She wanted to know that she mattered, wanted to feel it in the touch of his hand, and there was nothing in the world that mattered more to him than her, so he didn't hold himself back, now. Instead he let his hand roam from her hip around to the small of her back, just above the rise of her ass, pulled her in close until her body was flush against his. The way she surged up towards him, the scrape of those red-painted nails down the back of his neck, the way the softness of her molded against the hard planes of his body, threatened to drive him out of his mind. It would be a lie to say he'd never thought about her like this, never thought about her body winding against his own, never asked himself how she'd taste, and he'd always known she was passionate, always known she gave all of herself to everything that she did, but this, this was so much more than he'd ever imagined, fury and freedom and exultation, and a few minutes of kissing and her body swaying into his had him half-hard already, and aching with want of her.

More, that's what he needed, more of her, all of her. He had always been a greedy bastard, and when it came to Olivia, he had always wanted everything. Her secrets and her scars, her screaming rage and her tender smile, the softest, most delicate pieces of her and that unbreakable spirit. Now that he finally had her beneath his hands he could not stop, would not stop, not for anything, not unless she asked him to, because the only force in the world greater than his love of her was his devotion to her, and he could only take from her what she was willing to give. But he wanted to find out what that was, how far she'd let him go, wanted to know if she needed him, the same way he needed her, and he was dying, shit, he really must have been; his heart was beating so hard and he could not recall when last he'd drawn a breath. Maybe he didn't need to; maybe he didn't need air as badly as he needed her.

Deftly he spun them, pressed her back against the wall, and she let him, kept one hand anchored to his neck and let the other run over his back, as eager to feel him, it seemed, as he was eager to feel her, and he grinned smugly against her mouth, more than a little pleased with himself, and her reaction to him. He leaned into her, and he felt the moment she gave way, the moment she let her thighs part and let him settle in between, but that fucking dress, as pretty as it was, was getting in the goddamn way. Desperately his hands scrambled against the fabric while still his lips pressed hard to hers, drinking her in, drunk on the feel of her. He hitched the dress up, let the skirt spill back from his hand until finally, Jesus finally, his palm landed on the warm softness of her thigh and she broke from their kiss with a gasp.

Maybe it was too far. Maybe it was too much too fast. He'd never kissed her before; she'd never let him, and he'd never had the balls to try. He'd never held her, not really, except for a few too-brief moments when the emotions had been running high between them, the slip in their decorum easily explained away by their circumstances. He'd only held her hand once, before tonight. Maybe it was too much to ask and maybe he was being reckless, rushing straight into this, letting the need and the want and the sheer intoxicating beauty of her overwhelm him. Maybe she deserved better than this, than a man who left her, and only came back to her when there was nowhere else for him to go, better than a quick, sudden slide from fighting to fucking. Maybe he should have bought her dinner first. Shit.

"Elliot," she said, breathless, demanding, and her nails bit at the back of his neck, and when he looked into her eyes he saw it. Maybe it was too fast, but she wanted him as much as he wanted her, and so he grinned, and kissed her again. Slid his hand around to the back of her thigh, and clutched at her hard, and she knew what he wanted, and gave it to him, let him lift that leg and wrap it around his hip, and she flexed her muscles against him and drew him into her, her dress spilling back from her bent knee like a waterfall, her dark hair cascading all around them. Oh, but they were close now, and he could feel the heat of her against the hardness of him, and her lips were so soft, softer than he'd imagined, and hungry, too. Hungry, like she'd been wanting, and wishing, like he was the one giving her everything she'd ever dreamed of, and not the other way around. But maybe that was true. They'd always been a perfect match for one another, and maybe this was no different.

It was all spiralling out of his control, now; he kept his hand anchored on her thigh, pressed the other against the wall beside her head to keep most of his weight off her, ground his aching cock against her and swallowed the sound of her moans, adrift on the sea of her rocking hips. Shit, if she'd let him, he'd take her right here, but he was gonna have to breathe, eventually, so he tore his mouth away from hers, let his lips drift over her neck, tasting the sweetness of her skin, her ragged, panting breaths the most beautiful melody he'd ever heard. There were so many things he wanted; he wanted to get that fucking dress off her, wanted to run his tongue over every inch of her, wanted to find out exactly what she wanted and give it to her, for once. But this, tracing the lines of her neck, the heat of her thigh under his hand, the heel of her foot pressed hard to the small of his back and holding him against her, this was so good he couldn't bring himself to stop.

It didn't matter, in the end, whether he could stop himself or not; she stopped him for them both.

"Elliot," she gasped, and her hands suddenly reached for his shoulders, urged him back from her, and he damn near whined, but he stopped, because she told him to. He raised his head, his eyes searching her face desperately, suddenly terrified that he had offended her, that he had hurt her, that she wanted no further part of him, but that fear receded as he looked at her. She was still leaning back against the wall, still holding him in the cradle of her thighs with her leg locked around his waist, watching him through hooded eyes dark with want, her lips warm and wet and red, and pulled up in the faintest trace of a smile.

