A/N: I'll be honest, haven't felt much like posting updates with reviews being... somewhat lacking this time around. That's not to dismiss the ones I have gotten, which I thoroughly appreciate, it's just a little depressing seeing such low numbers when I've still got a lot I want to do with this series and have something big (and probably a bit divisive) that I've been working on for such a long time. But today is a sad day to be a Rolivia fan, and I needed to post this to remind myself how happy they make me. Hopefully it cheers a few of you up too.
5. Secret Garden
. . .
They made it through the throng of last minute arrivals in the concourse more or less intact, although Amanda's fine blonde hair looked a bit windblown and Olivia had to catch her breath, as if they had jogged to the bathroom instead of walked hand in hand. It was an indulgence Olivia allowed herself whenever they were off duty, the hand-holding. She had to be professional and captainly on the job—capable and authoritative at all times—but outside the precinct walls she got to just be a woman, just Olivia Rollins-Benson. And sometimes a woman needed to hold her spouse's hand so they didn't get separated.
"You all right, darlin'? You wanna sit?" Amanda nodded to a bench across from the ladies' room, where only a thin trickle of women wandered in and out. This close to showtime all that was left were the stragglers, plus Olivia and Amanda.
"No, no, I'm fine." Olivia waved like she was shooing the bench away. She hadn't yet reached the age of needing a breather after a brisk jaunt, thank God. But why she was this winded, she couldn't quite say. Wading through a sea of strange faces, many of whom were men that bore faint resemblances, whether real or imagined, to certain male influences in her life (most notably Dr. Giacomo and Joe Hollister), may have had something to do with it. Not that she cared to admit it. "That was just one hell of a detour to find this specific restroom. Where on earth did you bring me, Timbuktu?"
Amanda had been adamant about skipping the other more convenient pit stops along the way, in favor of the one they stood outside of now. Ten miles from their seats and, from the looks of the tarnished and antiquated door, about ten-thousand years old, it certainly didn't appear to be the crown jewel of public facilities. So, why all the fuss?
Even more baffling was the inside, which was just as unexceptional as the out. Worse, actually, because it looked like the interior hadn't been updated since sometime in the mid-seventies. Olivia recognized the tile and the cross-arm hot and cold faucet handles from the school bathrooms of her junior high days. The hand dryer resembled an old prison intercom. The toilets were lime green, for Chrissake. As far as she could tell, the only thing the place had going for it was that every last stall and sink was unoccupied.
"Uhh, wow, love." Olivia surveyed her surroundings a bit dazedly—it really did feel like she had stepped back in time; she half-expected to glance down and find herself wearing bell bottoms and a funky sweater vest—trying to drum up some enthusiasm. Instead, she just sounded confused, especially after spotting Amanda's little Cheshire Cat grin. "You . . . really know how to sweep a girl off her feet?"
"Hey, don't knock it. I scoured that dang map top to bottom to find this place." As she spoke, Amanda made a beeline for the solitary hand dryer, whisking the wet T-shirt over her head like she was in their bedroom at home, not a public space in an arena that seated twenty thousand. In her clean white bra and faded denim, she strode up to the wall mount, fitted her shirt around the nozzle, and punched the power button with the side of her fist. Rather than the sonic blast of modern dryers, the unit emitted the hum of a handheld vacuum and not even enough air to make the shirt balloon out.
The confident display, though undercut by that lackluster fixture from the Dark Ages, was undeniably sexy. Amanda's breasts, still filling out a C cup quite well since the pregnancy, the hint of washboard abs beginning to resurface, and her nifty little ass rounding out the back of her jeans may have had something to do with it. She glanced up in time to catch Olivia's lingering and slightly longing gaze, another faint smile creeping into the corners of her pretty lips. Definitely up to something, the sneaky blonde minx.
"Yes, but the question remains," Olivia said, sidling over to her shirtless companion to play human shield, though they had the place to themselves, "Why? Seems like an awful lot of effort just to . . . avail oneself of the facilities, which, I gotta say, have not been updated since the Jurassic period. Or at least since the year you were born. No offense."
