September 7, 2014
In the years since Kathy died Elliot had been to bed with a handful of women; it wasn't like he'd been completely celibate, even when at times he wondered if maybe he should be. If maybe he should remain faithful to the wife he'd failed, even in death, wondered if maybe that was the price he had to pay to atone for his sins. Maybe he should have, but he hadn't, because he was only human, and he got lonely, sometimes, and he got hopeful, sometimes, and Kathy might have been dead but he wasn't and his heart could still be moved by beauty. His heart was still beating, his blood still racing in his veins, his body still strong and healthy and hungry.
He had fucked other women, and he hadn't forgotten how it felt, to be bound up tightly in another hungry body, hadn't forgotten the steps of that dance, wasn't particularly self-conscious or insecure in the bedroom. He knew how sex made him feel, and he had thought, before now, that he knew what to expect, but Jesus, the moment Olivia's tongue surged between his lips he found himself in a strange and unfamiliar world of yearning the likes of which he had never encountered before. Nothing, no woman, no need, no single moment of his life had ever felt like this.
Powerful, that's how he felt. He felt powerful, when he caught Olivia's lean thigh in his hand, when he pressed her back against the wall and she wrapped her arms around him and held on tight, when he draped her perfect leg around his hip and settled himself between her thighs. He felt mighty, exalted, fucking godlike, with this woman in his arms, panting against his lips, her hips bucking towards him in eager desperation. The soft fabric of her black dress had fallen back from her leg and he could feel the silken slide of her bare skin beneath his palm, dug his fingers into the soft flesh there and held on tight, and in response she only whimpered, and opened her mouth further to him, her nails scraping down the back of his neck in a dire sort of encouragement.
Whatever knowledge he possessed in regard to sex paled into comparison to what she knew; sex was her profession, had been her very life for decades now, and she had already fucked one other man this evening. Someone else had had his hands on her tonight, someone else had touched her, someone else had sunk himself inside her, but Elliot felt no jealousy on account of that, not in the moment. Something else he knew, without being told, something Wheatley did not know, would not ever know, was that whatever Olivia had done with Wheatley - or allowed him to do - she had not done it like this. There was neither art nor artifice to the way she moved, to the sounds that escaped her; he could feel her trembling beneath his hands and he could almost hear the sound of her heart pounding, ragged and loud, keeping perfect time with his own. There was no rhythm to the movement of her hips, no elegance to the slide of her tongue against his; there was only want, a beautiful and precious thing, fevered and needy and utterly unselfconscious.
Even as he felt himself swept away by her, even as he tugged the denim jacket from her shoulders and seared his lips against the line of her neck, a piece of his mind remained capable of thought, considering his next move. He did not think she wanted him to stop, did not think she intended for either of them to stop until they were breathless and sweaty and bound up in one another, but he did not want to take her here, against the wall. He did not want to bend her over the little counter by the sink, did not want to press her delicate knees to the hard surface of the benches where they'd been sitting, or worse, the floor he never cleaned. She deserved softness, and warmth, and comfort, and there was really only one place he could offer her that, but the sheets on his bed weren't clean, and none of it was fit for a woman like her. A solution to his problem revealed itself after a moment's consideration, and he grinned against her lips.
With careful hands he eased her leg down off his hip, waited until her feet were firmly planted on the floor before he raised his gaze to her face. Her eyes were hooded and dark, the makeup she'd so carefully applied earlier in the evening smeared around them, smoky and enticing. A few curls of her perfect hair had escaped the confines of her ponytail and gently framed her face, drew his eye down to the soft pout of her open lips, red not from lipstick but from the burn of his beard. That black dress was held up by two thin straps, the fabric clinging to the swells of her breasts like a second skin, and he could see the points of her nipples and he forgot, for a moment, about his plans, his intentions, forgot everything, really, except for how beautiful she was and how badly he wanted her.
Suddenly, sharply, he dropped his head to her breast, covered one nipple with the heat of his mouth while his hands reached behind her, caught hold of her dress and dragged it up until he could sneak beneath it, until he could take two firm handfuls of her gorgeous ass, bare to the touch and drawing a groan up from the depths of his very soul at the realization. The ferocity of his attentions made her gasp, but she did not stop him; she rocked into his embrace, cradled his head at her breast with one gentle hand, holding him there while she arched into his mouth and he sucked her nipple through the fabric of her dress.
"God, yes," she groaned, and it never occurred to him to wonder if she meant it. It was not even a question, in his mind, if he could trust her responses, if she was being honest with him; she had come all this way tonight to tell him the truth, and he had heard it, and he would reward that truth with every ounce of his devotion, would return every piece of that truth to her in kind.