"I'm too old to fuck against a wall," she told him wryly, and he laughed, relieved, leaned in to press his lips against the corner of her mouth.

"You're not too old for anything," he told her in a low voice, full of heat. "But how do you feel about fucking in a bed?"

A shiver ran through her at those words, and he felt it, in all the places their bodies were joined together. How do you feel about fucking me, that's what he was really asking her. Giving her an out, giving her a chance to change her mind. If they were gonna do this he had to be sure, sure that it was what she wanted, that he was what she wanted, sure they hadn't just gotten carried away, sure she wouldn't regret it, come the morning.

"Yeah," she answered him breathlessly, her eyes locked on his face. "Yeah, I could do that."

He grinned and kissed her once, because he could, because he was allowed to, because he wanted to and she wanted to let him, and then he slowly let her leg down from around his waist, watched her dress spill back and hide her skin from view. And then he took her hand, and wound their fingers together, and she smiled up at him, suddenly shy, suddenly hopeful in a way that made his heart clench in his chest. There had been so many times over the years, he thought, when he should have given her what she needed, and didn't. When he should have been there, but he wasn't. When someone else had to step in and take his place and care for her, or no one did at all, and she was left alone. She had lost too much, and suffered too much, and here she was, putting all her trust, all her hope, in him. Giving him a gift that was so heavy his knees nearly buckled under the weight of it. Her heart was precious to him, and he would not see it break again, not by his hands or anyone else's. As they walked out of the living room together, heading for the bed and for each other, she gave that heart to him, and he took it and tucked it away within his own, and made a silent promise, to himself and to her, that he would always, always keep it safe.

As they crossed the threshold he turned the lights on; he'd been dreaming about her for more than twenty years, and now that he had the chance to see her bare he wanted to revel in it, wanted to see her, every inch of her, no shadows, no doubts. Maybe she didn't agree; she turned to him, frowning, that dress swirling delicately around her, but he just grinned at her.

"No more secrets," he said, and kissed her before she could tell him off for it. Some of her indignation melted away as she softened against him, opened her mouth to him and ran her hands once more over his back, tugging his shirt out of his pants and reaching for his skin. And that was nice, shit, that was nice, to know that she wanted to touch him and she wasn't afraid to, and he was starting to understand what she'd meant when she said she wanted to be touched like she mattered. Because it felt like this, and it felt good.

But he wanted her, too, and he was tired of that fucking dress, so he reached for her hips, and spun her away from him and then drew her back against him until the curve of her spine was flush to his chest. Slowly he slid his hands around until his palms were pressed flat to her belly, let his lips settle warm and sweet at the curve of her neck, and she sighed and leaned into him, tilted her head and let him kiss her.

"You look so beautiful tonight," he told her, curling his fingers against the soft fabric of her dress. "But I've gotta get this fucking thing off you."

She laughed, reached behind her to let her fingers brush gently across the back of his head.

"So do it, then," she told him.

Permission granted; he nipped at her neck lightly with his teeth and then pulled back and examined the dress for a moment. There was a zipper, neatly hidden beneath a fold of fabric, and he caught hold of it then and drew it slowly down, hardly breathing. As the zipper moved so too did the folds of the dress, parting as he went and revealing to him acres of soft, tanned skin and when the thick, red satin band of her bra came into view he nearly passed out on the spot, thinking that this was Olivia he was holding, undressing, Olivia who was letting him touch her, and not pulling away. After a lifetime of believing she was out of his reach, having her warm and alive and soft beneath his hands was almost more than he could take.

The zipper bottomed out at the base of her spine, and he left it there, turned his attention back to her body. Maybe she expected him to peel the dress straight off her, but he could not wait a single second longer to touch her, and so he slipped his hands inside the fabric, let his palms curl against her sides and then slide slowly around to her belly, her silken skin hot to the touch already. Smooth, she was so smooth, until she wasn't, until his fingertips stuttered against the fine ridge of scar tissue, the topography of her changed by some hurt he did not understand. A soft, unsteady gasp escaped her, but he knew already that whatever it was she wouldn't want to tell him about it - not right now, anyway - and so he didn't ask, just let his hands continue on their journey, dropped his head and let the heat of his mouth sear his love for her against the crook of her neck. In his arms she relaxed, the momentary tension forgotten as she realized that she could trust him, trust him to wait, trust him not to demand an accounting she did not want to give. It felt almost like a test, and he was pretty sure he'd just passed, so he kept right on going, let his mouth linger at her neck while his hands drove ever onward, drifted over belly, and up, and up, and oh, shit.

She sighed his name and arched in his embrace when his hands crested the swell of her breasts, and Jesus, this was happening, this was really happening. She was so fucking soft, everywhere he touched her, and he'd never thought about her as being soft, but maybe he should have realized it, should have known that holding her would feel like coming home, that her body would be a shelter, a safe harbor for him, welcoming and warm. For years he had trained himself not to look, not to see her walking by and take in the details of the shape of her but he couldn't help but notice how she'd changed, in his absence, and he couldn't help but tighten his hands against her, feeling the heavy weight of her breasts spilling out of his hands, the slide of that red satin against his palms. In his arms she trembled, and leaned back heavily against him, let her head fall to his shoulder and when he tightened his grip against her a sound that was damn near a whine slipped past her lips, and his teeth scraped against her neck, gently, while he wondered what other sounds he could get her to make.

