It starts like a slow dance. Her fingertips barely graze her surface at first, like a pianist skimming over her keys, deciding which song to play. This one, Olivia thinks, will begin with a delicate note; she can hear it inside her as she begins tracing her folds, the whisper of a hum that she knows will soon grow and accelerate and deepen. But, for the moment, she decides not to hurry, keeping her eyes on Elliot's as she starts massaging herself gently with her palm, letting warmth slowly flood her core.

"Are you sure I won't mess you up? Your picture?" she asks innocently, drawing a finger up through her center.

He clears his throat, momentarily breaking from the spell she has cast. "No, I'm, uh…I'm almost done. Just a little shading left."

"So it's okay if I…move?" she coyly responds as she slides a loose hand upward, teasing herself with a butterfly touch.

"Of course," he replies, once again completely mesmerized. "Move however you like."

A fiery grin emerges on her face and she latches onto his gaze with a penetrating stare as she rolls onto her back, letting her legs drop open. Time seems to stretch; neither one of them blinks. Their eyes stay locked as she suddenly plants her hands on her knees, waiting a moment before she begins to slide them down her thighs toward her core, a deliciously slow descent.

"Keep drawing, Detective," she says in low voice that cuts through the room like butter, making his body twitch with want. "I want to see it when I'm done."

"I'll do my best, Captain," he replies, shifting in his seat as he somehow tries to split his focus between the task at hand and the intoxicating sight of Olivia swimming in her own desire.

Despite their talk of movement, Elliot is somewhat surprised to see how she begins. Olivia closes her eyes, her head sinking back into the pillow, and she grows still; he would almost think she was asleep except for the slow, firm pulse of two fingers on her clit. He starts to move his pencil, almost absentmindedly, drawing the curves and shadows of the twisted sheets, but all he really knows is her—the lick of her lips as she changes her motion, taunting herself with little taps and flicks until she opens herself even more. She takes her clit between her forefinger and thumb and settles into a rhythm, increasing her pressure with each rolling stroke as her free hand glides up to her breasts, twisting each nipple.

This, he sees…this is where the movement starts. Her hips begin to writhe and rock with each touch and her neck occasionally twists from side to side; her cheeks flush as her brow furrows and she lets out the smallest whimper. He knows, from experience, what she wants at this point and he watches Olivia grant her own request as she slides a finger, then two, inside. It's as if she is completely and gloriously lost in herself—mouth slightly open, eyes shut tight, fingers loose and fluid as she draws them out and lets them sink in again, rotating them in a circle. Her languid pace, however, doesn't last; she soon abandons it in favor of a harder, steadier motion, her strong hips rising to meet each thrust.

Elliot keeps his eyes on her but his hands start to mirror her rhythm, dragging marks and lines across the background of his drawing, creating texture in time with her wildly quickening pace. She's almost there, he thinks, as her back begins to arch, lifting off the bed with each heavy, shuddering breath…her fingers moving almost uncontrollably inside her, reaching deeper, sliding faster until her thumb swipes upward and launches her into a spiral of unhinged bliss. He grips his pencil as her head falls back into the pillow, once…twice…a third time…the rest of her body contracting and pulsing before letting go entirely—a rocket breaking through the atmosphere, finally knowing the heavens. She flies before him, one last plunge into her depths before she collapses, landing softly in the sea of sheets, warm and wet and smiling.

Finally, she turns to him and opens her eyes, breathless, as he shakily rests his pencil on the desk behind him.

Elliot doesn't know what to say except, "I'm finished," still drinking her in as he carefully pulls the paper from his sketchbook.

And she softly replies, with a wink, "Me, too."

He carries his sketch over to the bed, sitting against the headboard as Olivia crawls over and settles herself between his legs, resting her hot back against his cool, bare chest. He drapes a blanket over the two of them and draws little circles through her perspiration before holding her tightly against him and kissing the side of her head.

"Let me see," she says gently, beckoning him to turn his paper.

"I hope you like it," he responds, somewhat shyly, as he slowly flips the drawing over and rests it in her open hands.

And there it is. All of her. Every curve and every dimple, every muscle, every scar. The wave of her hair as it spreads across her pillow, the softness of her full breasts, her arms resting gently beneath them. The slope of her stomach, her hips, her thighs—her body strong from a lifetime of learning to run with the weight of the world on her shoulders. The calmness in her hint of a smile. And her eyes…she can't help but notice them. They are intense and confident, carrying the depth of her resilience, but they are also rich and warm and in love. Yes, she thinks, these are the eyes of a woman who loves, who is loved, who is home. And there is something else, Olivia realizes, that she's never truly seen in her herself. Contentment. Finally.

