"We can't do this." Elliot isn't sure how they got from discussing the defence bill they're trying to pass thought Congress to Olivia unbuttoning her blouse, but she's slipped the last button loose and the fabric gapes open to expose her bra - black lace which pushes her breasts high and makes her cleavage look fantastic - has started working on the zipper of her skirt now before he recovers from the shock and darts a frantic look at the unlocked door, left ajar by him when he entered, leading out to reception. "Olivia, Liv—" The tension is palpable in his voice, he can hear the voice at the back of his head screaming that they're too exposed here, there's too much at stake. He tries on last time, hopes she'll slow down, he's not strong enough for this. "Madam President."
"You promised, Elliot. Don't you remember?" There's a seductive quality to her voice, an evil smirk on her lips that spells out his doom, and he swallows hard.
"I do." God, he's screwed.
.
"You want me, and I want you. Why do we have to complicate it?"
Maintaining a careful distance between them, Elliot looks around at the office they're standing in, after 18 months of campaigning they'd made it here, then back at her. "An affair with your Chief of Staff, barely a month into your first term? The press would tear you apart when they find out."
"If. We could hide it from them. They wouldn't have to know El." She's been thinking about him. His body. His body on her. In her. She's been thinking about him a lot - the idea of having him seems worth the risk to her.
"They'll find out, you know that as well as I do. If not now, later, and I won't be the one who derails your presidency. Don't ask me to do it, Olivia, please."
Her jaw clenches, but she nods. "And what about the day when there's nothing to derail?"
Something in his chest seizes tight enough to be painful, and then immediately relaxes into warmth. "We can address the matter again."
"Promise me?"
"I promise."
.
"There's nothing left to derail now Elliot." She's hung her blouse over the chair of the conference table, folds her skirt neatly and places it on top. "I've served my term." She inhales deeply and turns to face him "I've wanted this every day for the last eight years, Elliot. There's nothing to jeopardise now, I'll leave this office in a week. The only question is; do I leave with or without being fucked across that desk?"
She stalks towards him, a lioness hunting her prey.
You're still the president." It's a weak protest, they both know it. He watches her move toward him, wonders whether she always wears such tiny scraps of lace her skirt, watches her breasts heave in her bra. He can feel the heat of her nearly naked body through his clothes, the last of his resolve slipping to the floor with the tie she's just unknotted from his neck.
"What does that matter? Traditionally speaking, presidents aren't usually virginal. Just because I'm the first woman to hold this office doesn't mean I don't have needs like every other man before me. She pushes her breasts into his chest, her nipples scraping his pecs. "I need you Elliot." Her hand runs down from his shoulder to his chest stopping just over his heart and feeling the thud thud of the blood pounding through his chest. "Do you still want me?"
Christ, her words are killing him. "I don't think I could stop if I tried."
Hearing the truth of it makes them both groan, and once he's released it not touching her is impossible. He wants to touch her everywhere at once, wants to make up for the eight years they've been waiting, wants to bury himself inside of her and never let her go.
Her hair is soft as silk when he fists his hands in the heavy mass and drags her towards him, feeling the lace of her bra catching on his shirt and the taste of her lipstick on his lips as he presses his mouth to hers. He almost can't believe this is happening, he's living the dream he's been having on repeat since he first walked into her campaign office almost 10 years ago.
He's not sure it's even real. Olivia Benson, The President of The United States of America, wants him - is rubbing herself against his growing erection in the oval fucking office.
He pushes his mouth even more insistently against hers. It's messy, teeth knocking together, his tongue mixing with hers, both of their breaths leaving as heavy groans. They stumble backwards together under the force of their kisses until his hip catches against the desk and jolts them both to the left, breaking the kiss with an awkward bump of noses that makes Olivia laugh.
Eight years." He doesn't realise he's said it aloud until Olivia's laugh cuts off abruptly and she stares at him with pupils blown wide, cheeks reddening. Her breasts are heaving in her bra, threatening to spill over the plunging cups. Fuck, he wants to bury his mouth on them and suck hard until he covers her in his marks. Wants the world to know that he's the one The President is fucking, when must men in the USA would kill for her.
"Eight years," she agrees, twitching a brow in the sort of self-satisfied way he knows means 'if you'd listened to me, it wouldn't have taken this long'. His breath catches, and acting on pure want his palm cupping her cheek. He'd spent every single moment of those long years pretending even that smallest motion doesn't drive him absolutely mad, thinks back to all the times he'd had to recount baseball stats to stop an erection in its tracks: of all the times her thigh had rubbed against his as they'd sat together in the back of her convoy; of the late nights going over strategy in her office; of the sight of her in the command room, watching her ass in her tight dresses as she stalked back and forth in front of the screens on the wall. He thinks now of how many times he can have her, and where he can have her, in the next week before they leave the White House for good. He's got 8 years of orgasms to give her in 7 days - In the situation room, in hotel conference rooms and Air Force One and from behind her desk…