But he should have known better than to think she would remain passive in his arms, letting him touch his fill of her while she could not see him, could not reach him. She turned her head, let her lips find his cheek, and then she stepped forward, away from him. As much as he did not want to let her go he was curious to see what she might do, and so he only watched, watched as she looked over her shoulder at him, her eyes sparkling, watched as she reached for the dress herself, and slid it slowly, slowly off her shoulders. The weight of the fabric did most of the work, taking it down the slope of her body until it caught on the curve of her hip, but with the slightest sinuous movement of her body she shook it free, and then it was pooling around her feet, and she was left in nothing at all but that red satin bra and a pair of red lace panties that made his throat close up at the sight. Red, the same shade of red as the sash of her dress, as the paint on her nails, red, and vibrant against her skin, red, on purpose, like she'd wanted someone - wanted him - to see, to know she'd gone to the effort. And he was so fucking glad he'd had the chance, because she looked absolutely incredible.

"Well?" she said.

In the next breath he was moving, and two steps later he had collided with her, spun her quickly and tangled his hands in her hair, pulled her hard to him while she surged forward, and the force with which their lips met nearly knocked him off his feet. Beautiful, she was so beautiful, as beautiful now as she had been on the day they met, for time had stolen her youth but it had not dimmed her radiance, and if anything he wanted her more now than he ever had done, because now, after so much time, after so much pain, after so many hours, so many days, so many years of coming to know this woman, she had become a part of his soul.

Olivia leaned back and he leaned with her and then they were stumbling, and then they were falling, together, tumbling onto the bed, and he threw his hands out to catch himself, to keep from crushing her, while her body swayed deliciously beneath him, the soft tanned swell of her breasts spilling out of that bra, and shit, he had to get that thing off her. Beneath him she laughed, joyous and relieved, happier, he thought, than he had ever seen her. He ducked his head to kiss her, but missed his mark, his lips landing against her cheek instead, and she reached for him, caught his face in her hands and drew him in, though she didn't kiss him, not right away. She just looked up at him, those dark eyes soft and warm, and he wondered what she was thinking, then, what she saw when she looked at him. Time had changed her face, but it had changed his, too; did she like what she saw? When she looked into his eyes, did she see herself the way he saw his own reflection every time his gaze caught on hers?

"I missed you," she said quietly, and he bowed his head, let his forehead rest against hers and tried to remember how to breathe. Not once since he'd been back had they said those words to one another. Not once, not either of them. It had been on the tip of his tongue every time he drew near her, but he hadn't wanted to remind her that it was his own fault he'd been gone, and he hadn't wanted her to hate him, and then he'd thought there was no point, really, because they both knew it. He didn't have to tell her that he'd missed her; she knew he had, because she'd missed him, too. Only she'd said it, now. No more secrets, he'd told her, and maybe she'd taken those words to heart.

"I missed you," he answered. "Every day. No matter where I went, no matter what I did, I missed you."

But he had her, now, in a way he never had before, not just because she was half naked and cradling his body between her thighs but because they had finally, both of them, dropped the last of their defenses, and told one another the truth. One of her hands slid away from his face, up the back of his neck to rest gently against the back of his head, and he'd never imagined this either, that she would touch him so reverently, that her hand on his skin would make him feel like weeping.

"Come here," she said, lifting her chin, and he obeyed her at once, and sank that much further against her, kissed her softly, slowly, while her toes dragged against the back of his calves and the hard plane of his chest pressed down into the yielding softness of her breasts. The longer that kiss went on the more he wanted her; what started soft and sweet was soon messy and eager, and her hands slid suddenly between them, picking at the buttons of his shirt. Blindly she fumbled with it, but she was no more willing to part from him than he was willing to let her go, and so still he kissed her, until at last she was able to wrench the sides of his shirt apart, and he rose up on his knees between her parted thighs and peeled it off him, taking his undershirt with it and throwing them both haphazardly away.

Olivia's eyes raked over him, took in the lines of his body hungrily, and he let her, grinning, because he knew he'd worked hard to keep himself fit, and every second he'd ever spent in the gym was worth it, just to have her looking at him that way. One of her hands reached out, her palm coming to rest just above his wildly pounding heart, and he covered it with both of his, held her there and looked down on her, her hair spilling out from around her angel's face, her the elegant arch of her neck, the smooth slope of her breast -

Only, he realized as he looked at her, not as smooth as he'd thought. In the harsh glow of the overhead light he could see her in all her technicolor glory, and as he looked at her now he could see, could see the red welts of the scars on her belly, on her sides, that before he'd only felt, could see the small, round puckered scars that dotted her perfect tits. Scars, like something, like someone had hurt her, hurt her in all the intimate places where she should have been kissed instead, and maybe, he thought, maybe that was why she'd chosen a dress that covered her from neck to ankles, because anything more daring would have revealed those scars to the world, and she would not want them to see.