The tempo of her gasping breaths led him along, from one breast to the other and back again, and his frustration with her dress made him growl, made her laugh. She pulled her hands from him just long enough to peel the straps of the dress down off her shoulders, and the minute she did he took hold of the dress himself, tugged it down until her breasts fell free, heavy and soft and golden. She looked debauched, like this, half naked and mussed from the touch of his hands, and she looked glorious, and a feeling so profound he could only call it love swelled within his chest, so vast he nearly burst with it.
"You're beautiful," he said, slowing down for a moment, cupping her breasts in his hands and pressing a tender kiss to the corner of her mouth. Surely she had heard that all her life, he thought; surely from the time she was a teenager everyone had told her how beautiful she was, and she had been bought and sold and coveted countless times for the sake of that beauty, and maybe she'd resent it, hearing it from him now, when so many other men must have said the same thing when they had their hands on her body, but it was true, and he believed it, and he needed her to know.
"You're sweet," she murmured, and he smiled despite himself, because no one really accused him of being sweet, these days; no one had called him sweet since Kathy, who had only ever said it in the early days of their marriage, when they'd been young and broke and tired with an infant at home and he'd stopped to buy her a single wilted rose wrapped in cellophane at the bodega on his way home. He wanted to be sweet, for Olivia. This thing between them, he wanted it to be sweet, for her.
He kissed her again, because he wanted to, because she wanted him to, because she was lovely, because he could think of no words to say, in this moment, to tell her how completely she owned him, how desperately he needed her. He kissed her, and let his hands fall back to her ass, and began to carefully walk them backwards through the RV, towards his bed. It was only a few steps, but her hands were tracing the heavy muscles of his back, his arms, trailing fire across his skin, and her kiss was hungry, and they didn't make it as far as the bed. Desire overcame him in the doorway, and he pushed her back against the frame of it, hiked the skirt of her dress up and she laughed, knowing already what he wanted before he even asked for it.
With the door jamb flush to her back she leaned away from him, and lifted one of her feet, still wearing those ridiculous heels, up until the ball of her foot met the frame of the door on the opposite side. The heat of her bare thigh burned against the skin of his waist and her hands settled on his shoulders, her eyes watching him knowingly, hopefully. Bracketed in the doorway, caught between her legs, with those eyes searing into him, there was only one thing he wanted to do, and no reason not to, and so he did it.
He leaned forward, and kissed the rise of her breast while he drove his hand between her legs. She was wearing a thong; her ass had been bare but he could feel the scrap of lace covering the heat of her sex, and he yanked it aside at once so he could drag his fingertips across her folds, learning the shape of her and teasing out the damp flush of her desire. She was the one who'd opened her legs to him, who was angling her hips to give him better access to her now; she wanted him to touch her, and he was determined to to touch her well.
"He didn't…" she started to say, her voice a little unsteady, and Elliot looked up at her from his vantage point at her chest, wondering what it was she was trying to confess, wondering if he might be better off not hearing it. He wasn't a saint; he knew she didn't want Wheatley and he knew Wheatley hadn't fucked her well but he wasn't sure his good humor could survive learning the specifics of their encounter.
"I made him wear a condom," she said. "And I had to use lube."
Maybe she'd been wondering if he was wondering about that, wondering if Wheatley had spilled himself inside her, wondering if he'd discover the traces of another man when he touched her. Maybe she was wondering if he was wondering about the wetness he'd found between her legs, wondering who had put it there, him or someone else. Maybe she was trying to reassure him. If she was, it was working marvelously.
"He didn't make you wet," Elliot murmured. It wasn't a question.
"Not enough," she answered, dark eyes flashing, and she said it like a challenge. Had not lied, and stroked his ego, and said no, but had said not enough, as if daring him to do better.
And by god, he was fucking gonna.
"So this," he said, stroking his fingers against her, sliding one of them very gently inside her, curling into the softness of her, "is for me." Probably some of the slickness he found there was the lube from before, but Elliot was trying his best not to think about that.
"Yes," she groaned, and ground her hips down against his hand, the velvety walls of her sex clenching around his finger, trying to draw him in deeper.
She wanted to feel him, and Jesus, he wanted to feel her, and he pressed two fingers into her, this time, watching her face, the blush creeping up from her breasts, along the delicate column of her throat, up and up to paint her cheeks, watched the way her eyes slammed shut, watched the way her soft lips parted on a moan. Watched his fingers disappearing into her, watched the way her legs trembled for him, watched the way she worked herself against his hand, drawing him in, encouraging him to thrust his fingers within her, in and out, in and out, curling on each pass and heightening her arousal each time. Watched, and felt the desire growing in her, communicating itself so eloquently to him, watched her whole body tense when he found the bud of her clit with his thumb and began to draw careful circles around it.
