Day Fifteen

Day Fifteen

The sun's morning rise over the skyline slowly cast a spectacular kaleidoscope of colors sliding across Olivia's living room, its beauty unseen by the sleeping occupants. The vivid red and pink glow eventually gave way to the more familiar orange glare that always woke her, on the rare occasion that she wasn't already, or still, at work. On those odd days, she tended to roll over and bury her face in the pillow to block out the unwanted light.

Except this time, there was no pillow. Not that she was complaining. While lacking in the feathery softness of her chenille-covered throw pillows, the rock hard plane of Elliot's chest was far more soothing. She could only assume she'd passed out in his arms, crying herself to sleep while remaining oblivious to what was going on around her. Elliot's right hand rested on her hip. A quick visual check revealed no bruises or broken skin. Elliot's left arm was under her, his splinted hand stretched out somewhere behind her, but, as far as fighting was concerned, it was more or less useless in its current state. She knew Huang had left of his own accord, without needing the encouragement of a beating that Elliot probably wouldn't have wanted to give him anyway.

So while her insane response to Huang had no doubt made trouble for her future as a cop, at least she hadn't dragged Elliot into it. She hadn't really been threatened, and with the benefit of retrospect, Olivia realized her own fear had blinded her to the fact that Huang wasn't actually a mind-reader. Although the leaps in logic had been intuitive for her, since the horror of her paternity was never far from her mind, Huang only had what she'd give him, which at the moment, had been some bullshit about a childish tantrum over a thirty-year-old crush. God, she was a fucking idiot. A world-class jackass. Taking out her own inadequacy on the poor man who was trying to help her. If she ever got her gun back, she needed to shoot herself in the foot. It would be less disruptive and painful to the people around her.

Trying to shield herself from both her thoughts and the light, she angled her face up. Her cheek felt cold the moment she lift it from his shirt, but she quickly found warmth and shadow by burrowing her face against his neck. Elliot shifted slightly in his sleep, bringing his head down to rest on hers. That moment blocked the rest of the unwelcome sunshine and she sighed in contentment. The deep breath which followed was thick with Elliot's scent, sending a shiver of heat through her body.

She'd spent the previous five nights curled in Elliot's arms. Due to her recent bent toward hysteria, she'd spent a lot of the days there too. But she'd been scared, too upset to feel anything but comfort in his embrace. Well, mostly comfort with a helping of embarrassment at her own frailty and desperation.

But something had changed. Her inexplicably racing heart made her well aware of the fact. The idea of returning to sleep vanished from her mind so quickly that she wasn't sure if she'd ever meant to. Those other nights, days too, Elliot had been the first to pull away. If she happened to be asleep, he'd accidentally woken her when he got up. If she'd been awake, he'd pulled away, checking to make sure that she was ok before he suggested food or television or a shower or whatever random thing that might put space between them.

Wide awake, she had the chance to consider it, to review the evidence she had, to put the pieces together and see what the picture turned out to be. It was what she did. It was what she was good at. Her heart was pounding away, her palms were sweating, and the heat that had coursed through her settled uncomfortably between her legs. She didn't need to be a detective to know she was turned on, the perfectly sculpted body of her partner taunting her with its proximity. Flashes from that day forced their way to the surface of her mind, and she unwilling remembered the way his fingers had felt on her skin, the way his arms had surrounded her to both cage and protect her, the way his body felt against hers when he was inside of her.

She shivered again, hot and cold at the same time, recalling the brutal way he'd pounded his body into her, remembering the primal way he'd claimed her, almost feeling the way he'd cradled her in the moments after.

Her breath was coming in short pants and she had to lift her face, unable to pull enough air from the tiny space next to his neck to keep up with her excited body. His lips were so close to hers, his mouth slightly open, his breath fell against her face. She squeezed her eyes closed, meaning to get control of herself and instead only coming up with more sensations, the pressure of his mouth on hers, the taste of his tongue sliding into her mouth. It felt real, as though it were all happening again.

