August 1, 2014

One kiss gave way to another, and another; it was as if, having begun, having been blessed with that first sweet, intoxicating taste of her, he could not stop, could not bear to be parted from her. The skin of his cheek burned from the soft panting breaths she exhaled against him, his beard no doubt burning her lips as he opened his mouth to her, entreated her to join him in this moment of madness. Her mouth was warm and wet and glorious, and the first tentative brush of her tongue against his own left his head spinning. His hands rose up, sank into the heavy weight of her hair, cradling her skull, holding her close to him, and when his teeth caught against her pouty lower lip she sighed and pressed herself that much more firmly into the bulk of his body. All that hair; it tumbled around them, filled the air with the scent of oranges, that soft perfume he had come to associate with her and her alone, curtained them off from the world around them, gave to them a sense of privacy they had not earned.

For her part Olivia wasn't still, wasn't just standing there accepting the onslaught of his kisses; her hands reached for him, one fisted in the back of his shirt and the other clutching at his open collar, dragging him still closer while her lean thighs parted, gave him room to press his own leg between them. What he wouldn't give for a wall to press her back against, the leverage to hold her upright and let her grind down against his thigh, the chance to feel her want, as dire and electric as his own. As it was there was no such grace waiting for him on the terrace; the closest wall was the side of the townhouse, and to drag her there he'd have to stumble across the courtyard and up the steps in full view of the windows. They were risking too much already, their position not entirely shielded from the view of the parlor, and he didn't dare press for more. Besides he wasn't sure his legs would hold him, would safely cross that distance, anyway; Olivia was melting him down like gold in a forge, shattering every piece of him.

When was the last time she'd kissed a man? Kissed him for love, for want, and not for money? Did she ever kiss her customers? Some girls didn't, but Olivia's business was expensive and exclusive; the list of things her girls wouldn't do was likely very short. And she had been one of them, one of the girls, earned her living on her back and on her knees, and in the daylight that thought might have bothered him, but in the darkness he was safe from recrimination and guilt and inhibition. In the darkness, all he felt was her.

Beautiful, and warm, and soft, and here, nestled in his arms, holding on to him, the neat line of her teeth nipping at his lip just as he had done to her, nuzzling against him as if she liked the way his beard felt, searing her tender skin. If he had freed himself from restraint so, too, had she; in his arms she was alive, vibrant, and demanding, her hips swaying tantalizingly into him, a seductive sort of promise in the movement. Jesus, he'd fuck her right there if she let him. The thought drove a bolt of lightning straight to his cock and he groaned into her kiss, dragged one of his hands away from her hair and down the elegant slope of her back, eased his way between her skin and her jeans so that he could clutch at her lace-clad ass, encouraging her to rock against the strong muscle of his thigh locked in place at her core.

Had it ever been like this? He would ask himself that later. Had one kiss, one first kiss, ever been so consuming as this one, ever made him want to rush from the soft molding of lips to the furious fever of fucking without hesitation? Or was it just Olivia, just her, the sinful lushness of her body and the comforting way she seemed to know him, to understand him, his undoing? Anything, he'd give anything to bury himself inside her, to look down on her beautiful face contorted in pleasure and hear her cries of rapture, to feel her embracing him. The hold of his hands, one at the back of her head and one tight around the swell of her ass, locked her in place, and she made no move to part from him, only arched into him, only let her tongue surge into his mouth and whimpered when she felt him answer her in kind.

He would have this woman. He would take her, bring her into himself, make her his, protect her, save her, hold her; he would have her, if only she would let him, if only-

If only. If only the house were not full of guests, if only every second that passed did not increase the risk that they would be discovered, and ruined. If only she would let him, and he wasn't entirely sure she would, and he'd told her he wasn't trying to fuck her - had meant he wasn't only trying to fuck her - had promised himself he would show her that she was meant for more than sex and how the fuck was he going to keep any of those promises, how the fuck was he going to be her friend, if all he concerned himself with in this moment was the dire need he felt to bury his cock inside her?

It was a miracle, really, that any thoughts permeated the haze of lust in his mind at all, but they did, and he eased up on his grip slowly, dragged his mouth away from the glory of her kiss and planted his lips on the side of her neck, gasping, gave them both a chance to think, and not wound one another by moving too fast, asking for too much. She'd only just finished recounting the tale of her own enslavement in this house; what sort of man would he be, if he heard how sex had been used to trap her and steal her future, and immediately demanded more of the same from her?

"I think it would really be something," he murmured breathlessly against her perfect skin, "to see you happy, Olivia Benson."

She hummed and smoothed her hand down his back, lingered for a moment before stepping away from him, running her fingers through her hair, the mask she wore, the mask of the untouchable madam, sliding slowly back into place.

"Who says I'm not happy?" she asked him coolly.

