A/N: This is a little something I've been kicking around the idea for since the last couple chapters of Idle Hands. I never found a place for it in that fic, but I think it works pretty well as a stand-alone. That said, it's sort of a continuation of my last little ficlet "Two Thorns," and therefore, ties in with the longer fic I'm working on. Hope that makes sense. Also, it's 100% smut, but it's angsty smut. A PWUP (porn with underlying plot), if you will, lol. I'm wondering: what's the consensus here? Y'all think I should continue with the smut (and fluff and angst and h/c and—)? I don't want to . . . depreciate the Devilishverse by stepping too far outside its canon. Just something I've been fretting about. Figured I'd ask. ANYWAY. Enjoy :)
She tensed as Amanda's tongue slipped inside of her. Spreading her legs wider, she arched her spine and rolled her hips towards the blonde's hungry mouth. Amanda gripped her ass firmly in both hands, helping her rock, timing each thrust to her urgent undulations.
It felt incredible. It made her want to turn, bite down on the pillow behind her head and scream; it made her want to flip Amanda over and do unholy things to her taut runner's body (she had the teensiest bit of cellulite collecting on her thighs and buttocks, much to her chagrin—and Olivia's secret delight).
It was the best sex they'd had that entire long and taxing week. It also wasn't working.
They had been at it for almost thirty minutes, Olivia teetering on the edge, but unable to fall. Amanda's neck and jaw had to be killing her. Olivia's arms were tingling from reaching back to grasp the headboard, her legs shaky from straining against the mattress. She lowered one hand, gliding her fingers through the cornsilk hair that tumbled down Amanda's shoulders in gentle waves.
When Amanda shifted into a more comfortable position, Olivia caught a momentary glimpse of her cute little ass. Moments ago, she had her hands all over those sweet curves, that creamy skin—just as Amanda now touched her. She focused on the memory, replaying every provocative image that had transpired since the detective slunk in from the bathroom, disrobed, and revealed herself to be wearing the peach-colored lingerie they had chosen together months earlier. She remembered peeling away each gossamer layer, from lacy bra to stockings as delicate as butterfly wings, and draping them at the end of the bed, where they still resided.
Closing her eyes, she once again heard the sounds—the curses—Amanda had wantonly moaned as she climaxed at least twice (but knowing the detective's enthusiasm for sex, probably more) in Olivia's mouth; she listened to the sounds the blonde made against her now, lips occasionally smacking, the hums penetrating her as thoroughly as Amanda's tongue. She loved the raw, fleshy music they made together like this, the rest of the world just white noise, just clutter. When they made love, Amanda Rollins took her places no one else ever had . . .
So, why the fuck couldn't she come?
"Bite me again," Olivia instructed breathlessly, bringing her knees tighter together this time.
Always ready to oblige—in the bedroom, that is—Amanda eased back to nip at Olivia's labia and inner thighs, her fingers deftly filling the absence left behind by her tongue. A smooth transition, facilitated by the combination of saliva and Olivia's arousal, which glistened on Amanda's lips and probably the sheets as well. Olivia had no problem getting wet. Ironic for a menopausal woman in a high-stress occupation. But this new development, this infuriating failure to achieve release, was going to be what really drove her insane.
She concentrated on Amanda's hands, rising to meet the one that pumped between her legs, gasping as the other coasted up her shuddering torso and caressed her breasts, gently at first, then with greedy pinches and tugs that left her writhing, but pleading for more. The voice in the back of her mind—the one that whispered those awful sibilant names whenever a lover tried to touch her like this—had faded considerably in the past year. She could almost drown it out completely these days, especially while Amanda was inside of her, piercing her with icy blue eyes—
Sharp teeth—
Hot mouth—
It was like being consumed at once by fire and ice. And yet.
"I can't." She dropped her head back on the pillow, angry with her own goddamn body and the whimper of frustration she'd allowed to escape.
It had to be the meds. Difficulty having an orgasm was listed as a possible side effect of Zoloft, right there on the bottle, but until now, the antidepressant hadn't disrupted her sex life—actually, it had helped. Since allowing Dr. Lindstrom to prescribe the pills, she'd felt freer, less inhibited inside the bedroom and out of it. Of course, the bottle also warned against alcohol consumption, and she'd knocked back three—four?—glasses of wine within an hour's time while she talked to Alex. (The bottle didn't mention anything about phone calls from a sort of ex-girlfriend that provoked a sort of argument with your current girlfriend, but that probably hadn't helped much, either.) Welcome to Your-Own-Making Correctional Facility, Captain, enjoy your stay.
Goddamn son of a bitch.
"You wanna try the vibrator?" Amanda rested her cheek on Olivia's thigh, gazing up sympathetically. She continued the soft, languid strokes with her hands, trailing her fingers over Olivia's belly like she was skimming the surface of a pond. The others slid upwards, two a time, parting Olivia and gathering the moisture that dripped from her. Amanda licked it from her fingers like she was sampling honey directly from the hive. "You know that always get you off . . ."
