A/N: Today is sheepish123's birthday, if y'all didn't already know. I wanted to get her something nice... so, I wrote her some straight-up porn, as one does, lol. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, FRIEND! I'm sorry it took me all dang day to finally get it posted, but I hope you enjoy it. (And I hope it's not too weird that I'm gifting you with smut. It's what the ladies wanted. XD) Also, it was intended to be a drabble, but then I accidentally wrote 3400+ words. OOPS. So, I guess that technically makes it a one-shot. I may have thrown in a few little Easter eggs here and there about the multichapter fic I'm working on, too. FYI. :) P.S. Just realized I can't include a period in JLo's name on this site (WTF?), so that's why it's written weird.
"Do doo, that ice cold. Michelle Pfeiffer, that white gold." Amanda squeezed an ambitious dollop of shampoo into her palm—more sand dollar than quarter-sized—and sang a few more bars into the Pantene bottle before placing it back on the shower ledge. "Do doo hm-hmm hood girls, them good girls hmm hmm doo doo."
Working her hair into a thick, berry-scented lather, she bopped along to her own humming and the occasional outburst of lyrics when she knew them. Something about Chucks on with Saint Laurent. "Gotta kiss myself, I'm so pretty!" she belted, shimmying her shoulders and smooching loudly at thin air.
"I'm too hot, hot—dammit, ow." She hissed as a runnel of shampoo detoured into her eyeball while she rinsed. Positioning her face directly under the brisk stream from the showerhead, she rubbed at her eyes until vision was more or less restored. The concert commenced with a cautious twirl—if she slipped and fell in the tub, she really would need to call a police- and a fireman—to face her adoring audience on the back wall. And the crowd went wild when she broke it down for them, twerking beneath the jets, water splashing every which way off her energetically bouncing rear. J Lo had nothing on A Ro!
Just as the girls were about to hit their hallelujahs, an interruption in water pressure drew Amanda's attention towards the showerhead again. She did a sloppy little pirouette and immediately yelped in surprise to find Olivia standing in front of her, stark-naked and dripping wet. From tilted head to sensually cocked hip and coyly turned out heel, the captain's entire body exuded the smirk that tugged at one corner of her mouth. She looked smug as hell, and twice as sexy. Long, dark hair cascading over one shoulder, the damp ends adhering to her skin in a curl the shape of a question mark, she could have stepped right out of an exotic centerfold with a Tahitian waterfall as backdrop. Or a wet dream.
Amanda's, specifically.
So damn wet.
She opened her mouth to ask what had changed Olivia's mind—"Took one last night," had been the captain's sleepy response, her face buried somewhere among the bedclothes, when Amanda requested a shower buddy twenty minutes ago—but Olivia silenced her by pressing a finger to her lips. No talking. Intrigued, Amanda quirked an eyebrow and let her gaze speak for itself, raking over voluptuous curves, satin skin, and all those lovely russet freckles. They were dispersed everywhere, not just Olivia's face, a detail Amanda had discovered early on in their courtship, much to her delight. Since then, it had become her personal goal to kiss every single one of them. And judging by the captain's expression and slow, catlike approach, Amanda might get to add a few more to the tally very soon . . .
At the last second, Olivia reached around her and brought forth a bottle of conditioner, holding it up with a questioning look. Oh. Amanda nodded, trying not to let her shoulders sag too noticeably. It did feel pretty amazing when Olivia's fingers slid deep inside her silky, wet . . . hair.
Low in her throat, Amanda rumbled approval as those same skilled fingers began massaging her scalp. Eyes drifting closed, she surrendered complete control—if any remained—to the powerful hands that plied at her like an artist molding clay. She cupped her own hands lightly to either of Olivia's hips, basking, almost swaying to the rhythm. Until that moment, she hadn't considered her scalp to be much of an erogenous zone. Olivia Benson lived to prove her wrong.
She also lived to torment. The massage ended abruptly, and Amanda peeked from one eye to see her saturating a pouffy bath sponge with body wash. That pearly pink, fruit-scented stuff she loved. It was fine by Amanda; she'd walk around smelling like strawberry shortcake for the next day or two, if that's what her captain was into. Right now, Amanda was into the lazy circular motion of the sponge as it meandered over her neck and shoulders, down both arms, and back up to her breasts for the most thorough sudsing they had ever received.