This he wanted to do for her, this pleasure he wanted to give to her, this act about nothing and no one but her. He wanted to give her what she wanted, wanted to make her feel good, when she had spent so much of her life devoted only to the pleasure of others. Plenty of them had touched her like this, he wasn't fool enough to think they hadn't, but none of them had loved her, as he loved her, and that would make all the difference.
"Fuck," she hissed, breathless, and the grin that tore at his mouth then was so wide it almost hurt.
"Yeah?" he asked, leaning in a little closer, licking a stripe up the side of her neck. She smelled like oranges, still, and he could taste the salty tang of her sweat on her skin, the air inside the van close and hot and thick with wanting.
"Yeah," she answered, hips circling, and he matched the rhythm of his hand to the pulsing of her body, followed her lead and fucked her with his hand until with every breath she expelled some desperate sound of pleasure left her. Kept going, rubbing the pads of his fingers against her, inside her, his thumb working over and over clit, his own need tightening the way her cunt was tightening for him until he felt her on the very brink.
"Come on," he grunted, his wrist aching from the speed of his fingers driving into her, his body leaning against her thigh, drawing comfort from the warmth of her. "Come for me, Liv."
She wanted to, he could tell, and he wasn't so much a fool as to think she was waiting for his command. He just wanted her to know that she could, that she did not need to hold back from him, that she was safe here, that he wanted to feel it. He wasn't telling her what to do; he was begging her for it. And there in the doorway she gave in, to him, to her own heart, to them, and fell apart, clutching at him, crying out for him, the sudden flood of her desire painting his palm, and the sight of her face as she lost herself in rapture was more beautiful than anything he'd ever seen in his entire goddamn life.
"That's my girl," he murmured, and kissed her panting lips, swallowed down the sound of her soft, incredulous laughter. He was desperate to lie down with her, to cradle her in his arms, to feel the fluttering wetness that had just graced his fingers wrapped around his cock instead, and so he gently freed himself from the confines of her legs, and while she leaned back against the wall trying to catch her breath he turned his attention to the bed.
With one almighty yank he ripped the fitted sheet off the mattress, and threw it and the top sheet away, left the mattress bare and the pillows bouncing halfway down it. It wasn't perfect, probably wasn't anything like the expensive beds she was used to, but the mattress would be cleaner than the sheets, and softer than the wall, and he wanted to lay her down there.
"That was sexy," she murmured when he turned to look at her, and he was pretty sure she was teasing him.
"I'll show you sexy," he growled, and then his hands were on her. He lifted her easily with his hands anchored to her ass, and though she gave a little yelp of surprise she helped him, locked her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck, holding on to him tight as he pivoted, and then unceremoniously dropped her, bouncing and laughing, on her back on the mattress.
That laughter transformed into a moan as he lowered himself on top of her, as her thighs rose up to hold him tight, as he ground his cock against her and sank his mouth over hers. He kept his hands flat to the mattress by her head, and her own roamed over him, followed the lines of his forearms, up to his shoulders, her nails dragging down his back while he kissed her, and rocked his hardness against her through the unbearable barrier of his sweatpants. Her black dress was bunched up around her hips and he wanted it off her, wanted those damn shoes gone, too, before the heels of them sliced the backs of his legs to pieces, but first this. First her, soft and warm and welcoming beneath him, first this delicious taste of everything they could be together, if only they would allow themselves this indulgence.
She shifted beneath him, pressed up into his kisses, working her hands lower and lower until they dipped beneath the waist of his sweatpants, clawing at his ass, encouraging him to grind deeper against her. Had she ever been like this with anyone else? He'd ask himself that later, ask himself if she had ever been clawing and hungry and wild for anyone else, ask himself and regret it, but in the moment he had forgotten anything, everything that existed beyond the narrow confines of his bed. There was only her, and him, and this.
"Take these off," she murmured into his fevered kisses, tugging at his sweatpants, and that was the best idea he'd heard all night. He moved at once to do as she'd asked, stood up and tugged his pants off while she shimmied out of her dress, the fabric catching on the heel of one of her shoes. He took hold of her foot, tugged the dress off and away and then slipped off her shoe, pressing a kiss to her ankle before reaching for the other one, and while he worked she watched him, lying there with her hair fanned out behind her, wearing nothing but that black lacy thong, the narrow band of it stark against her hips, the fabric still off-center and doing nothing to hide the flushed pink of her sex, waxed bare and pretty as a flower. When her shoes had at last clattered to the floor he reached for the thong and tugged it away, and then they were both naked, utterly defenseless, unable to hide their desire for one another and not wanting to, anyway.