With a gasp, she realized the memories were just that – memories, despite the fact that they were so strong, so real, that her body was reacting just as quickly as it had to the real thing. No, there was no question at all in her mind that it hadn't been rape. Fuck, she was willing to reenact every last bit of it. She glanced at his eyes, still closed in sleep, and wondered if he'd mind being kissed awake. As a grin worked its way across her face, she knew better. She doubted there was a man on Earth who would object to being woken up by a woman straddling him who wanted to fuck him senseless.

Partners.

The word, the thought, hit her like a brick. They were partners, he'd said, nothing else. Nothing more.

So while he wouldn't mind a quick fuck to get him out of bed, she knew that was all it would be. If she offered, he would accept. A physical encounter would seal the deal. She'd be his best friend with benefits. Most of the time, they weren't very good at the friends part, so likely, she'd just be his benefits. His fuck buddy. And she wouldn't be able to blame him – they had a spoken agreement from a scant few days earlier. He didn't want more; he wanted to be friends.

Partners.

It ought to be a four-letter word.

She ducked down, trying to get a hold of herself, of her emotions, of her raging desire. While her body wouldn't care what deal they had, her mind would. Because without conscious thought, she'd resolved any uncertainty as to what she wanted from him. Because she had enough friends. She only needed to calm herself down and then she could sneak away from him. She wouldn't dare try while her cheeks were still flaming red from the idea of his touch; he'd managed to wake her every single day when he got up. And she wasn't ready to face him, not when the idea of looking in his eyes was enough to make her moan.

He stirred again, the fates laughing at her. His hand slipped from her hip, moving up to her waist, then around to her back where her shirt had twisted up, allowing his warm hand to skim across her bare skin. He mumbled something unintelligible, his chest rumbling under her ear. She looked up at his face, bracing herself for that moment of understanding when he knew what she wanted and waited for her to let them both have it. But his eyes were closed, and she could see them darting back and forth under his eyelids. He was dreaming, but she knew it wouldn't be for long.

She leaned back, deciding hiding her humiliation would be less unbearable if she was across the room rather than stretched against him when he realized it. His torso followed her, though, keeping them pressed together. And as if cautioning her against trying anything else, his leg did the same, sliding forward, over hers, securing her hips against his.

She knew what was coming and she tried to steel herself against it, but there was only a moment before she felt it, another involuntary movement of his body, the length of him hardening, enticing her, teasing her. She felt tears threatening and she tried one last time to keep herself from falling apart.

And just when she thought she had the strength to pull away, his face shifted closer to hers, her name escaping from his lips so softly she was pretty sure she was the one dreaming. Then his lips found her skin, lightly brushing her forehead, his breath causing her hair to flutter away from her face for a moment.

She couldn't help it. She couldn't. No one could have. It was entrapment, pure and simple. A low, desperate, almost pleading groan fell from her mouth, revealing every bit of the desire still wound up in her body. She was only human, forced into an impossible situation, so close to what she wanted to badly, knowing full well that she couldn't have it, at least not the way she wanted it.

Mortification was the least of her problems. She had to get away from him before she acted on her feelings, before she proved to him exactly how sick and depraved she was, before he realized he could do whatever he wanted to her body and she was pathetic enough to keep coming back for more even knowing that he only wanted her for sex.

But before she could move, his hand abandoned her back and blazed a trail to her neck, then her cheek. His coordination was decidedly better than any sleeping man she'd ever encountered and she recognized that fact, but it wasn't particularly helpful. Nor was knowing that she should run away helpful when that same hand slipped into her hair and titled her face up. There was only one thing that she noticed in the brief moment before his mouth closed over hers.

His clear blue eyes were wide open, the dilated pupils letting her know that he was well aware of her reaction to him, his possessive hold on her telling her that he didn't expect an argument.

Splintered.3