She jumped at the abrasive sensation of the mesh dragging across her nipples, which were doing a piss-poor job of concealing her arousal, quite frankly. Her period was right around the corner—another reason she'd been eager to squeeze in as much intimacy as possible this morning—and her breasts were always extra sensitive in the days leading up to it. Olivia knew her cycle almost as well as she did, along with all the unpleasant side effects and cravings. Olivia also knew Amanda's body better than anyone else ever had; she used her palm to spread the soap now, gliding over, under, in between, every stroke so gentle it made Amanda ache in all the best ways.
The bath pouf skated lower, leaving behind soap suds like vapor trails on her belly, sides, and hips, as Olivia continued lavishing attention above. Captain, we're ready for take-off, Amanda thought to herself, smiling faintly. But all humor faded when Olivia reached around to do the back, standing so close Amanda could feel the heat coming off of her, sweltering in the almost nonexistent space between them. It buzzed beneath her skin, raising goosebumps, and she stepped forward that last little bit, until they were flush against one another. She tried for a kiss, but Olivia dodged her lips and knelt down—there was no logical reason the sound of ankles cracking should be sexy, but fuck, it was—sweeping the pouf along the length of both legs, front and back.
The sight of Olivia on her knees, gazing up seductively while water trickled over her shoulders and full, sumptuous breasts, made Amanda whimper. Honest-to-God whimper. She covered it quickly by pretending to clear her throat, but nothing got past her captain.
Grinning, Olivia stood and shifted aside for the warm water to fall directly on Amanda, although a cold shower would have been more appropriate at that point. She watched with mild amusement as Amanda hurried through rinsing and presented herself, sparkling clean and pink with desire, for inspection.
With infuriatingly measured movements, the captain squeezed out the sponge—Amanda swore she could feel it twisting in her groin—washed the soap off her hands and assumed a wide, assertive stance in front of the spray. It was the way she stood in the interrogation room, right after handing some lowlife scumbag his own ass, or the way she faced off with powerful men who thought they could charm or intimidate her into submission. Fools, all of them. Olivia Margaret Benson only submitted in the bedroom (sometimes in the bathtub, against the kitchen counter, on the living room sofa, or that one time in a parked '65 Mustang with the top down . . .), on the occasions she let Amanda take over.
This wasn't one of them.
She did permit a kiss, their tongues vying for dominance as her hands wandered Amanda's back. But when Amanda broke away, moaning at the sudden firm grip on her ass, Olivia caught her by the wrist and spun her in the opposite direction, arm pinned in back like she was cuffing a perp. Amanda gasped in surprise, not only to find herself turned as smoothly as the dial of an expensive watch, but also at the use of restraint. They had agreed early into their relationship that bound wrists would not play a part in their romantic exploits, for reasons neither of them needed to elaborate on.
Lately, they'd slacked off a bit on some of those initial rules, though there was always a degree of caution, a mindfulness for their partner's needs and boundaries. Even now, capturing Amanda's free wrist and crisscrossing it with the other, Olivia's hands were tentative, her grasp loose. "Hm?" she asked, the throaty hum so close it vibrated in Amanda's ear and continued right on down to her toes.
Amanda nodded vigorously, giving full consent. She had fantasized about being arrested by her tough, sexy captain once or twice (three times, actually, each coinciding with Olivia's ascension up the ranks) but in those scenarios, Olivia was always dressed in some ridiculously skimpy uniform, more slutty Halloween costume than actual cop. All tits and ass in a brightly colored bodycon, dark aviators, and oversized cap . . .
This version was better.
Her breasts pressed against Amanda's back, incredibly soft and unhindered, as she reached around with one hand for the pat down. More of a feeling up, really. It began at the waist, gradually working higher with each languid stroke. Small, playful gropes to the hips, sides, tummy—and a wicked little tweak at one very prominent nipple—made Amanda grin and gasp by turns. She breathed a luxuriant sigh as each breast received equal affection, cupped lovingly and a bit possessively in that tender yet capable palm. For a while, she was so lost in the intimate touches, she closed her eyes and forgot about everything but the warmth and safety of the presence behind her.
Then Olivia took Amanda by the chin, turning her face for a kiss over the shoulder. It was awkward at first, a striving attempt to find that perfect niche of lips and tongue, but they solved it quickly, heatedly, and the kiss deepened until Amanda's knees were weak with it. She didn't bother trying to conceal the whimper this time, when Olivia's hand coasted past her pelvis and up between her thighs, fingers teasing at her clit. She was already on the verge of bursting, her body overcome by an elusive pull, a divine itch that only Olivia could scratch.
