July 18, 2014
He wanted to dance with her again.
He really, really wanted to dance with her again. Once was not enough; just a bare two minutes making a slow waltzy box on the dancefloor with Olivia in his arms, the silk of her dress sliding enticingly beneath his palms, the soft orangey scent of her perfume invading his senses, was not sufficient to quiet his desire for her. There had been a moment, out there on the dancefloor, when she'd looked up at him with those big dark eyes that seemed almost to be begging, pleading with him to treat her gently, a moment when he'd felt her relax, lean into his embrace as if she wanted to be there, and he wanted to feel that again. He wanted to feel the tension leave her, wanted to feel the evidence of her trust in him, wanted to take that trust and use it to shelter her. Christ, he just wanted to hold her. Somehow he got the feeling it had been a long, long time since she'd last let anyone just hold her, and somehow he thought it might do them both some good.
But Olivia only allowed him that one dance, and then she was leading him away, her head held high, her jawline proud, her legs - tanned and muscular and graceful and gorgeous - slicing beneath the salacious slit of her dress, her ass swaying tantalizing in front of him, and he had resumed his place, a pace behind her, following where she led.
It didn't come naturally to him, following, but the role he was meant to play tonight was clear, and he didn't want to embarrass or upset her - more than he might have done already, with that little spat he'd had with Wheatley - so he didn't act on his instincts, even when his hands were itching to touch her. He just followed, watched her drift around the perimeter of the room, greeting the guests who knew her already, making the rounds. He just followed, his gaze roving endlessly around the room, over the guests, but returning, always, to the vision of her back in front of him.
Between the dim, atmospheric lighting and the sway of her thick hair and the swirling patterns of red lace against her tan skin, the lines of her tattoo taunted him. He couldn't say for certain what was ink and what was shadow, not with the lengths she'd taken to hide her art from view. It felt like a riddle, the answer just out of reach; it felt like the strains of a song playing from another room, too faint for him to make it out but maddeningly familiar, as if should he only listen a little harder, look a little closer, the truth would reveal itself. Did the tattoo extend all the way down her neck, out to her shoulders, across her back? He didn't think it possibly could, didn't imagine for one moment that she was the sort of girl who'd get a piece that big, but every now and then when his eyes drifted over her it seemed as if a new line was waiting for him to discover. But then she'd move, and the lace and her hair would move with her, and then he wasn't sure of anything any more.
Not that it mattered, he tried to tell himself. It didn't matter, because he wasn't here tonight to look at her tattoo. He was here tonight to take care of her, and he'd thought he'd done a pretty good job of that so far. That Wheatley was a snake, Elliot thought, and a presumptuous one, and Olivia might not have appreciated the way Elliot had stepped between them, but he'd only been trying to look out for her. If she really did want to dance with Wheatley she could have, no matter what Elliot said, but she'd taken his arm instead, like it wasn't Wheatley she wanted at all. The thought that she'd wanted to dance with Elliot filled him with a smug sort of pride, but he tried to tamp that down, too. Maybe she'd only used him as an out, a means to escape an unpleasant conversation; she'd made no attempt to linger with him when the song they were dancing to was finished. Maybe to a girl like her a dance didn't signify much, but Elliot had only ever danced with Kathy. Kathy, and her, now. It meant something, to him.
As they made their way around the room Perkins peeled off from the folks he'd been entertaining, his sights set on Olivia, and Elliot had only a moment to warn her of the man's approach before Perkins was stepping smoothly between them, reaching out to take hold of Olivia's hand.
"So glad you could make it, Olivia," he said. "You look ravishing this evening."
Who the fuck says "ravishing"? Elliot thought to himself, grumpy now.
"Thank you," Olivia purred in response. Elliot hadn't really ever heard that tone of voice from her before and he looked at her face sharply, found her wearing an unfamiliar, damn near coquettish expression as she batted her eyelashes at Perkins. The prick.
"I was hoping you'd had a chance to think over my offer," Perkins said, still holding her hand.
"I did," Olivia told him in that same husky, breathy tone, that tone that was doing things to Elliot's vascular system he didn't want to think about too much. "You're too generous, Fitz. Oak House owes a great debt to your family already."
Elliot frowned. He didn't know what offer Perkins had made, but Olivia had told him once that a man could pay fifty thousand dollars for the pleasure of fucking her, and he was pretty sure a guy like Perkins wouldn't even blink at spending that amount of money. Just the thought of it, Olivia soft and naked under a bastard like Perkins, made Elliot's hands curl into fists.
"But we have our traditions at Oak House," Olivia continued. "It's my job to keep to them. I'm sorry, Fitz, but I can't accept it."
Thank God, Elliot thought.