Rage bubbled up low in his gut; whatever had happened to her, it had been no accident, he knew that just from looking. He knew what those marks were from the size and the shape of them, knew what had formed them, knew it had been done intentionally, that someone had put his hands on Olivia, intending not to worship her, but to wound her, and when he found out who he was gonna kill the son of a bitch himself.

Let me tell you when I'm ready.

Jesus.

No wonder she hadn't felt ready to tell him. No wonder she'd wanted to keep it to herself. No wonder she couldn't talk about it. Whatever this was, whatever had been done to her, it must have been...it must have been hell. Must have been horror the likes of which he'd never known, and he hadn't been there. He had left her, and she had been taken by a demon, and when she needed him most he hadn't come to save her.

She must hate me, he thought.

The sudden shift in his mood had not gone unnoticed. Worry crept into her eyes, and she looked away, her lower lip trembling the way it did when she was trying not to cry.

"Elliot," she said, "please don't-"

He didn't let her finish. He knew already what she wanted to say, what she wanted from him, and he knew what he wanted to give to her, and so he stretched himself out over her once more, and sank his mouth over one of those scars, covered it with his lips and dragged his tongue across it. Love should have painted her skin, not hate or pain, and he had so much love for her, so much love to give to her, that he couldn't hold it back from her now. A strangled sound escaped her, and her hands reached for his head, and for a moment he thought maybe he'd made the wrong choice, but to his great relief she did not pull him away, only held him against her and arched her back to press more of herself into his eager mouth. One by one he found those scars, followed the trail of them across her chest and down, and down, pushed back the cup of that pretty red bra and followed the map of her grief until his lips wrapped around her nipple, and she cried out as he sucked hard against her, cried out in relief, and pleasure, and not in pain. The sound of her voice stirred him, and he devoted himself to this, the taste of her skin and the trembling pleasure of her ecstasy, suckled at her, flicked his tongue against her nipple and dragged his teeth across it until she honest to god whimpered, and then he grinned, and moved to the other side, determined to repeat the whole process.

In an effort to speed him on his way Olivia reached behind herself, arched her back and unfastened her bra and then flung it away, and her breasts were swaying, freed from their confines, and beautiful, she was so fucking beautiful. She'd told him Tucker touched her like he couldn't get enough of her and shit, Elliot might have hated the son of a bitch but he certainly understood where the man was coming from, because he was addicted to her now, desperate for her now. He could have spent the rest of his life buried face down in her tits and died a happy man.

He touched her, kissed her, covered her in every way he could think of, and catalogued every sound she made, her every response to him; the sigh, when he dragged the flat of his tongue along the tender underside of her breast, the gasp when his teeth caught against her nipple, the whimper when he covered her other breast with his hand and kneaded, hard, the moan when he drew as much of her into his mouth as he could. The more he devoted himself to her the more she began to come alive beneath him, her hips rocking up against him, and the way he was laying across her, her thighs spread wide for him, he could feel the hard ridge of his cock catching against the place where she was soft and wet and burning for him and shit, if he didn't move soon he was gonna come right there, just from listening to her.

So he didn't linger, as much as he might have liked to. There was more he wanted from her, and more he wanted to give her. Instead he began to move, slowly, dragging his mouth down over her tits, across the softness of her belly, stopping to lap at the strange thin scars that scored her skin there, but not for long. He had a goal in mind, and she had to have known it, if the way she whispered his name was anything to go by. When he reached her hips he stopped, caught his fingers in the waist of her lacy red briefs, and his eyes flickered back up to hers, seeking permission.

"Shit, yes," she said, and he laughed, and all but tore them off her.

And then she was bare, completely, and he was staring at her with all the awestruck devotion of a lover. It was not so much that she was flawless as it was that to him even her flaws were virtues, that every piece of her, no matter how touched by age or grief, was beautiful to him, because altogether it was her, and there was nothing more precious, more powerful, more enticing to him on earth than her. The spread of her hips, the soft sway of her breasts, the curve of her belly, the dark thatch of curls between her legs; she was, perfectly, Olivia, and she owned him, body and soul.

And by god, he was gonna make her scream his name before the night was through.

First, though, she needed time, and attention, and he wanted to give it to her, wanted to take his time, and learn all the little secrets she had kept hidden from him, for so long now. Slowly, then, very slowly, he slid off the bed, knelt on the floor and ran his hands underneath her until he caught two handfuls of her perfect ass, and tugged her towards him until her legs were draped loosely over his shoulders and he was afforded the opportunity to just look at her, to see her, all of her. He wondered for a moment if maybe he should have asked her, if maybe he'd made her uncomfortable, but she wasn't pulling back from him, was instead reaching out, running her hands over his head, the only part of him she could reach, in an encouraging sort of way. That was all the reassurance he needed, and so he turned his attention to the task at hand.

