensing around him. She lets out a strained sob, her hips bucking forward, and he grips her hard, feeling her orgasm tear through her as more unintelligible sounds leave her throat.
She sobs into his mouth as she tightens and contracts around him, and his hands slide downward cupping her bare backside, holding her against him as her tight body continues to strangle his.
He curses, coming along with her, and his orgasm is far more restrained than he would have liked.
She is breathing heavily against him, their foreheads still connected, her hips still locked as her walls continue to contract and subside against him.
He feels a little in shock — blindsided, out of breath, and just in case she has any designs on moving, he says it out loud in a rush.
"Don't move," he whispers against her throat, still breathless. "For at least 2 minutes."
He feels her nod before dropping her chin onto his shoulder and holding him around his neck.
His hands slip downward and sink into her lower back, as small residual tremors continue to contract around his cock and they wade through the silence as they both come down from the rush.
His heartbeat is thrumming against hers at what they have just done, and then it hits him all of the sudden.
"Shit," he whispers into the darkness.
"What?" she murmurs.
Gravity.
"You shouldn't be upright," he explains. "You should be on your back."
A few moments pass as he processes what needs to occur.
"Hold onto me," he whispers into her neck, indicating she tighten her arms that are already around him, and then he is shifting in one motion — moving their bodies, repositioning them before he is dropping her down onto the mattress.
She lets out a muffled groan, their hips still connected as he sinks heavily down into her. He is still inside her, their bodies now pressed even more intimately together, and the new position makes his throat constrict with the need for more.
Her lips part, and she lets out a long sigh.
"I should have mentioned," he whispers.
He can feel her breathing heavily against his chest now.
"I didn't even think," he admits, his lips skimming her temple.
"It's okay," she lets out in a breath. "I didn't either.. we'll know for next time."
His mind reels at the reality of next time.
That there will potentially be several of them..
"One more minute," he reminds her, or maybe it's him he is reminding as his mouth settles against her neck, given no place else to go.
He closes his eyes at the feel of her, her body still wrapped tightly around him as this quiet, intimate moment passes between them, but he can already feel it stirring in the depths of his lower belly.
His body readying himself for more.
BEFORE
"No sleepovers."
He looks across at her from the sedan.
They are two hours into their stakeout, and these are the first non-case-related words she has said to him all morning.
"And we can schedule this around ovulation days, but I don't want it to impact our lives. So if there is something you need to do, El, with your kids or the family," she gives him a serious look. "I want that to take priority."
He nods across at her before she continues.
"And we don't talk about this at work." She gives him a guilty look as if she has just realized in that moment that she's doing just that. "I just think that if this is something we're going to do, it's important that we keep this as separate as we can.. if that's at all possible."
He fingers the lukewarm coffee in his hand, watching as she wrestles with the notion of what she has just agreed to.
He gives her an unconvincing smile.
"It's possible, Liv."
He lies.
TBC