That earned Olivia a pair of narrowed blue eyes and a pantomime of snarky laughter, but it was Amanda's hand swatting her on the backside that made her sit up and pay attention. She quirked an eyebrow, failing miserably at pulling off a disapproving glare. Partly because she wasn't wearing her glasses, partly because she didn't disapprove one bit. The love tap stung just enough to be arousing in all the right ways—and all the right places.
"That's the point, cher."
Oh, and she was bringing out the Cajun dialect. Amanda only dusted off that drowsy, flavorful drawl for two very specific reasons: visiting or phoning her Grandmama and Great-Aunt Ouise, and when she wanted to get laid. And they weren't anywhere in the vicinity of Loganville, Georgia right then. Yes, ma'am, this was a bona fide seduction, I gar-on-tee. Olivia wouldn't be surprised to find out that asshole with the beers was just a plant. Her wife had probably paid the guy to spill his drink down her back so she'd have an excuse to strip.
"To be as cheap and . . . " Olivia gazed at the avocado-colored tile with distaste, nose crinkled. She was having too much fun playing dumb to give in just yet. If Amanda wanted her this bad—seriously, the walls were avocado—she was going to have to work for it. " . . . chintzy as possible? This could literally be the bathroom from The Shining."
Amanda popped the dryer button with her fist again and rolled her blue eyes. They had a green cast in the weak restroom lighting. "Not chintzy. Vintage, babe. It's modeled to look like the original restroom from when this venue opened in '68. They renovated the other ones, but this one's preserved for the history. You're into all that old museum type crap, I figured you'd approve. See that door over there? Go check it out." She hiked her chin at the far side of the room, past the wooden stalls.
"Old museum type crap," Olivia repeated in a playfully lofty tone, shaking her head at her wife's oh-so-poetic word choice. For the most part, Amanda was probably kidding. She didn't roll her eyes quite as hard anymore when Olivia mentioned visiting museums and art galleries, and she even suggested them herself sometimes. The opera, however, seemed poised to forever remain a bone of contention. Alas. "Okay, but there better not be some scary naked hag in a bathtub who tries to strangle me. I don't want old lady decomp on my leather jacket."
Grinning, Amanda took another swipe at her backside, which Olivia dodged with a skilled and lengthy stride, sauntering over to the door. Just for fun she added an exaggerated swish of the hips to her walk, knowing full well Amanda was hanging on every step—and drooling. If she were wearing a shirt, the front would likely be as soaked as the back by the time Olivia turned around.
The thought made her snicker to herself, and she was about to announce it to Amanda when she pushed open the swinging door and her breath caught at what lay on the other side. No horror or nudity was involved, although, yes, her discovery was quite old in appearance. Inside the spacious anteroom, much bigger than it looked on the outside, a Victorian era powder room had been replicated in impressive detail. Vanities lined the far wall, plush velvet settees in reds and purples were placed strategically throughout, and cherubic fountains trickled, brooklike, in every corner.
Floral wallpaper in a dusty rose shade gave it the essence and charm of an untended garden, as if the room had been left to grow wild with flowers and vines. Even the air carried a faint scent of violets and something subtler, woodsy. Olivia glanced around for the source, expecting a candle or diffuser of some kind, but spying nothing on the dressing tables or in the wall outlets. The fragrance was as mysterious as the rest of the annex, and Olivia exhaled a soft, "Wow," as Amanda stepped up beside her in the doorway to gauge her reaction.
"Pretty cool, huh?" Amanda leaned for a look around, thumbs hooked in her belt loops, shirt on its third cycle with the hand dryer. She looked like a shirtless cowpoke surveying the land. And a well-endowed cowpoke at that. If Olivia had the ability to express her own breast milk, she would have done it right then, Amanda's breasts tantalizingly close. They grazed the side of her arm, reminding her of a small attention-seeking pet, though they were in no danger of going unnoticed. "This'un's designed after the original powder rooms they had when MSG first opened in, like, 1890."
"It's lovely," Olivia said, tempted to go full cornball and gaze fondly at her wife as she spoke, indicating that her admiration was for something other than just the decor. But Miss Amanda Jo already sounded mighty pleased with herself, standing there rocking back and forth on her boot heels, rapping her fingers on the denim of her jeans. Olivia didn't want that pretty blonde head to get too big. She did, however, imitate Amanda's roaming inspection of the space that opened up to them like a secret garden, noting, "And empty."