For a moment he let her feel the warmth of his breath against her center before he turned his head and sucked at the soft skin at her inner thigh, his close cropped hair rubbing against the skin of her other leg and her whole body shuddered in response. The grip of his hands against her ass tightened, holding her in place, and his knees were gonna give him hell in the morning but it was worth it, he thought, for the chance to do this for her, to wind her up, to feel her shivering from the touch of his mouth. One of her heels shifted restlessly across his back; patience had never been her strong suit.

"Tease," she gasped out at him softly.

"Hey, good things come to those who wait, all right?" he told her, and punctuated his words with the gentle nip of his teeth, and she grumbled something that sounded a lot like asshole, and he grinned.

"You're gonna leave a mark," she told him, but he couldn't tell if that was meant to encourage or dissuade him. Either way, just the thought of it shot straight through him, made his already aching cock twitch in his pants.

"Do you want me to?"

The sound she made, low in her throat, hungry, almost, had him wanting to bury his face in her wetness already but he needed to know. Needed to know if that was what she wanted, what she liked, what she thought about, when she thought about being with him.

"Answer me," he said gruffly, his words muffled by her skin.

"God, yes. Please."

So he did, with single minded focus, because god he wanted his mark on her skin, wanted her to look at it for days after and remember this, wanted her to know that she belonged to him, and the fact that she wanted it, too, was enough to drive him crazy. He sucked hard at her tender skin until she was whining, but he refused to pull back until he was certain his work was done. And it was; he could see it, when he leaned back, could see the blotchy red mark of his mouth, and it was only then he realized he'd left his mark next to a strange little scar, oddly key-shaped and faded with time. Good, he thought, it was good that she had a mark on her now left by love, that she would be able to look at this mark in the days to come and be reminded of joy, and not grief.

He pulled back and she widened the spread of her thighs like she was trying to invite him into her and he grinned up at her for a second, squeezed her ass hard and listened in smug satisfaction as his name slipped past her lips. But he didn't give in to her, not yet; he wanted to do this for her first, to take his time and let her feel it, let her feel how much he wanted her, how beautiful she was to him, and so he once more lowered his head, and turned the wet heat of his mouth against her other thigh. Slowly he ran his tongue along the seam of her leg, kissed her skin sloppy and open mouthed and when he sucked on her this time he sank his teeth in, just a little, just enough to make her swear.

His plan was starting to pay off; her hips had begun rocking against his face and he hadn't even touched her yet, not really, not the way he wanted to, but it was in his mind to tease her now, to see whether she'd tell him outright what she wanted, see how the words might impact her, if they did at all. He wanted to hear her.

"This what you want?" He breathed against her skin. One of her hands had settled on his head but he didn't have enough hair for her to pull it, no way for her to get ahold of him, and put him where she wanted. She was going to have to tell him.

"Touch me," she said, and he turned his face into her at once. She did ask, after all, but she'd also let him tease her and he was starting to think maybe she liked it like that, liked to take her time, liked to build up to it, liked to ride the edge until she felt like she was gonna explode before she finally let it take her, and shit that was a thought that was going to haunt him for the rest of his life. He used his grip on her ass to cant her hips towards him, and then he pressed in close and let his breath wash over her, and felt her hips rising towards him, inviting, seeking, asking for more, and more, and more.

Her heel was pressing hard into his back now, impatient, and he grinned, let her feel his laughter against her overheated sex and shit, he could smell the wet heat of her but he wanted to make this last so he just let her feel the tempting promise of his lips centimeters away from her while he reached for her. With his left hand still hard on her ass, his right went searching, fingertips tracing the outline of her folds and he was right; she was, already, slick with longing for him.

"Shit, Liv," he said, still reveling in the feeling of her glistening folds against his fingertips. He wanted to say something else, but all the words in his head were too crass, and he wasn't sure how much dirty talk she'd like, anyway, and the last thing he wanted was to say the wrong thing, and -

"You shouldn't be surprised," she panted at him. "You were already hard when we were in the living room."

This woman was gonna be the death of him. He had not ever, in his life, felt as evenly matched, as perfectly understood, as known, as he did when he looked at her. And, of course, she was right.

"We're not talking about me right now," he told her, and let one of his fingers dip ever so slightly inside her, and he'd promised himself he was gonna tease her but the sound she made then shattered his self control. He'd never heard her like that, needy, wanting, and he would have done anything, anything, to hear that sound again. So he leaned in closer and dragged the flat of his tongue across her, his face pressed so hard against her he could barely breathe, not that it mattered. He didn't need air; he did need her. Her hips bucked up hard against his face at the contact and he couldn't help himself, then. Without hesitation he dipped his tongue inside her as far as it would go, listening to her, tasting her, letting the sounds she made and the movements of her body tell him what she liked, what she didn't. Let his tongue curl inside her, his nose pressed tight to her, her thighs locked around his ears, his every sense full of her. And it was good but it wasn't not enough, not for him and not for her, so he pulled back just a little, wrapped his lips around her clit and thrust two fingers inside her. Fuck it, he told himself. He'd tease her later. Right now he just wanted to make her fall apart.

