The Knife End of Destiny
by ScintillatingTart
I:
After an hour, Olivia finally admitted defeat and texted Casey Novak a quick text. Your nurse friend never showed up. I'm going to get drunk and disorderly. Be prepared to bail me out. She reached for her wine and took a sip before glancing down at her phone.
Not likely. Call Stabler if you need bail.
Olivia snorted and rolled her eyes, catching the bartender's eye and gesturing for a refill on her glass. She felt someone slip into the seat beside her and was momentarily annoyed at the intrusion into what felt like her private space until she realized that the man had taken off his suit jacket and was loosening his tie. He looked like he hadn't exactly had a great day, so her saying that she was waiting for someone was likely to set him off.
"Whiskey, neat, no water," he ordered quickly. "Make it a double. Cheap and cheerful."
The bartender set down her wine and winked at her. "Far too pretty to be drinking alone," he commented.
"Ah, well, I'm not alone now," Olivia pointed out. "I've got this nice gentleman here to keep me company now."
He had his whiskey in hand when he turned to look at her, disbelief and incredulity on his face as if he couldn't believe she had the audacity to address him, let alone include him in her train of thought that had so clearly derailed. It was a nice face – handsome, hawkish in places and baby soft in others, stubble dusted over his chin like a bad night's sleep – and she found herself grinning at his complete shock that she had spoken to him. He slammed back his drink and ordered another. "I refute nice," he said. "And even my friends will tell you I am not a gentleman."
She laughed; it had been far too long since she'd felt like laughing. "Yeah, my friends don't exactly think I'm a peach, either," Olivia admitted. "I was supposed to meet someone here and my friend that set us up couldn't even sell him on the idea of a date with me, apparently, so… here we are. I'm drinking wine and bitching to a complete stranger who doesn't even care that I wore fancy underwear on the off-chance that I'd get laid. That's what my life has come to." She sighed and carefully uncrossed and recrossed her legs, watching his reaction – and getting a grim kind of satisfaction out of knowing that, while he was attracted to her, he was restraining himself.
He ordered another round for himself and then took a deep breath and said, "You should wear the fancy underwear because you want to and it makes you feel sexy, not because you think you're going to have sex. It makes a woman walk differently, talk differently, project herself differently – you have more confidence when you feel good about yourself." His eyes met hers for the first time, and she felt a quick shiver of arousal go down her spine, pooling deep in her belly. "It's his loss: you're stunning. Not that it's my place to say so."
Her tongue darted out to lick a stray droplet of wine off her lower lip; she didn't miss the way he looked at her before he looked away, full of longing like he wanted to – "Olivia," she said, leaning in toward him so he could hear her over the din of the bar but not so loudly that her voice would carry. "I'm Olivia."
Up close, he smelled like every fantasy she'd ever had of wanting a man and her mouth went dry – what the hell was wrong with her? This man was a total stranger that she'd barely met in a bar, and she was losing her shit over him like she'd never seen a semi-attractive man before. It was something about the fact that he'd rolled up his shirt sleeves and had a waistcoat on that was disconcertingly sexy, and he was rugged and soft at the same time – the antithesis of her partner and the other men she worked with. Jesus, this man was hot and she was all but throwing herself at him – shameless. Drunk and sad and shameless.
"Rafael," he said, his voice a low rumble near her ear, his breath hot against her skin.
"Well, Rafael," Liv murmured, taking a long swig of her wine, letting it sit on her tongue as she decided whether or not to go ahead and say fuck it and make another bad decision in a series of bad decisions, before she swallowed and caught him staring at her again. His eyes were huge, his pupils dilated so wide that the irises looked almost black. "What do you say we don't talk about work, or our lousy days, and you can see that fancy underwear for yourself?"
He laughed again, the sound incredulous. "Olivia, how much exactly have you had to drink?"
"Not nearly enough for the third degree," she shot back. "This is my third glass of wine. I'm fully in control of my faculties."
Rafael paused, then said, "I'm going to hate myself in the morning – but what the hell." He dropped a wad of bills on the bar and she paid her tab, too.
It was only after she slid off the barstool that she realized that they were basically the same height. She had chosen to wear flats with her curve-hugging pencil skirt and wrap top, so it made it even more obvious when they were eye-to-eye, so close as to be nearly touching, breath warm with anticipation against one another's skin. He was a gentleman, helping her into her leather jacket, and one hand gently perched on her hip protectively as they went to the door, the other holding his suit jacket over his shoulder.
"I think we should get a room for the night," he said as soon as they were on the sidewalk.
It was a different world, bustling and hustling, Friday night in the city – lights and honking and noises, shouts, music from Times Square a few blocks away. She glanced at him and raised an eyebrow. He shrugged.