"Noticed that too, did ya?" Now the accent had come out to play, as it always did when Amanda was feeling a mite frisky or fractious. And for everything in between. It seldom lost its charm in any iteration, although the lack of clothing did add to its appeal this time. When she did that at home it was usually while loitering in a doorway in just a T-shirt, one finely muscled leg slightly akimbo, her head tilted at a coy angle. Shirtless or pantless, the little flirt knew the effect she had on Olivia. If she could get away with prancing half-naked around the squad room she'd probably do that too.
"I did. It's almost as though you had this whole thing planned in advance. A secluded powder room, you scantily clad, me unsuspecting and powerless to resist your feminine wiles . . . " As she spoke, her voice a low thrum to match the bass that was tuning in the main arena, Olivia coasted her palm along Amanda's side, feeling the faint ripple of rib cage just beneath the skin, and on down to rest at the small swell of one hip. God, she was smooth and so, so lovely. Olivia crooked a finger inside the waistband of her jeans and tugged her closer.
Allowing herself to be reeled in, Amanda slouched forward with a bandy-legged step, still playing the naïve young cowpoke taken in by the worldly older woman from the city. She even widened her big blue eyes till she looked like Puss in Boots from that scene in Shrek 2. That must make Olivia the big green ogre then, she thought, smirking—because she was ready to scoop up an armload of cute blonde and carry her off into the wilderness, or at least a garden-themed powder room. For far different reasons than in the cartoon, of course.
The thought had just crossed her mind as Amanda, who couldn't keep up the innocent rube act forever, advanced for what promised to be a very unchaste kiss, when the restroom door swung open, admitting a blast of loud music and a pair of college-age girls. They took one look at Olivia and Amanda's cozy stance, and the partial state of undress of its shorter participant, and nearly collided with each other.
"Oh, uh, sorry," said the one dressed like a Wiccan, black lipstick and all. Her hair was shockingly blue, as if it had been dyed with those sour blue gumballs Noah and Jesse were crazy about. Her waify little friend was much more conservative, with a sense of style that verged on Mormon-esque. They were an odd pairing, but then, the same might have been said for Olivia and Amanda at one time. "Don't mind us, we'll just be . . . " She gestured awkwardly at the stalls, almost colliding with her friend again as they tried to cross in front of each other at the same time.
"No worries," Amanda said, casual as you please. She kept her arms looped around Olivia's waist, their tits pressed snugly together, and gave a nonchalant toss of her fine pale mane. Her confidence was contagious—and sexy—and Olivia made no effort at putting any space between them, though she did hide behind her shoulder to snicker at the girls' flustered behavior. "Just had a little spill. Got the shivers waiting on my shirt to dry."
Oh, what a load. Olivia almost burst out laughing at that, but she didn't want the girls to think she was laughing at them. She only snorted a little and the rest she passed off as a spontaneous coughing fit. Amanda postured sympathetically, but failed to suppress a wicked grin of her own. Her eyes kept straying to Olivia's lips, lingering there as if she were fascinated by the shape, the sound, the warmth.
Olivia gave her the full show, leaning in to enunciate and giggle in a hushed tone, "I think we're scaring the children." The girls had ducked into separate stalls, probably grateful for the instrumental warm-up session that drowned out the sound of dueling urine streams in the bathroom acoustics. Olivia gazed down into Amanda's bosom, propped pink and pretty upon hers, and sighed at the injustice of it all—being interrupted, Bruce's unwillingness to wait, the pesky rules against sex in public places.
"What's this for?" Amanda asked, eyeing one shoulder and then the other when the leather jacket went around them. She frowned, as if put out that Olivia would even presume to help guard her modesty.
Great, Olivia had married an exhibitionist.