The rocking of her hips guided him, as his tongue laved at her, as his fingers curled hard inside her, and her hands left his head in favor of fisting in the bedsheets, clinging to them while her back arched and her thighs clenched around his ears and her throaty moans filled the air. She was slick against his hand and salty against his tongue and the sheer damning heat of her nearly set him ablaze but he carried on, relentless, matched his rhythm to hers until those moans went breathless and she finally, finally, shattered around him, the soft walls of her sex clenching hard around his fingers, refusing to let him go while the rush of her pleasure overwhelmed her. This was what it looked like, what it felt like, what it tasted like when Liv came apart, and it was, utterly, magnificent.

For a while, maybe for a minute or two or ten, he couldn't say, he just stayed right there with her, his mouth against her, his fingers inside her, but she finally relaxed, finally ran her hands over his head and he looked up at her, then, and felt his heart clench in his chest, because she was smiling. The color was high in her cheeks and those soft lips were parted, her breathing still ragged, her hair a mess, but she was smiling at him, looking at him like she adored him, like she loved him, just as he loved her.

"Come here," she said to him, and he scrambled to his feet, and she laughed when he caught her in his arms, dragged them both up the bed until her head was resting on the pillows and the weight of his body was once more cradled between her thighs. He kissed her, felt her tongue dance against his own, drinking the taste of herself from his lips, but her hands were gentle as they ran down the slope of his back, the touch fond, and tender. The slide of his skin against hers, the softness of her hands, everything about this moment, everything about her, felt good, felt so good, and he couldn't remember the last time anything had felt good at all. Maybe nothing had, not since the day he'd left her.

But then a strange, dissatisfied noise bubbled up from the base of her throat, and her hands pushed at him, and he lifted himself up off her, confused and alarmed by the sudden change in her demeanor.

"Stop worrying," she said when she caught sight of the look on his face, and she shot up just long enough to kiss him before she sank back down on the pillows and slid her hands between them. "Your belt buckle hurts," she explained, wrapping her hands around the offending item, tugging it loose. He looked down, saw the red outline of his belt against her soft belly, and felt a little ashamed of himself, for the way he'd momentarily lost faith in them, and for the way he'd hurt her, however mildly.

Once she wrenched the belt free from his pants she threw it away, but she reached right back in, intent on stripping him at last. They did it together, hands wrangling, laughing at their own ineptitude, the task made all the harder by the way his mouth sought out her skin, the curve of her shoulder, the swell of her breast, but finally they had his pants undone and he lifted himself up just long enough to shuck them and his trunks - and his fucking socks - and when he returned to her arms he was, at last, as bare as she.

Some of the fury and the fervor had left them both, and so even though he knew she was wet and he'd been hard for her for ages he didn't rush to sink himself inside her. He just laid there, with her, watching the play of emotions on her face, feeling her hands running all over every bit of him she could reach. Her palm stuttered to a halt against the tattoo on his bicep, lingered there for a moment, and he just looked down into her eyes, wondering what she was thinking, wondering if she'd tell him.

"It wasn't inevitable," she told him.

What the fuck is she talking about? He asked himself, staring at her blankly, but then the memory surfaced. She'd said that to him earlier in the night, as they talked about partners. Maybe it mattered to her, that men and women could be partners and not fall in love. Hell, the city was full of mixed sex partners who never fucked, he didn't need her to tell him that. But-

"It was, for me," he told her. "With you. You were inevitable to me, Liv. I took one look at you, and I was sunk."

She frowned, and his mind raced, trying to catch up with her, but he hit upon the answer in a moment. He always did, always found his way, in the end, to seeing things from her perspective, because he knew her too goddamn well.

"Not just because you're beautiful," he told her. "The city's full of beautiful women. You...you and me, it was like something clicked into place. It was like…" shit, he couldn't believe he was about to say this, but, "It was like what you said before. About Cassidy. About getting a piece of yourself back. You gave me back something I didn't even know I was missing."

That frown disappeared, and she relaxed beneath him, and he breathed a sigh of relief. For once he'd found the words to reassure her, and not hurt her.

"Yeah," she said.

"Yeah?" he asked, and leaned in close, his lips almost - but not quite - touching her, taunting her, tempting her. Surely, he thought, they'd talked enough for one night already. Surely there was nothing left to say, and he didn't want to make her sad, didn't want to watch her lose herself in memories and regrets and could have beens. What he wanted was to see her smile, and to sink himself inside her, and so he pushed her, just a little, shifted in her embrace and waited to see if she'd give in to the temptation of his mouth hovering over hers.

"Yeah," she breathed, and then she was moving, suddenly, one hand wrapping around the back of his neck and drawing him down hard against her for a kiss while the other snaked between their bodies, intent on finding his cock, and he groaned out loud when she found it.

"Fuck, Liv," he gasped against her mouth, and he felt her wicked smile in response.

It was her turn to tease him, to learn what he liked and what he didn't; he held himself suspended above her, panting in her ear while her hand ran over the length of him experimentally. If it had been half so torturous for her when his mouth lingered against her thigh as her touch was for him now, he figured he probably owed her an apology, because he felt himself in danger of flying apart on the spot. Her thumb swiped over the very tip of him and a strangled sound escaped him, but then she closed her fist around him, pumped gently with her lips pressed to the hard line of his shoulder, and shit, if he didn't stop her soon they were both gonna end this night disappointed.