"Maybe a dance will change your mind," Perkins suggested. Brian had warned Elliot that these guys didn't take no for an answer, and it was starting to look like he'd been right about that. It would be easy for Elliot to step in, to pull Olivia away just like he'd done with Wheatley, but Perkins was a different animal. Wheatley wasn't a current customer, as far as Elliot knew; it was Wheatley's father Olivia had to keep sweet, and the old man didn't care too much for his son. Perkins, though, Perkins was big money, and he had been at every party Elliot had attended at Oak House. It would be easy to snub him, but it might come back to bite Olivia in the ass, and Elliot didn't want to cause trouble for her.
"You're welcome to try," Olivia said, accepting the offer with good grace, and there was nothing for Elliot to do then but watch them walking away, his jaw set tight. Olivia had been given a choice, and she had made it.
It irritated him, though, watching Perkins walking to the dancefloor, leading Olivia by the hand, arrogant and self-assured. It irritated him to see another man put his hands on Olivia, to see someone else standing where he'd stood himself just a short while before. It irritated him to watch Olivia follow that man's lead, to allow him the same intimacy Elliot himself had enjoyed earlier in the evening. There was nothing rational about his irritation, no justification for the possessiveness he felt as he watched Olivia's lithe body moving beneath her silky dress, as he watched Perkins's hand drift over her ass, as he watched Olivia do nothing at all to stop it. Olivia was a madam, and she'd been a working girl before that, and no one man got to lay claim to her. Certainly not a man who'd never fucked her. Olivia didn't owe him a goddamn thing, Elliot knew that. There was absolutely nothing he could expect from her, nothing he could ask of her, not while he was a cop and she was a madam and the lines between them were so clearly drawn.
All that and more he knew in his head, but his heart would not listen. His heart watched her dancing with Perkins, and seethed, and he didn't take an easy breath until Olivia returned to his side. Where she belonged.
"Walk you up?" Elliot asked as they loitered by the car.
Over his shoulder she saw Brian frown, and she looked away quickly, feeling embarrassed, somehow.
The night had gone better than she'd ever imagined; apart from Wheatley insulting Elliot and Perkins's wandering hands on the dancefloor the guests had been nothing but polite, and Elliot had been good company. Quiet when he needed to be, protective when he needed to be, charming and safe. She'd enjoyed the brief conversations they'd shared, and Jesus, she'd enjoyed dancing with him, and she wasn't quite ready for the night to end and apparently neither was he. Still, though, he had to have known there was no reason for him to come inside the house. Brian was with her, Brian could ferry her safely through the doors and up the stairs. Having played his part to perfection there was nothing left for Elliot to do, but he'd asked to come inside, and she wanted to let him.
"Why not?" she said, and then she turned for the door before Brian had a chance to catch her eye.
"I'll go park the car," Brian muttered. Usually he saw her to her room before dealing with the car - he never, ever left it on the street overnight - but someone else had taken on that task this evening, and Brian was no doubt feeling sore over it, and he always retreated when his feelings were hurt. Olivia would have to deal with it in the morning.
Right now, though, she was too distracted by the steady, solid presence of Elliot at her back to worry about much of anything at all. Why had he asked, she wondered; why did he want to come inside? What could he have to say to her alone that he couldn't have said in the backseat of the car? Why did the thought of walking through the corridors of her home in the dead of night with Elliot beside her excite her so, when she had thought herself so long past the point of excitement? She wasn't sure, really, not about anything, but she'd always had a penchant for playing with fire, and this was no different. Elliot was dangerous, but she was willing to risk it, for the adrenaline rush it gave her if nothing else.
In silence they moved through the house, and she led him up and up, all the way to her own bedroom door. It was a Friday night, but she'd left Lucy in charge, and between Lucy and the security guards Olivia knew her girls were safe. If there had been trouble someone would have called her, but her phone had not rung even once, and the house was still and silent, now.
At her door she stopped, leaned back against it and considered the man in front of her. What a contradiction he seemed, she thought, the Catholic boy with the rock hard body, the cop with an uncanny affinity for playing the part of a criminal. A gentleman to his core, and yet possessive enough, bold enough, cocky enough to stand up to Richard fucking Wheatley. The bald head and the beard made him look so fierce, but his blue eyes were warm and gentle, and those hands of his that could so easily be formed into fists had only ever touched her tenderly.
He was watching her, now, breathing slowly, deeply in the darkness, his eyes drifting over her. The way she was leaning, with her hip cocked out and her head thrown back, it was all but impossible for him to ignore the swell of her breast, the slope of her bare thigh. He didn't even try to pretend like he wasn't looking; she would've been disappointed if he had.
"Thank you," she said, surprised at the breathless quality of her own voice.
"My pleasure," he answered. "You ever need anything like that again, you call me."