And she scratched it so goddamn well. She took Amanda to the brink several times, always managing to ease her back from it at the last possible second. Not so fast there, Mandy Jo. It was blissful torture, Heaven and Hell balanced on the head of pin. Or the tip of a finger, in this case. She liked to poke fun at Olivia's proficiency with those fingers—Was she self-taught? How many lessons had been conducted? Did she give solo performances?—but it was all a smokescreen for how effortlessly the captain took control over every last nerve-ending in Amanda's body. Olivia was the virtuoso, Amanda her dutiful baby grand.
Good Lord, she needed to have an orgasm, pronto. She'd been so distracted by her own fevered musings and the sting of love bites that Olivia—also quite adept with teeth and tongue—left along her neck and shoulder, she barely noticed when her hands were released from their slack prison. She did, however, immediately feel the loss when Olivia's hand slipped from between her legs.
"Huh," she said, sounding like she had a slight and somewhat disgruntled cough. Her grandmother used to make the same noise, right before adamantly switching off the television whenever someone on the screen uttered a curse word.
Son of a bitch. Amanda's libido took a severe hit with that comparison. She cast an impatient look over her shoulder to see Olivia coating her fingers in K-Y jelly. It was the silicone-based stuff, terribly slippery but difficult to rinse off. Designed for shower sex, which was surprisingly unappealing when your own natural lubrication washed away with the bathwater. (Too much friction. Not good, y'all.) They had done some experimenting with water- and oil-based, both of which had considerable merit under the right circumstances, but for their present situation, silicone was the way to go.
The captain had come prepared.
And just like that, Amanda was back in business. She started to turn in Olivia's direction, only to be nudged towards the wall again. An arm went around her waist and guided her forward a few more steps, until she was close enough to use the wall for bracing. It took some encouragement from Olivia, who allowed her to reach back for a naughty squeeze or two, but Amanda finally gave in and assumed the position, hands flat against the tiles, feet slightly apart. Frisk me, Officer, I've been a very bad girl.
Olivia chuckled softly into the curve of Amanda's neck, as if she had heard the cheesy line, spoken like a true blonde bimbo. She must not have minded, because she spent the next several moments kissing and nuzzling her way from one shoulder to the other, pausing to nibble at either earlobe. Settling on the left side, she sucked lightly at the delicate bit of flesh and brought her right hand around to resume massaging Amanda's clit.
Amanda mumbled something unintelligible even to herself, and dissolved into a series of vague utterances and breathy sounds. She didn't hate the position they were testing out, but she did miss the deeper connection face-to-face sex offered. Funny, that had never been a particular concern of hers, until the first time she'd made love to Olivia in that cozy hotel suite overlooking Brighton Beach. She had climaxed listening to waves crashing in the distance, Olivia's scent wafting up to her from crisp, white sheets.
Of course, this way she had to focus on other sensations, like the new (amazing) thing Olivia was doing with her fingers, the delicious friction—the good kind!—of bountiful curves rubbing from behind, the element of danger added by the slick lubricant in such a tight and uncertain space . . . Still, Amanda wanted to touch, to bite. She snagged her bottom lip between her teeth, bearing down, and reached back to cup a hand to Olivia's cheek. Olivia surprised her yet again by turning just enough to draw Amanda's index and middle fingers into her mouth, sliding them suggestively back and forth across her tongue. The velvety warmth inside, the flash in her peripheral vision of Olivia's intent suckling, the strokes that beckoned her ever forward—
Shoulders hunching in preparation, Amanda pressed her forehead to the wall. Her hand slipped down to clutch at Olivia's hip, fingernails sinking in like ravenous fangs. She heard a hiss that might have been pleasure or pain. Either way, she couldn't retract. "Fuck, babe, I'm gonna—"
"Not yet," Olivia said in the brusque tone she normally reserved for issuing orders in the squad room. It was fucking hot then, too. On the rare occasions the captain did throw her weight around at work, Amanda would roll her eyes for the boys' benefit and flap her collar as soon as their backs were turned. She'd requested "the voice" in bed a few times, but Olivia kept it to a minimum. Girlfriend or not, it wouldn't do for her star detective to become desensitized to her authority.
Fat chance of that ever happening, Amanda thought, while her brain was still semi-functional. And then Olivia's free hand rounded her ass, curving underneath and driving out any other awareness beyond the fingers thrusting into her pussy from behind, the ones circling her clit firmly in the front. Olivia had to stoop down, leaning into Amanda for support as she sought out a rhythm that suited them both. The captain's rotator cuff injury had healed only a few months before, but it wasn't slowing her down any for this endeavor. Amanda's hesitation to settle back with her full weight vanished when Olivia's arms tightened around her, hands moving faster, more diligently. For a moment, they were suspended together, the only thing preventing the other from falling. A fine and perfect balance.