"Liv," he croaked, and felt her grin against his shoulder.

"Yeah?" she answered sweetly, though she did not cease the movement of her hand against him.

"You gotta stop."

She didn't, though, just kept moving her hand, tight around him, and her thighs were soft where they gripped at his hips and he could feel the hard furled buds of her nipples against his chest, and shit. She was gonna kill him.

"Or what?" she asked him.

Oh, two can play at this game, he thought.

She'd always been strong, always been fierce, always been a hellcat in a fight, but time and authority had mellowed her somewhat, and he was bigger and faster than she was. The only time he would ever think to use that against her was in moments like this one, when he knew the end result was gonna be good for them both. And so he did; he moved fast, rose up on his knees and captured both of her hands, brought them up above her head and pinned them down to the mattress with one of his own.

It had been his intention, now that he had her pinned, to tease her, to say something to inflame her, but the words caught in his throat, because shit, she looked too good like this. Her hands, delicate beside his own, soft and not struggling against him but letting him hold her. Her breasts soft and heaving with her panting breaths, her belly taut from the way she stretched out beneath him, his cock hard and lying against one of her smooth thighs, everything about her beautiful, and open, and inviting. It was more than he'd ever dreamed, more than he'd ever thought he'd ever get, more than he deserved, her trust, her care, her love. But she was right there with him, her eyes locked on his face, her soft lips parted, wanting him, as he wanted her, happy, as he was, that they had found their way to this place together.

"You've got me," she told him softly, and somehow he thought she was talking about more than just the grip of his hand against her wrists. If she wanted to get out from under him she could have, and they both knew it. He couldn't take her anywhere she didn't want to go.

"What are you gonna do about it?" she added then, and he grinned down at her. He knew exactly what he wanted to do about it.

With his free hand he reached between them, caught hold of his cock and lined himself up with her, but he didn't thrust inside her, didn't rush to find his pleasure in the wet heat of her. Instead he stroked himself against her, let the head of his cock catch against her clit, once, twice, three times, let her slickness cover him, let her feel him, watched her hips rocking fecklessly, trying to draw him in.

"What do you want, Olivia?" he asked her, still sliding across her folds, delirious from the heat of her. He wondered what she'd say, if she'd say you, or fuck me, or fuck you, wanted to hear the words trip from her lips and feel the echo of them through every nerve in his body, but what she said to him next made the breathe freeze in his lungs.

"I want you to love me," she confessed.

And that was, he thought, the beginning and the end of everything. That was, he knew, all she'd ever really wanted. It was what he'd always wanted to give her. No more secrets; she was telling him the truth, all of it, no matter what it might cost her, and he owed her the same in return.

"I do," he told her, and stretched himself out over her, shifted his hips and kissed the corner of her mouth once. "I loved you then, and I love you now, and I am never gonna stop."

"Then don't," she whispered.

So he didn't. He just slid home, the head of his cock gliding through her folds, sinking deeper, and deeper, and they groaned together as they both felt it. The turning of a key, unlocking that door they had for so long been forced to keep closed. One thrust of his hips and she was wet and hot tight around him and he was inside her and they were joined, as they always should have been, and in that moment, everything changed. There would be no coming back from this, but there never had been any other choice for him, not really. It had always been her; it would always be her.

Slowly, slowly he rocked into her, sliding deeper and deeper, and all the breath rushed out of her lungs like there was no room left in her for it, and still he kept pressing on and on until he was, finally, buried to the hilt inside her, and her whole body shook beneath him, as if she were as overwhelmed by this cataclysmic coming together as he was. For a moment he lingered there, shocked to the core by the sensation of her wrapped around him, by the fluttering of her eyelashes and the flexing of her thighs at his hips, by the way her fingers curled against his hand, not seeking to escape, just longing to touch. He held himself over her, one hand pinned with hers above her head, the other resting near her face and as he watched she lifted her head, strained until she could reach him, until she could press her lips against the tattoo on his forearm, a benediction in her kiss.

His hips rocked into her at the contact, and she laughed.

"Fuck," she said, breathlessly.

Oh, I'm gonna, he thought.

And he did.

Slowly he drew back from her, cast his head down and watched his cock sliding out of her folds, and then watched as he slammed back into her, hard, and quick, and she moaned, her head rolling back against the pillows and her eyes closed tight at the pleasure of it. It felt so good he did it again, and again, and the third time her legs lifted, locked tight around his waist and drew him down against her, and he was lost. There was no patience left in him, no restraint, and no need for it, for every sound that passed her lips, every movement of her body beneath his own only urged him on. Eagerly, hungrily he ground himself against her, his need breaking like waves against the softness of her, and she held him, welcomed him, took him in, again and again. Her whole body swayed with every thrust of his hips, and her wet heat clutched at him, held him tight, and shit he wasn't gonna last.