"Wouldn't want you to 'get the shivers,' now would we? You might have to call it quits early tonight, and that would be a real shame. I've got plans for you, Detective. Big fat juicy plans." Olivia burred the last part in her wife's ear, lest Witchy Wendy and Saintly Suzy overhear and flee the restroom, scandalized. She honestly didn't have any elaborate plans, other than to take Amanda home and fuck her, thoroughly and enthusiastically. But with Amanda, the insinuation tended to be enough.
"Lord A'mighty, woman," Amanda stated, without further explanation. She didn't need to; it was written all over her face—and everywhere else. Hungry eyes, flushed cheeks, moistened lips, and that grip she had on Olivia was life or death. Any minute now her chest was going to start heaving like those heroines in romance novels. She looked as if she hadn't had sex in a year and Olivia was stretched out in front of her like a centerfold.
It was a strong possibility that Olivia had awakened a beast she couldn't get back in its cage, or at least clothed and back in its seat. Although, she wasn't budging either. The audience in the arena had just exploded to life, heralding Springsteen's entrance, and she was having a sexy standoff with her wife in the doorway to an old-fashioned powder room. They both knew where this was headed when neither made a move for the exit, hurrying the other along.
"Could one y'all push the button on that dryer for me before you go," Amanda called to the girls as they hurried through washing their hands at the line of ancient sinks, the exposed pipes climbing the walls like thick, groaning vines. She didn't bother glancing that way, simply tipping an appreciative nod in their direction when the whirring started. "Much obliged."
"You know if we do this, we'll just be proving Daphne right, that we can't keep our hands off of each other for more than five minutes." Olivia spoke as though their friend might suddenly pop forth out of thin air like a leprechaun, but a short stature must be the only similarity Daphne shared with the magical creatures. The restroom was empty once again: no Daphne, no little men dressed in a green top hat and tails, no college girls to make nice for. And everyone knew the first couple of songs at a concert were just filler, until the real hits began.
"I'm okay with that," Amanda said too quickly, as if she'd had the answer prepped and ready to go before they ever left their seats. She danced from foot to foot, either impatient to dispense with chatter or to relieve herself, and she wasn't squawking about needing to pee like a Russian racehorse, so you be the judge. "Daph is great and all, but the World's Biggest Little Lesbian can go jump in a lake. When she's got a wife as goddamn fine as mine, then we'll tal—"
What Amanda and the queen mother of lesbians would talk about Olivia never found out. She pushed Amanda against the door jamb and shut her up with a kiss that tasted like maple syrup and burned like fire. The kids had requested pancakes for dinner, and since Mommies were abandoning them for the evening to go hear some grizzly old man play songs, their wish had been Olivia and Amanda's command. The fire was their lips—and tongues—coming together at the exact moment Bruce sang:
"Just wrap your legs 'round these velvet rims
And strap your hands 'cross my engines . . . "
They took his suggestion and ran with it, Amanda's leg hooking behind Olivia's calves, Olivia's hands cupping Amanda's ass, practically holding her upright. But they didn't need an instruction manual, least of all one written by a man, as they pawed, tripped, and grasped their way to the nearest settee, the big round one in the middle of the room. It was large enough, an inverted ice-cream cone shape at the center, to block the view of any hapless creature who might wander in and question why the lady sitting with her back turned was losing her mind over velvet furniture.
As if she were reading Olivia's mind, Amanda backed her against the settee at the side opposite to the entrance and kissed her until her knees almost buckled. "Wanted to deck that jerk for talkin' nasty to ya," Amanda said breathlessly between each confluence of lips—and tongues—as she shimmied Olivia's T-shirt from inside the waistband of her skirt. She halted and gave a single abrupt laugh when she realized the pointlessness of the exercise. Skirts were so much easier to work around than pants.
But Detective Rollins knew how to improvise, and she made it worth the effort by sliding her hands under Olivia's shirt for a much more intimate contact. Something like a growl, for it was much too greedy to be a purr, rumbled in Amanda's throat as she palmed Olivia's breasts, massaging firmly. "You put him in his place damn good, though. That was so fucking hot, I almost jumped you right there."
"You must really be holding back when I bust the perps at work," Olivia said hotly, her fingers knotted up in a tumble of blonde hair, the rest of her knotted up in Amanda, body and soul. Her brain warned her to slow things down, that perhaps it was too soon after her experience with Giacomo to engage in risky sexual behavior, remember you're a captain and this is conduct unbecoming an NYP—so she shut it off, and relied on instinct.