Olivia's cheeks warmed, but if it was the comment or the visual of Amanda literally tasting her, she couldn't tell. She nodded a bit shyly and turned onto her side, propping up on one elbow to watch as Amanda retrieved the vibrator from the nightstand. It was a pleasant sight, all that sculpted, ivory flesh, the way it dimpled and flexed in the most delightful places as she crouched down to open the drawer. She stood and winked to find Olivia openly staring—a little slack-jawed, to be honest—then returned to the bed with the bullet-shaped sex toy and a single AA battery. It wasn't anything fancy: six inches of purple plastic that twisted on at the bottom, for a grand total of three different speeds. But Amanda was right—it got the job done.
When the battery was in, Amanda put on a show of crawling, catlike and sensual, over Olivia to seat herself on the wider section of the bed. Olivia gave her a brisk swat on the ass that sounded harder than it was delivered.
"Hey now," Amanda scolded, but flashed a naughty grin as she settled onto her pink bottom with affected primness. She twitched her finger side to side—bad girl—and pushed Olivia flat onto her back. Ah, the sassy Southern princess routine. One of Olivia's personal favorites. Bouncy cheerleader and tough-talkin', rough-ridin' cowgirl were also high on the list.
"Sorry, it's just so cute, I couldn't help myself." Olivia stretched out fully, hands clasped behind her head, ankles crossed. She smirked when she got the desired result, Amanda's eyes sweeping her from top to bottom, practically feasting.
"Well." Amanda licked her lips and bent forward for a lingering kiss. "Don't let it happen again, city girl," she murmured, breaking away just when it was getting good, leaving Olivia hanging with parted lips, damp chin, and a deep, deep yearning. "You're not so tough I can't turn you over my knee. I'll tan yer hide."
So, the cowgirl had decided to make an appearance after all. Olivia was getting two for the price of one this evening. "Promise?" she asked, punctuating it with the flick of an eyebrow.
"And you call me incorrigible?" Amanda pointed the vibrator at herself, then back at Olivia. She pressed the tapered end to the middle of Olivia's chest like an accusatory finger and traced a path from sternum to groin. "You're a downright ornery little dickens."
As she spoke, she circled the vibrator around Olivia's clit slowly, firmly, before trailing it farther down, ensuring it was nice and slick. It hummed to life with a flicker of Amanda's wrist, and Olivia gasped at the sudden throbbing that emanated through her most sensitive of nerve endings. She closed her legs reflexively and nodded as Amanda adjusted the speed, soothing her clenched belly with gentle, loving strokes of the palm. She let her eyes drift shut, her own rapid breaths and the rumbling toy the only sounds that reached her pulsing eardrums.
"Talk to me," she whispered, reaching blindly for Amanda. She found a thigh and kneaded at the soft, toned flesh, working her way higher a little at a time. When her fingers brushed against a path of sparse, prickly pubic hair, she smiled. Amanda preferred to be clean-shaven, but she also detested the upkeep. One night, they had both laughed so hard they couldn't finish having sex after Olivia commented that it was like munching on a five o'clock shadow.
She cupped her hand to Amanda's groin, beckoning with two fingers until they were coated with moisture—the blonde never had any difficulty getting wet, either—then put them in her mouth, and sucked. Her Georgia peach.
Amanda took a shaky breath. "When I's a kid, there was this patch of wild blackberries that grew close to the railroad tracks," she said, her voice thick and inarticulate at first. She cleared her throat and rubbed the vibrator back and forth over Olivia's clit, teasing at the entrance just beyond. "I used to go down there and pick 'em in the summertime. Eat 'em right off the bush. They'd be all warm from the sun, almost like I plucked them out of a pie. Practically burst right open on my tongue . . . "
Something tickled Olivia's cheek and she opened her eyes to see Amanda sweep aside her lovely pale locks as she leaned in, setting Olivia's neck aflame with feral little kisses that were both painful and rapturous. She pushed inside of Olivia at the same time, stealing away her last remaining breath.
"That's what you taste like to me, baby," Amanda purred against her throat. She grazed her tongue along Olivia's jawline, nipping at the delicate ridge in back. Another inch or so, and her mouth was at Olivia's ear, filling it with hot, wet words and kisses. "Blackberries, tart and juicy and warm in the sun."
"God, Aman- Amanda." Olivia pressed her palm flat against the blonde's stomach, the other clutching at the corner of the mattress, bracing herself. She was trembling like a leaf, her legs threatening to give out as she bent at the knee, feet planted in the comforter, and bucked forward. Amanda sat back, leaving her feeling bereft, but assuaged it just as quickly by massaging her pelvis with one hand, as if pushing all the pent-up pleasure to a central location. Grinding it like she was the mortar and pestle, Olivia the salt.
