Day Fifteen, cont'd

Day Fifteen, cont'd

Olivia had learned early in their relationship that disagreeing with Elliot achieved very little in the long run. Not that having that knowledge had ever stopped her in the past. But despite her sound reasoning of not wanting to give him the wrong idea or make him think she was ok with something that she was absolutely not ok with and regardless of the idea that she really did like the heated way he tended to respond when she fought him, her body sagged willingly against his as he deepened the kiss.

Sure, she loved their heated arguments, but if she were to be completely honest with herself, she'd always loved them because it was the most emotion she ever got him to direct at her and the only way she knew could force him to stare at her with his eyes so intense that she could melt.

So it was perfectly ok with her, sort of, that she'd found another way to get that same frightening intensity directed at her, even if his eyes were closed. And it was perfectly ok with her, at that moment, that she wasn't quite getting enough oxygen to her brain. In fact, that could well have been why she completely forgot all of her reasons for not wanting to do exactly what she was doing.

Which was kissing Elliot back with every bit as much fervor as he was kissing her.

Just like the other times he'd kissed her, just like the time he'd done far more, her cognitive skills were erased in a fraction of a second. They'd started to go when she'd seen his mouth moving toward hers, they were well on their way when his lips pressed against hers, and they were hardly even a memory when his tongue slipped between her lips. One of her arms was pinned between them; the other was trying to gain enough leverage to shift herself close to his face. Her hands were damn near useless, only able to tangle in the loose fabric of his shirt. Her legs didn't seem to be responding to her commands, possibly because the heat generated between them was enough to melt her brain.

She was reduced to sensation, feeling, touching, and she didn't mind. Elliot was more than happy to continue kissing her without any additional input from her. Somewhere in the back of her mind, the two brain cells which hadn't yet caught fire told her that because he was a man, he would be more than happy to continue right along as long as she didn't tell him to stop. And with his tongue sliding along hers, she wasn't exactly in a position to tell him to stop.

His hand, the uninjured one that wasn't pinned under her, was apparently much more responsive than Olivia's own had been. It reached around her, his long fingers burning trails across her skin when they hooked around her waist. Olivia had known from the first moment they'd met that Elliot was strong. She was fairly certain that the circumference of his chest had doubled in the intervening years, slowly changing him from someone who was deceptively strong for his size to a man who was unquestionably stronger than most. She'd even learned over the years not to think about his strength, for fear she would become frightened of how easily he could overpower her.

Except she'd faced that day already – that day when he was angry and she was out of her mind and he was able to do whatever he wanted to her. That day he'd given her what she'd wanted, what she'd been too afraid to ask for, what she was beginning to realize had nothing at all to do with the violence, and everything to do with the man.

She was thankful for that tremendous strength of his in that moment when he effortlessly pulled her over, shifting her weight from beside him, lifting her body to straddle him. The movement freed his pinned arm, which he used to pull her chest flush against his, perhaps forgetting in the moment that the sharp plastic edges of his splint would dig into her back. His other hand, the one that had lifted her so quickly, retreated to her hair, pulling her face tighter against his, hard enough that she started to wonder just how many bruises were bound to develop from the encounter.

For her part, with her arms free, she was able to participate. The slightly numb hand that had been supporting her moved around behind his neck, ready to hold him in place in case he tried to get away. The other trailed down his torso, searching blindly for the hem of his shirt, jerking it roughly upward so she could press her hand against his skin. Her legs responded instinctively, slipping open around his hips, pressing herself against his arousal.

And then he seemed to forget all about having just pulled her on top, or maybe he'd planned it all along, but it only took a second for his splinted arm to tighten, enough that she almost whimpered. She barely had time to register the motion before he was above her, one strong arm slowly lowering her to the ground while the other supported them both. She wanted to giggle for the chivalry he displayed, protecting while simultaneously attacking. Giggling would have required her to come up for air, though, and she had no intention of doing that. Not when Elliot had just taken control once again.

The few thoughts she did have, the ones that were meandering slowly through her mind, told her that for all the gentle cuddling and sweet reassurances, Elliot's aggressiveness was still very much present. While she'd been more or less stupefied when she was on top of him, barely able to do anything beside clumsily fumble for more contact between them, Elliot was considerably more coordinated. His mouth was still fastened to hers, kissing her with a force bound to at least make her sore. His weight had shifted to the elbow of his injured arm, while the other hand worked to yank her shirt up, pulling it from under her, around her arms, and between their faces in a brief moment of separation.

She realized that she should be thankful that he was so cooperative because she couldn't think beyond blinding need to have him touch her. There was something about him, his burning skin, his determined hands, his plundering mouth, that was much more effective than all the hot showers had been. No matter how hard she'd scrubbed under the steaming water, she'd never quite felt like she'd gotten rid of Howie.

But Elliot was changing that, melting away any remnants of Howie, removing the phantom touches she felt at night, scorching away all the filth Howie had left on her. Maybe, just maybe, she thought, if Elliot never, ever stopped touching her, she'd forget entirely about Howie's existence.

He shifted, his weight moving back as he tried to sit up, his hands tracing along her waist, aiming for her pants. But it broke the contact of their upper bodies and she wasn't about to let that stop. She clawed at him, finding enough of his shirt to clamp onto, attaching herself to him as he sat back. Olivia found herself on top once again, straddling his lap as he sagged back against the bottom of the couch. She wanted to laugh again, at her desperation, as his acceptance, but it wasn't funny. Not at all. Because she really was desperate, afraid that a bit of space would let him think, terrified that he might think better of touching her.

He seemed to read her mind, both of his arms wrapping around her, securing her upper half tightly against his as gravity held the rest of their bodies together. His mouth stayed against hers, their lips and tongues communicating for once in a way that both of them understood. His hands stayed still, frozen in place against her back.

It frustrated the hell out of her. She'd given in, let him start something she knew better than to let happen, agreed that loveless sex was better than no contact at all. And she'd be damned if he wasn't going to make her do all the work too. Still, she could deal with it. She knew what he wanted and she knew, provided she could regain voluntary control of her body, that she could give it to him.

But as she tried to pull back, attempting to put enough space between them that she could finagle his shirt free, she noticed that his arms weren't giving her any slack. None at all.

And the suddenly cold air on her wet lips clued her in on the fact that his mouth was no longer trying to steal the air from her lungs.

Perhaps because she was still slightly dazed from not getting enough air, she was more pliable than usual. Her body offered no resistance when his arm shifted up, pulling her shoulders against his, forcing her arms to wrap around him or be smashed between them. His mouth was no longer seeking hers, his face instead shifting to the side, his chin coming to rest on her shoulder. His hand brushing gently on the back of her head.

Her thoughts continued coming in slow motion, realizing that he was putting a stop to what she'd just given up part of herself to agree to. She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She'd decided it was worth it, after all, decided that sex was enough if that was all she could have. And then he took it away, as if when he'd fully woken, he'd realized who she was and what he was doing and that he didn't really want sex badly enough to have it with her. The tears welled up, but she made no sound, thoroughly mortified, wishing that he'd never found her, wanting to be back in Howie's basement where her imaginary Elliot would love her.

She heard his voice, slow and distant at first, and she knew he'd been speaking long before she'd noticed. She heard his words, turning them over and over in her head while she tried to comprehend them.

She stayed there in his arms, in his lap, her tears running down her face and dripping onto the back of the shirt he hadn't let her remove, wondering just what the hell he was so sorry for.

Splintered.3