"You're not," he said before he could think better of it. Of course she wasn't; how could she be, when she was still living in this house, still trading her body for money, still doing the same thing to her girls that had been done to her, if a bit more gently?

"You think you know so much," she grumbled, turning petulant.

"I'm learning," he insisted, standing his ground in the face of her rapidly shifting mood.

"What about you, huh? You want to stand there and say you'll be my friend? That goes two ways. Quid pro quo, Elliot."

"What do you want to know?"

The shift in the air, the way the tenor of their interaction had gone from angry to mournful to hopeful to horny right back to fucking angry, left his head spinning. He still hadn't fully recovered his breath, his heart was still pounding, his cock was still half-hard, and she was standing there with accusation flashing in her eyes like she hadn't let him shove his hand down her pants just a minute before.

"What happened to your wife?"

Elliot blanched, spun away from her, reeling as if she'd struck him. When he'd come here tonight he'd wanted to talk about her, about the tattoo and where she'd come from and why she was still in this place that seemed to hurt her so, and he hadn't been counting on talking about himself. Hadn't really thought she'd want to, because no one ever seemed to want to ask about him, and she was the interesting one, anyway. But he could see it, now; he had offended her. Asking his questions, hearing her answers, she felt he had taken something from her, and she wanted to be paid back in kind. Maybe she deserved that much.

"She died."

"I swear to God, Elliot-"

"She was pregnant," he said, and horror stole slowly over Olivia's face. The story he was about to tell her was a sad one, a tragic one, but her story had been tragic, too. They had that in common, the tragedy.

"We'd split up but it didn't really stick. We fell back into old habits, and she got pregnant again. Our two oldest were in college but the twins were still at home, and I couldn't just leave her alone with a newborn. I came back home. We were trying to make it work, but I was still working too much, still wasn't really present when she needed me to be. There was….there was a bad case, and I got caught up in it. She had an appointment, and I was supposed to take her, but I was too busy and she took a cab instead. They got t-boned by a drunk driver. The air bag deployed and she went into labor, and by the time the paramedics got them out…I lost them both."

Did Olivia understand, he wondered; did she understand the full scope of his sins? Did she hear what he was telling her now, that he had been too selfish to let Kathy go when she wanted to and too selfish to prioritize her over the job, that his selfishness had killed her and the baby both? It wasn't a story he liked to tell, but then he imagined Olivia probably didn't like talking about the mark on her back too much, either. Quid pro quo, she'd said. I'll show you mine if you show me yours. If they were reckoning with one another's sins this evening he thought he came off worst, and he wondered if she thought the same.

"Elliot-"

"I was a crap husband. I tried to be a good dad but the job made me overprotective, you know? The shit I saw, it made me so scared for my kids, and it made me scary to them. And then their mother died because I couldn't be bothered…I as good as killed her, Olivia."

"You didn't," she said softly, approaching him slowly, warily, and when he didn't bark or snap at her she reached out and laid her hand gently on his forearm in a quiet, comforting sort of way.

"I did," he repeated stubbornly. And for a while there he'd been trying to kill himself, too. Not suicide, because the church said that was a sin and he wanted to be buried next to Kathy when he went, but close enough. The most dangerous assignments, the undercover work, he'd thrown himself headlong into it, dedicated himself to the same job that had kept him away from Kathy when she needed him most.

"So," he said, running his hand over his face, mortified to find that there were tears in his eyes, "are we square now?"

She bristled, pulled her hand away and retreated a step. Apparently she didn't like him talking as if this conversation was a transaction.

"You tell me, detective," she said. "Did you get what you came for?"

Did he? Had he? Why had he come, anyway? To sate his curiosity about the tattoo, yes, but that wasn't it. That wasn't it by half. He'd come to see her face, to hear her voice, to be close to her, to feel the way he'd felt that night after the party with her bare skin beneath his fingertips. He'd come to beg her to be honest with him, and he'd come because he wanted to. Because he wanted her. She'd let him kiss her but then she'd torn him open and now he was bleeding, and confused, hurt by her and desperate not to be parted from her at the same time.

"I don't know," he said.

Olivia nodded, once, and then looked away, catching her bottom lip between her teeth, and he could feel it; she was getting ready to tell him to leave. To send him away from her, to give them both an out, to put this night behind them, and he couldn't bear it. Not yet, not now; he was too raw to be left to his own devices, and he didn't want to watch her walking away from him again. But what could he say to her? What more could he offer her, what more could he take from her? She'd let him kiss her, and he'd crawl over broken glass for the chance to do it again, but why would she ever let him, after what he'd just told her, after the strange and maudlin turn their conversation had taken?

There were other things he wanted to know, and other confessions he wanted to make, but they all seemed dangerous, just now. They were teetering on the edge of ruin, the entire future of their relationship hanging in the balance, the whole world holding its breath, waiting to see what choice he might make, and whether it was the right one.

"Will you tell me about Noah?" he asked her softly.