For a second he just looked at her, her legs splayed out and her breasts heaving with each of her ragged breaths, and then her hands were reaching for him. He went to her at once, lowered himself slowly over her and felt the comfort of her arms encircling him, felt the fevered rush of his desire as his cock settled against the warm wet of her folds. His face hovered over hers, and he gently brushed the tip of her nose with his own, just because he wanted to see her smile when he did it.
"I don't have any condoms here," he confessed then. Olivia was a smart woman, and he knew she wouldn't have survived this long in the business without birth control, without getting tested regularly, and he knew she didn't take many customers these days, or really any at all, until tonight. She'd made Wheatley wear a condom, and so Elliot wasn't as worried about it as maybe he should have been; she clouded his judgment, in more ways than one. But he'd remembered to tell her, remembered to ask, and whatever she wanted, he'd follow her lead. He halfway expected her to tell him that she had one in the pocket of her jacket, anyway.
"Customers wear condoms," she told him, and his heart rocketed up into his throat. "You're not a customer, Elliot."
"Good," he said. " 'cause I don't wanna be. If I'm gonna touch you, it's gonna be 'cause you want me to."
"I do," she said. "I want you to touch me."
And so he did. With lips and hands and reverent breaths he touched her, every inch of her he could reach, soaked in the heat of her, felt himself falling further and further into the rocking of her hips, lulling as the lap of waves upon the shore. He touched her, and with every sigh, every gasp, every whimper that passed her lips he learned what she liked, what made her feel good, what made her happy, until his own need could no longer be denied, until she grew restless, and ready for him.
He let her do it, let her reach between them and wrap her hand around the base of his cock, let her lead him to her while his eyes held hers, watching, waiting. Slowly she dragged the head of his cock through her folds, and they both shivered at the sensation, as she painted him in her wetness, and prepared them both for what was to come. Every nerve in his body was crying out, begging him to sink himself inside her, but he waited, not wanting to move until she asked him to, until he knew that she was certain.
And she must have been, certain, because after a moment she lined him up at her center, and urged him forward, and then he was sinking into her slowly, falling into her. Her back arched as he breached her, and his mouth dropped to her breasts, panting against her skin while he tried to hold himself back, and take her slowly, until he was fully seated inside her and they were breathing together, the skin of their bellies sticky with sweat, clinging together.
It felt like heaven, lying there inside her. It felt strangely peaceful, alone in the dark in the dead of the night, the sounds of the city so far away they could barely hear anything apart from their own unsteady breaths, their own pounding hearts. Elliot leaned his weight on one elbow and reached for her with his free hand, gently brushed her hair back from her face, and watched her following the motion of his arm, her lips landing against the brand of his tattoo.
I love you, he thought, but the words stuck in his throat. Now was not the time to tell her. She wouldn't believe him if he did.
Her hands trailed over his back, her toes brushing over the taut muscles of his calves, her thighs cradling him close, and he had the thought then that he wanted to be closer to her still, as close as he could be. Carefully he wedged both arms beneath her in a semblance of an embrace, cupped her shoulders in his hands and crushed her against the broad plane of his chest, and she wrapped her arms around him, too, held on tight as he gave a careful thrust of his hips, drawing a sigh from both of them. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, and began to move, the mattress creaking beneath them, and she just held him, her hips rising as his retreated, silently pleading for his return.
He took her just like that, with their arms and legs wrapped around one another, clinging to one another, slow, and steady, and inexorable, his hips driving his length deeper, and deeper, and deeper within her, her hips angled to meet him, to take him, to welcome him home. Grunts and groans and soft pleading cries of yes filled the air in what passed for his bedroom, and as he grew more desperate the whole RV began to rock with the passion of his thrusts, and still they held on, her lips warm and wet just beneath his ear, his own pressing kisses to the column of her throat, as the raging fire of their desire blazed, and burned, and tore them both asunder.
"Gonna," he remembered to gasp when he was close, thinking she'd want him to pull out even as he thought that leaving the heat of her now might just kill him.
"Stay," she panted back, the embrace of her arms tightening against his back, one of her legs flinging over his, keeping him in place. "Please," she added, her voice so thick with need it almost sounded like she was about to cry. "So close," came next, a choking gasp, and then, "wanna feel you."
No, he wasn't a saint, and she had just asked for the very thing he wanted most of all.
"I'll stay," he breathed. "I'll stay."
And so he did. He stayed right where he was, cradling her, his hips surging between her soft thighs, his cock driving inside her, each pass of his hips grinding his body hard against her clit until at last her body arched beneath him, so taut with pleasure she could make no sound, her lips working wordlessly while her cunt fluttered and clenched at him and he gave into the pull of her desire, pounding recklessly into that trembling heat until he burst, and spilled himself inside her with a groan, his body gone white hot with pleasure, with relief, with joy.