"Sometimes a train'd go by while I was picking. You ever stood next to a moving train? Not the subway, but an actual out in the open freight train? There's this blast of hot air as it goes by, and you kinda vibrate all over like it's going through you. Damn near takes your breath away, and you just have to hold on and let it come . . ."
"Trying," Olivia said, hating the desperation in her voice, the strained grunt that followed. She was starting to lose it—that deep gnawing, like a sweet hunger, and the desire to sate it. Fucking Zoloft. Fucking Merlot. Fucking Alexandra Cabot. She grasped Amanda's elbow, urging her to drive the vibrator in fast and hard. "Say— say something dirty."
Amanda scrubbed her fingertips vigorously across Olivia's clit, her efforts detectable as a slight quaver in an otherwise seductive drawl: "Never told you this, 'cause I know you don't like to mix business 'n' pleasure. But there'll be times I'm sitting at my desk, and I'll look up and see you at yours. Swear I can already taste you. It's all I can do not to walk into your office, throw you down on your desk, and fuck you right there. Would you let me do that, darlin'? Eat you out in the middle of the precinct until you screamed?"
Oh, fuck! Almost!
Olivia gave a frantic little nod—she would never permit such a thing, but God, it was fun to fantasize—and trapped Amanda's hands with her thighs, striving into each touch. That had almost done it, the image of a relentless blonde head buried between her legs, shaking like a dog mauling a small, defenseless creature, while all she could do was grip the corners of her desk and . . .
. . . And just like that, it was gone. Olivia took Amanda by the wrist, lightly but securely, and sagged into the mattress. She was too damn tired to keep trying, anyway. "Stop," she sighed. "It's not— I can't."
"Okay." Amanda carefully withdrew, tempering her retreat with soft caresses and kisses to each body part she encountered as she shut off the vibrator, leaned across Olivia, and stood the device upright on the nightstand. (She knew better than to toss it back in the drawer without cleaning it first. Olivia had corrected that habit long before breaking the detective of kicking her shoes off wherever they might land. That was a work in progress.)
Blonde strands, soft as dandelion fluff, tickled Olivia's chest as Amanda settled back beside her, propped on both elbows and stretched out on her stomach. Olivia toyed with the ends of the hair, smoothing it against her skin—and avoiding Amanda's eye. "I'm sorry."
"Hey." Amanda chucked her gently under the chin with one knuckle. "How many times I gotta tell ya, you don't have to apologize for that?"
"I know. I'm—" Olivia folded her lips together and gave a disgusted little sniff. It was bad enough that she hadn't finished—couldn't finish—but to know her occasional difficulties in the bedroom were enumerable made it twice as embarrassing. Suddenly, she wanted to find a hole and curl up in it. She might actually be blushing. Even worse, she felt like crying.
"Aw, babe," Amanda said, and glided a finger along the lock of hair that fell against Olivia's cheek, looping it behind her ear. "It's not a competition. You don't have to get there every single time. Foolin' around can be just as much fun."
"Easy for you to say. You're the orgasm queen." Olivia sniffled again, this time to get her emotions in check, and put on a sleepy, lopsided smile. All teasing aside, she was quite fond of how much Amanda enjoyed sex. There was something oddly wholesome about the detective's unabashed approach, her readiness to dive right in. And of course, it felt wonderful to be so unequivocally wanted. Olivia hadn't known a love like that existed—at least not for herself—until Amanda Jo Rollins came truckin' along.
"That is what's emblazoned on my crown." Amanda sighed, as if the title were a heavy cross to bear, but flashed her most charming grin right after. (Incorrigible.) It softened to a lazy smile, and she rested her head against the side of Olivia's breast. "Seriously, though. Is there anything you wanna talk about? Or maybe . . . I dunno, need to talk about?"
Olivia thought for a moment, knowing she probably should; it always came back to bite her in the ass when she didn't talk about the things that were bothering her. But it was late, she was naked, and her body was still coming down from its intense workout. She felt a bit like she'd overindulged on turkey at Thanksgiving and hadn't left room for dessert. "Hm-mm," she said, her eyelids beginning to droop. "Could you just hold me?"
"Yup. C'mere." Amanda helped Olivia roll onto her side, scooting in behind her and pulling the covers up over them. She fitted herself snugly against Olivia's backside, arm cinched around her waist. Normally, they cuddled in the opposite direction, Amanda the designated "little spoon," but tonight, Captain Benson needed some comfort and security. She smiled into the pillow when Amanda wedged a leg between hers, the other hooked over top.
As she was about to drift off, she heard Amanda ask softly, "Is it because of that fight we sorta had about Alex?"
(Probably.)
"Liv?"
(I should answer her . . . )
"You awake, darlin'?"
Olivia allowed sleep to take her, Amanda's heavy sigh still whispering in her ear.