And instinct told her to sit down on the cushy settee when Amanda pushed her onto it, straddled her knees, dipped down for another kiss. "You have no idea," Amanda murmured just before their lips met. Sparks this time. Olivia could practically see them going off like fireworks, practically smelt the gunpowder. How had Daphne put it?
Kapow.
Every cell in Olivia's body went kapow as Amanda's hands and mouth moved over her, erasing memories of other hands, other mouths, and replacing the pain—psychic or otherwise—stored in those locations with absolute pleasure. That's why sex had never been so good as it was now, with the blonde sitting astride her; Amanda found and unlocked all the parts of Olivia she had closed off from her previous sex partners. And the abusers. They couldn't hurt what they couldn't reach, and Olivia had held so much of herself at bay for so long for that very reason.
Until Amanda, the only person who had ever cared enough, ever stuck around long enough, to tease those feelings out of her. The only person Olivia had ever trusted enough to let try it.
Jesus, was she really getting emotional over a quickie in the public restroom of a sports arena? Amanda would laugh her ass off if she knew, thrilled to have proof that Olivia wasn't capable of mindless animal sex. Face it, Cap'n, you think too much, the detective had said recently, during a debate about which one of them was the most easygoing and adaptable. You get all in your head and have to think about: what does this mean and what are your feelings? Whereas I just go for it. I ain't complainin', mind ya. I like my girl thoughtful and unspontaneous.
Thoughtful and unspontaneous, my ass, Olivia said to herself now. She would show Miss Amanda that mindless animal sex didn't stop at fifty-four, or even at forty-two for that matter. Of course, a bed would have been preferable for unleashing the beast within, and she hoped to God there were no security cameras in the powder room. If there were, they were illegal and anyone watching was a voyeur, but just the idea of someone having footage of such an intimate moment almost put a damper on Olivia's desire.
Then again, how much could they really see with Amanda blocking the view, her back to most of the obvious spots for a camera?
"You sure 'bout this?" Amanda asked, without much conviction, as Olivia plucked open the button of her jeans and unzipped the fly. Her cheeks were pink as cotton candy, eyes hazy with lust, and her expression and speech were heavily love-drunk—she was in no condition to stop. But in spite of it all, she was giving Olivia the chance to opt out, and that made Olivia love her, crave her, all the more.
"Yes. Why, aren't you?" Olivia grinned at the disgruntled little noise that came when she halted her hand's progress just inside the waistband of Amanda's cute cotton panties. Pink, with a spray of tiny red hearts on the front. Ultra feminine and such a contrast to the soft butch ensemble Amanda had tried to cultivate for the evening, it delighted Olivia to no end. It was true to form for her impatient, multifaceted wife, who got bored shaving above the knee but could drink a Chardonnay or a beer with equal prowess.
"Baby, I's born ready." And with that swaggering declaration, Amanda curved her hand around the back of Olivia's and guided their fingers inside her. She was wet and so very warm, it made for a smooth entrance that felt vaguely decadent. Like biting into rich gooey caramel that dribbled onto your lips and chin, coating you in sweetness. Olivia could taste her just by touch alone. Oh, how sweet.
"Tramps like us, baby, we were born to run," Bruce echoed, on some faraway stage with the roar of twenty thousand screaming fans to back him up.
Make that 19,998, Olivia thought, not regretting it for a second. The Boss would have to hold his own for a few more minutes, she was busy holding onto a high no rockstar could give her. The sensation of Amanda riding in her lap, feasting on her mouth, raking fingers through her hair (and, if she were being honest, the possibility of getting caught) sent thrills through Olivia, head to toe, until she was thrumming with the background music.
It must have done the same for Amanda; she already sounded like she was approaching climax, her familiar sex noises and expressions increasing by the second, keeping time with the song. She lolled her head backward, mouth open as if catching raindrops on her tongue. When Olivia brought her thumb up to circle Amanda's clit, pressing gently at the firm little nub, her detective all but popped like a confetti-filled balloon.