"I will."
It would look good, if after a successful night she asked for him again. Kosta would be happy. It was hardly a business decision but at least she could hide behind that thin excuse.
"You deserve better than them," he said suddenly, intensely, and those blue eyes fixed on her face, found her gaze and held it, pinned her in place. There was something like anger burning in those eyes, but it was not anger with her. She knew that, instinctively. If Elliot was angry, it was only with the other men who'd presumed to touch her. Of course he'd be possessive; he was a cop, and he'd been married to one woman for years, had four children with her, mourned her still, Olivia thought, because he told her his wife had been dead for seven years, and he'd not taken another. And of course he'd try to tell her she was too good for the life she lived; he'd been SVU once. All those guys had a fucking savior complex.
"They take care of me," Olivia said.
"Bullshit." The word came out hard, and she frowned.
"You don't-"
"Those guys pay you, but they don't take care of you. Who takes care of you, huh? Who makes sure you have what you need? When's the last time someone did something for you without expecting something in return?"
Brian did. Brian looked after her, tried to make her eat, tried to make her go to sleep on time, tried to shoulder some of her burdens, tried to be there for her when she needed someone to listen. Brian tried, hard, and yeah he was on her payroll but he didn't do it for the money. He hadn't shown up at the hospital the day she freed herself from Lewis's clutches because he wanted something from her. Brian did care. But she wasn't fooling herself; Brian was here, in her house, because he was lost. She gave him a place to sleep, gave him a purpose, gave him stability, and he was in love with her, and she'd never love him back and they both knew it. Brian was only there because he didn't have anywhere better to be, because she hadn't sent him away, and there were things she never told him. There were so many secrets she kept from him, so much of her heart she held in reserve. Brian tried to take care of her but there had never been any doubt that she was the one in control in their relationship, and he could only do what she allowed him.
No one had ever taken care of her for her own sake, not really. Not ever.
"Nothing comes free," Olivia said, a little sadly. "Everyone has their price."
"Olivia-"
"Will you unzip me, please?"
She didn't want to talk about it anymore. The little bubble of contentment she'd cocooned herself in while they rode in the car had distinctly burst; whether he'd meant to or not, Elliot had only reminded her of the rules of the game. In the game of life nothing was free, and no one was safe, and the only person she could ever really trust was herself. No matter how much she might wish for things to be different.
Very slowly she turned her back on him, gathered her hair over one shoulder so he could find the zipper disguised in a fold of lace running down the middle of her back. Sorrow had settled in her heart, but there was still a pulse of excitement buried beneath it when Elliot stepped up close, when she felt the brush of his hands against her back. Did he want to take care of her, she wondered, and if he did what would his care look like? How would it feel, to be cared for by such a man?
Time seemed to crawl to a stop as Elliot dragged the zipper down her back to where it stopped just above the rise of her ass. With every inch the zipper descended she felt the dress loosen around her body, and she pressed one hand to her chest, holding the dress in place so that her tits didn't spill completely out of it. When he'd finished she waited, holding her breath, wondering what he might do, whether he might touch her, whether he might kiss her, whether he might -
"Jesus," Elliot breathed softly.
Oh, shit.
She'd turned her back on him, given him a task to distract him from the maudlin turn their conversation had taken, and Brian unzipped her dress for her all the time, and she'd thought nothing of turning her back on Elliot at all, but she realized her mistake, now. With the dress unzipped and her hair cascading over her shoulder, Elliot could see the mark. Not all of it, while folds of silk and lace still covered her shoulders, her sides, her ass, but he could see enough. Enough to realize the scope of it, enough perhaps to recognize the face of the phoenix etched into her skin.
The only people besides Brian who had ever seen her mark in full were the men who got to fuck her, and there hadn't so very many of them since the mark was finished. She'd never talked about it to any of those men, had only explained to Brian what it meant one time, when it was still in progress. She didn't want to tell Elliot now, didn't want him to know what the mark symbolized, what it had taken from her, didn't want him to see, but it was too late to pretend the thing didn't exist.
She startled, just a little, when she felt his fingertips brush against the center of her back, trailing along the lines of the tattoo. She could almost feel the question hovering in the air, the tension that Elliot was carrying. She could not allow him to speak, because if he did she might break, and tell him, and this night had gone so well that she didn't want to spoil it with regret.
"Good night, Elliot," she said, and then she pressed her clutch against the electronic lock of her door, let the little card attached to the back of her phone unlock the door, and slipped inside it, closed the door behind her without turning to look at him. She didn't know what expression he wore, what his face might tell her, but she didn't want to know. Alone in her room she leaned back against the door, shivered when it touched her bare skin, and for a moment even through the bulk of that reinforced door she could have sworn she felt the weight of his eyes on her still.