As she continues to absorb Elliot's finished work, she finds herself falling into an unexpected memory, something she had clearly buried for decades. Her senior year of high school…a cluttered art studio somewhere in the city, sitting before a man as he examined her face from behind an easel, dry heat pouring through the vents. Serena had presented it as an early graduation gift—a portrait, she had said, to mark her daughter's transition to adulthood. Olivia had laughed bitterly in her mind, knowing the overwhelming load of adult responsibility she had been forced to bear since a far younger age. But still, she had complied and found herself posing a few weeks later, motionless and silent, sitting for a stranger with thick glasses and a distinctively thin mustache. In a way, Olivia had known that it wasn't worth the battle, somewhat satisfied that her mother was sober enough to choose her outfit—an itchy Merino wool sweater, a plaid skirt, and a string of pearls. She had hated every minute of it, though. It wasn't that she had minded the process; the man was nice enough and it didn't require much energy on her part. She was, however, terrified of the outcome. Olivia could practically envision what her portrait would reveal—a sad, lost girl who never looked in the mirror, afraid of who and what she might find lingering in her features, vestiges of a mother she resented and a nameless father she despised.

When it was finished, she was proven right. Serena had insisted on hanging it—this oil painting of her solemn, vacant daughter—above the fireplace. Olivia had diverted her eyes as she passed it each day until she finally took it down at the end of the summer, claiming she wanted to bring it to college with her. She had packed it up carefully in front of her mother, putting on a show, but the minute she had a moment to herself during her first day on campus, she had tossed it in a nearby dumpster. Olivia had taken pleasure in the thought that it soon would be torn and crushed and lost in a heap of all the other things that deserved to be forgotten.

She vividly recalls that moment, her defiant act of purging everything she had never wanted to be, and feels a few tears start to form, considering the contrast to the position she finds herself in now. Olivia relaxes even further into Elliot's chest, delicately holding his drawing in her hands, softly crying at the realization that this, indeed, is the opposite. This woman, the woman he has so lovingly captured…she is everything her younger self had only dreamed of becoming.

He rests his head on her shoulder, not sure if he should be moved or concerned.

"You okay," he asks gently.

"Perfect," she replies, as he wipes a tear from her cheek. "She's beautiful," Olivia continues before turning her head, kissing him deeply. "And she's happy."

"Then I'm happy," he responds, bringing their foreheads together as he feels her body breathe and sigh and let something go.

"So what now?" she asks, smiling over his lips.

"I think…" he begins, giving her a peck before shifting toward the nightstand. "I think I need to find a place for this masterpiece… How about…right…here?" he continues, leaning his paper against the lamp. "We'll need to pick out a frame, of course."

"Yeah," she laughs, "you better tuck that away before your kids see it. Or your mother… Oh God, Elliot, please tell me you're not going to show Bernie…"

"I don't know," he replies with a cheeky grin. "I think she'd be pretty proud of me. A little mother-son bonding over art wouldn't hurt, right?"

Olivia squeezes his thigh, feigning annoyance.

"And plus," he says more softly. "Then she'd just have further confirmation that…"

"That what?"

"That her future daughter-in-law is an absolute goddess."

Olivia lets the moment land and waits, trying to decide whether to drop a joke or let the conversation evolve into something more serious. He saves her from having to make the choice, quickly jumping in to ask…

"Too soon?"

"Elliot…" she replies, taking his hand in her own. "You know how much I love you… But—"

"I know, I know…we're not quite there," he responds, squeezing her fingers reassuringly.

"No…at least," she considers. "At least…for now."

They both chuckle, knowingly, and he wraps his arms around her again, peppering her neck with little kisses. "Well," he starts with a touch of sarcasm, "we know how your last 'for now' worked out…"

She feels a smile start to grow on her face, realizing that whatever resistance she has tried to build in her head is quickly fading, eclipsed by the bright, unrelenting hopefulness that now flourishes in her heart.

"Okay then…" she replies, bringing her hands up around his forearms. "Forget about 'for now.' But…someday…" She pauses, gathering her confidence. "I'll say yes," she decides, "to someday."

Olivia turns and she and Elliot look at each other knowingly, sensing that someday will come sooner than they'll admit.

"I can work with someday," he murmurs sweetly before they settle into a long embrace, his thumb moving to trace her ring finger.

Their mouths and hands start exploring each other and she breathes into his ear, "I have an idea," before slipping her fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants.

"Yeah?"

"I believe," Olivia continues as she begins to slide them down gently, "that it's your turn…to have a little fun."

"Eh, I have a better idea," he replies with a smirk, leaving her confused as he suddenly hops up from the bed, his pants riding low on his hips, and takes a few steps toward his desk.

"El?"

"I believe…" he responds as he returns to her side, placing his sketchbook in front of her, a fresh, blank page. "I believe…that it's actually…your turn."

And with that, he cocks an eyebrow and slips his pencil into her hand, gesturing toward his open chair with the wildest grin she's ever seen.

"You want me to…"

"Draw me," he whispers playfully. "Like one of your French girls."