Cursing and coming, Amanda ground her pelvis into each rhythmic thrust, using the friction from Olivia's hand and the crotch of her jeans to draw out the sensations. It had taken a few extra weeks for her to remaster the art of multiple orgasms when they resumed having sex after Samantha's birth, but now she was back to those enviable rolling orgasms that Olivia loved to challenge herself at sustaining for as long as possible. Her personal best was two minutes.
She usually knew it was time to stop when Amanda's eyes rolled back in her head like she was having an epileptic seizure.
They weren't quite there yet, just a heavy-lidded, luxurious blue, so exclusive to her Little Pretty that there wasn't a common name for it (Mandy blue had a cute ring to it). But these encounters were called quickies—not longies—for a reason. And they had to save some steam for later tonight, or at least Olivia did, if she wanted to make good on her promise to rock Amanda's entire damn world.
"Consider that your appetizer," she said, clapping the denim pockets that perfectly hugged the curve of Amanda's ass. She couldn't help but snicker at the huffs and puffs of protest from her winded partner when she eased her hand out of the pink heart-sprinkled panties. You haven't seen adorable until you've had a flushed and indignant sex-mussed blonde straddling your lap. Olivia dotted a handful of kisses to the plump cleavage that swelled just beneath her chin. God bless lactation and push-up bras.
"But," Amanda huffed again at having her jeans zipped and buttoned for her. "What about you? I was gonna make you scream so loud, Bruce'd hear you all up 'n down the 'Streets of Philadelphia.'" She couldn't keep a straight face at her own corny joke, giggle-snorting at the eye roll it received from Olivia. She did attempt to block the way, though, pushing lightly on Olivia's shoulders to keep her in place. "Don't you want me to say hey to 'Rosalita?'"
Olivia squirmed and brushed Amanda's fingers away when they danced along the creases of her upper thighs, indicating that "Rosalita" lived somewhere in that same area code. At least she hadn't named it "Jungleland" or "Pink Cadillac," Olivia reasoned, smirking to herself. Each time she moved Amanda's hands aside, they crept right back inside her shirt or tried to surreptitiously inch her skirt up, so she finally cupped them together between her own palms.
"You can say hey to her at home, my love." Olivia kissed the bouquet of Amanda fingers. "You know it always takes me—I mean her—a lot longer than you and . . . 'Bobby Jean' there. If we don't get back, Daph's gonna have security hunting us down, and frankly, I'm not dressed for lockup." She eyed the bra and leather jacket that were Amanda's only coverage from the waist up. "And neither are you, stud."
Already a pretty shade of peaches and cream, Amanda's complexion deepened to strawberry at the evocative term. She scrunched her shoulder up near her ear, head tilted cutely, making it almost impossible not to start kissing her again. If not for Bruce starting up "Hungry Heart," a longtime favorite of Olivia's, she might have given in to that sweet face. She patted the backs of Amanda's thighs impatiently, urging her to dismount so they could hurry back to the arena. After Olivia washed her hands, of course.
"Ugh. Fine," Amanda sighed, sounding rather tragic as she knee-walked backward off of Olivia and the settee. And she wondered where Jesse got her flair for drama. "You'd rather see a seventy-year-old dancing around in tight jeans than get an orgasm from me"—Here she made a sweeping gesture along the length of her body, golden head to golden torso to motorcycle boots—"be my guest, cher. But I might not be so accommodating later. Depends if I'm still in the mood or not."
Olivia chuckled outright at that one, giving Amanda's bottom a sympathetic little pat as consolation. Her wife was always in the mood, there was no chance of that well running dry. "Don't be jealous, Detective," she said, leading Amanda by the hand out of the powder room and into the restroom for some soap and a shirt. "You're the only person I want to see dancing around in tight jeans. But I don't usually have to pay hundreds of dollars for that. Unless you've taken up a new profession I'm unaware of."
"Oh yeah, didn't I tell you?" Amanda winked at Olivia in the mirror above the sinks, then plucked her T-shirt off the dryer and snapped it out like she was folding fresh laundry. "I go by Candy now. Candy Jo Rawling. Better dust off them singles, baby."
. . .