Amanda came—hard and loud—clawing at the shower tile and Olivia's back, riding the slippery but persistent touch that had just blown the door to ecstasy straight off its hinges. "Liv," she gasped, clenching at Olivia's fingers, inside and out. She rocked her pelvis against one pair, mashing the other flat with her palm and rubbing furiously, until two more orgasms followed in quick succession. She would've gone for a fourth, but her legs weren't going to hold out.
"Fuck, Liv." Panting heavily, Amanda rested her forearm on the wall and dropped her forehead against it. Olivia dotted a single kiss to the middle of her back as she eased off, allowing Amanda a moment to catch her breath. "Just . . . fuck. I . . . fuck."
When the residual twitching in her hips finally faded and she could breathe without exhaling the word "fuck" every time, she peered over her shoulder to see why Olivia was so quiet. She found herself gazing at an empty shower, her only company the water pulsing from the overhead nozzle. Even the K-Y bottle was gone. Amanda whipped aside the shower curtain, expecting to catch Olivia tiptoeing away like a cartoon villain—the Grinch, stealing the Christmas lube—but the bathroom was vacant as well. Huh.
A set of damp footprints on the bathmat were the only indication that someone else had been in the room at all. That little devil. Amanda smiled to herself as she rinsed off quickly—or as quickly as the stubborn silicone goop would allow—and rushed through toweling herself dry. Minutes later, she sauntered into the bedroom, the towel wrapped snugly around her and the bra she'd been wearing prior to the shower twirling on her finger like a flapper's handbag. The latter, she shot rubber band style at Olivia, who was seated with her back to the headboard of their bed, journal open on her upraised thighs, scribbling away. Fully dressed, glasses on. No sign that she'd been anywhere near water or Amanda's vagina in the past fifteen minutes . . .
Except for the hair she'd twisted up into a butterfly clip, coffee-brown strands spilling over the top—and dripping at the ends. Amanda smiled smugly when the captain glanced at the bra that had landed on her arm, a cup dangling over each side.
With the tip of her pen, Olivia lifted the undergarment by one strap and held it aloft, eyeing its owner. "Something on your mind, Detective?"
"Well, gee, Captain," Amanda said, affecting the breathiest dumb blonde voice she could muster. "There is a case I can't seem to figure out. This hot MILF materialized out of nowhere to fingerbang her girlfriend in the shower, then disappeared into thin air. Can you help me solve it?"
Smirking, Olivia closed her journal and set it aside on the nightstand, along with her glasses and pen. She pitched the bra into the hamper beside the closet. "Did you just call me a MILF? And use the term 'fingerbang'?"
"Asks the woman who just enacted about a third of all the porn plots I've witnessed in my lifetime."
"Jesus, Amanda, how much porn do you actually watch?"
Amanda rolled her eyes and wandered leisurely towards the nightstand. Just a girl in a towel, going for a post-shower stroll. "I do have a real question for you, though."
"Okay?" Olivia angled her body in Amanda's direction, elbow against the headboard, head propped on her hand. She'd folded her legs to one side, her opposite hand tucked between both thighs. Dear Lord. And she wasn't even trying.
"How'd you get that gunk off your hands so fast? Took me a good ten minutes to wash up, and I still feel like I could grease an engine with these thighs."
"Sink," Olivia said dismissively, eyes lingering at the bottom of the towel as Amanda came to a stop in front of her. "And that would be something to see."
"Uh-huh." Amanda reached around and pinched the butterfly clip, releasing Olivia's hair to tumble onto her shoulders. "But I know you didn't use the one in the bathroom. And the only other sink in this apartment is in the kitchen. Please tell me you didn't wash this—" She plucked the hand from between Olivia's thighs and brought it up to punctuate her words with a kiss to each fingertip: "—dirty—hand—you just—fucked me—with . . . in the same room where we fix our children breakfast."
Olivia cleared her throat. "Umm . . ."
"Okay, at least tell me they didn't see you do it."
"All they saw was Mommy being clean. It's next to godliness, you know. What, don't look at me like that. I was merely setting an example of good personal hygiene." Olivia flashed a coy little grin that Amanda was almost certain had come directly from her very own playbook. Damn, someone had been paying close attention.
Amanda clucked her tongue, pretending to be exasperated. "What am I going to do with you?" she asked, inching open the drawer of the nightstand and fishing out a bottle of water-based lube. Better for sex in bed . . . or wherever else you took the notion. She jiggled it back and forth idly. "What ever am I to do?"
"I'm sure you'll think of something," Olivia replied, and seized the front of the towel, giving it one swift tug.