"A hotel room," she said.
"Yeah," he said. "I'm not comfortable taking someone to my place and you shouldn't be comfortable taking someone to yours. Not a stranger."
"And if we don't want to be strangers after this?" she challenged.
He barked out a laugh. "Olivia, trust me, it's for the best that we just get drunk, eat ridiculously priced room service, and fuck – and not pretend it's going to be anything more."
She hesitated, then nodded; at least someone was going to see the black lace panties and bra she had spent half a paycheck on. At least someone was going to appreciate the fact that she had shaved. That she had gone to the gym and lost those last five pounds.
At least someone looked at her like she was beautiful; as his hand again fell to her waist, she thought that he was looking at her like he wanted to unwrap her like a particularly precious Christmas gift.
They strolled along till he turned them into a boutique hotel's lobby, and checked them in discreetly. She hung back, not wanting to invade his privacy as he passed over his ID and credit card to pay for the room, but wondered if he would ever drop his last name even in passing. "Are you still sure about this?" he asked as they got into the elevator.
"More than," Olivia replied softly.
Their room was on the ninth floor, right next to the elevator. She supposed that's what they got for just showing up and asking for a room on a Friday night in September when all the tourists were in town for no reason at all and the politicians were out fucking their mistresses and –
"You're very beautiful, Olivia," he said when the door was closed and it was just them in the room, the air conditioner whirring and the sounds of the city thrumming far below. "I don't think you realize how beautiful you are – and you chose me out of everyone at that bar…"
"You're very handsome, Rafael," she said, reaching over to run her fingers through his carefully gelled hair. "You definitely don't give yourself enough credit."
"I'm not drunk," he said.
"Neither am I," she replied. "Just… not entirely sober."
"I'm not good with regret."
"So we won't regret this," she countered, toying with his tie for a moment before tangling the silk in her fingers and dragging him close for a kiss. It was awkward – all first kisses were, not knowing where to apply the right pressure, where to break to breathe, the accidental scraping of teeth, the bumping of noses – but then he pulled back, smiled, repositioned and tried again with a kiss that left her in no doubt of where the night was headed.
Suddenly, she was glad that she'd gotten stood up.
Suddenly, she was thrilled that Casey had set her up with her nurse friend in the first place, even if he hadn't shown up.
Because if she hadn't, Olivia would just have been sitting at home in sweats, watching some damn romcom for the thousandth night in a row, shitty microwave popcorn and shitty wine in hand, wondering what the hell she was doing wrong with her life.
Instead, she was getting kissed by a gorgeous man who knew his way around the business end of some passion – and she was looking forward to every moment she was going to get to spend luxuriating under his skills. If she only got one night, it was damn well going to count.
Hands wandered – his and hers – above and below layers of clothing, finding skin, teasing and removing layers between kisses until they'd stumbled into the edge of the bed, both in little more than their underwear and smiles. Rafael's hands cupped her breasts and he grinned at her, the smile of a naughty boy with his hand caught in the cookie jar – "That man doesn't know what he's missing."
"Nope," Olivia enunciated, the 'p' popping in such a way that his eyes darkened even more with arousal, making her cheeks flush in response. She was already wet, eager and wanting him – he wasn't a rough and ready built man beneath that 3-piece suit, no, but the softness belied a strength of kindness and consideration that she had already known to be there. Hadn't he already lifted her up onto a pedestal to admire and shown her such longing desire?
When he kissed his way down her body, worshipping at the altar of her every curve, breathing new life into every soft stretch of skin, she whimpered a prayer that she would survive the onslaught. Rafael feasted on her like she was his last meal, bringing her a kind of frantic pleasure that was sacred and profane in the same breath, and he watched her with lazy, lusty, passion-drunk eyes that begged for more – always more.
After a brief, breathless discussion about birth control – she was on the pill, he wanted to wear a condom anyway – he was inside her and the world shifted on its axis.
Something about the way he stared at her before he kissed her made her confidence swell; she could do this, there wasn't anything wrong with her – it was other people who had issues, not her. Olivia wasn't broken. The rest of the world was broken, but for once, Olivia was finding exactly what she needed.
It was a little rough, very quick, but it was so good – and when it was over, she was surprised to feel him pull her close and press kisses over her shoulders and spine, whispering sweet nothing reassurances to her.
But when she woke up around one, he was gone as if he'd never been there at all.
She shouldn't have been surprised. She shouldn't have been hurt.
The only evidence that they'd spent the night together was a hastily scrawled note on hotel stationary that said: Always wear fancy lingerie and think of me. I'll think of you whenever I drink whiskey: which is often.
Was it really a mistake if you wanted to make it again? Or was it just really bad judgment?
She didn't want the answer to the question.
TBC...