"Liv-" he gasped, but it was a struggle to form the word. He couldn't stop the pistoning of his hips, couldn't help but groan at the way she clenched around him.

"Give me my hands," she answered, and so he did, released her at once, because she'd asked him to.

With both his hands flat by her head he held himself up, and the shift in his body changed the angle between them, and hit something inside her that made her gasp, and he wanted, more than anything, to hear that sound again. He watched her, panting, watched her fling one arm around him, holding him close while the other slid between their bodies, intent on her clit, and oh, he felt it when she found it, because she swore and her silken sex fluttered around him again.

"That's it, baby," he said, and the movement of his hips stuttered against her, distracted by the sight of her fingers working against her body, by the sight of his cock plunging into her, distracted by the sway of her tits, and shit, he wanted to get his mouth on her again, but he couldn't, not now. Pleasure was racing through him, forcing him ever onward, and she was close, and he was close, and he'd really meant to make this last but-

"Shit," she swore.

He really, really wanted to hear her swear again. The feverish pounding of his hips lost all sense of rhythm, then, as he took her hard, and fast, as the wet sound of his body crashing into hers filled the room, as she began to keen, high and sweet, and more more more, his heart pounded out a furious beat in his chest, his whole body tight and tense and begging for her, and -

"Shit," she swore again, and then, "Elliot," his name, falling from her lips in a ragged cry, and that was what did it for him. Hearing her, calling out for him, dragged him under, and drowned him. She was coming undone beneath him, her body arched hard against him, holding him so tight within her that he could not withdraw, could only grind into her trembling release until he finally tumbled from the cliff himself, and he couldn't say which of them came first, and he didn't think it really mattered, anyway, because they rode that wave together, drowned together, wrung every last ounce of white-hot bliss from the moment that could until at last he collapsed against her, breathless and spent.

It had never been part of the plan, falling in love with her. And this hadn't been part of his plan tonight; he'd gone to the party alone, and he'd thought to leave alone, and even when she agreed to come home with him he hadn't thought they'd end up here, not really, but now that they had he couldn't help but feel as if this was where they'd been headed all along, as if this was where they were always meant to be. Her legs still wrapped loosely around him, her arms around his back, her hands tracing gentle circles over his skin while his face was nestled in the crook of her neck, he rested in her embrace, and felt himself at home there, and at peace.

But he didn't want to crush her, and so he brushed a kiss against her neck, and then rolled away. He didn't go far, just settled himself on his back and then drew her into his arms, let her head come to rest on his chest while her legs tangled with his own, her hand reaching out to dance idly across his belly.

"Nothing changes except what has to," he said into the stillness, thinking about every word she'd said to him on this night, every step they'd taken, every breath that had led them from the moment of his departure to this one. So much had changed, not just over the years of his absence but on this night, in this bed. So much, and yet not everything. The only things that had changed, he thought, were the things that had to.

She hummed, lifted her head to regard him thoughtfully, and he raised his hand, ran his fingers through her hair, humbled by the thought that he was allowed the grace to do such a thing for her now, when he'd spent so long wanting to, thinking he'd never get the chance.

"Some things don't change," she told him knowingly. He'd heard her, when she spoke to him, and she'd heard him, too, and now here they were, together. The love, and the trust, and the need between them, that had always been there, and it was always gonna be there, and that fact was not ever going to change.

"I do love you, Liv," he told her, and wondered if she'd ever believe him, if he'd ever be able to do enough to prove to her that he meant it, that he was never, ever gonna leave her again. Whatever it took, he was determined to try. She deserved that much, he thought. Deserved his time, and his effort, and his devotion. Deserved his love.

She didn't say it back, but he hadn't really expected her to. He didn't really need it, not the way she needed to hear it from him. Instead she bowed her head and pressed a kiss to his chest, just above his heart, and that was more than enough to reassure him of her feelings.

"Where's Noah tonight?" he asked her as the thought occurred to him that he didn't want her to leave him. If this had happened between them ten years before there would have been no reason for her to go, but she had a son, now, a whole other life separate and apart from him, and he was going to have to try to remember that, to make room for all the new parts of her he hadn't quite gotten used to yet.

"Sleepover with a friend in the building," she told him, grinning.

So there was, then, no reason for her to leave, and so he smiled, shifted his weight until he could roll her beneath him once more.

"Stay with me?" he asked, the tip of his nose brushing against her own. He didn't want to keep her from her boy and he didn't know how she'd feel about letting him anywhere near the kid, didn't know what she'd want from him once the sun came up, didn't know what it might look like, the two of them slotting into place, but he'd do whatever it took to have her, to keep her, even if it meant rearranging his whole life, even if it meant not getting to sleep next to her as often as he wanted. Just now, though, just for tonight, he could have her all to himself, and he meant to, if she'd let him.

"Ok," she said, and lifted her chin, and kissed him softly. It had been one hell of a night, and they were both tired, wrung out, exhausted, but they were happy, too, and as he kissed her back he thought to himself that the next time he saw Fin, he was gonna buy the man a drink. He owed him.