Ahh, thanks so much for all the lovely feedback - it means the world.
"My friend Stephen owns a bar in London…"
"Whereabouts? London is a very big place."
They're wandering along the sidewalk, halfheartedly looking for somewhere to get a drink under the ongoing (and, frankly, infuriating) pretense of being 'friends' when all they really want to do is go back to a hotel room and fuck each other's brains out. At least, that's exactly how Fitz feels, and he's certain he's not misinterpreting the blatant desire written all over Olivia's face.
"I can't remember. Wait a minute."
She stops to dig her phone out of her purse and then makes a call. "Stephen, it's Liv… I'm fine, how are you? … I know, it's been far too long… Oh, shut up! You're such a flirt. Listen, I'm finally in London and I was wondering if… No I just want a drink, you pervert! What's the address of your bar?"
Fitz finds he doesn't like the sound of her laugh when it's for another man. Jealousy he has no right to feel rises inside him.
"Soho Square," she repeats, looking at him to confirm he knows where that is. He nods, changing their direction. "We'll see you soon," she says into her phone before hanging up.
"Who's Stephen?" he asks, uncaring that his tone is sharper than necessary. He can sense her staring at him as she struggles to keep up with his stride.
"You're jealous," she says, humor evident in her voice, and he can't argue with her. "Oh my god! Fitz, Stephen and I went to Yale together. He's like my brother; my flirt-with-anything-that-moves brother. And even if he was an ex-boyfriend or a fuck buddy or whatever, why would you be jealous, friend?"
He eyes her suspiciously. "Cute," he smirks. "That's very cute, Liv."
"What is?"
"The way you're trying to trick me into admitting I'm-"
"...What?"
He sighs. "I'm not playing this game. You're too good at it."
Now she is the one smirking. "I like being told I'm good at things. Do I get a gold star?"
"No."
"Fitz!"
"No. And stop pouting."
She laughs, another of those moments where she throws her head back in total abandon and Fitz has to fight the urge to pin her against the wall with his hips and graze his teeth against the sensitive skin of her throat. He's not sure how they're going to make it to the bar when he's so distracted by her he's barely concentrating on where they're going, and she reveals that this is her very first time in London.
"It's an amazing city," he tells her, relieved to have found a topic which isn't overflowing with sexual undertones. "I spent nine months here studying and I fell in love with it. I come back at least once a year."
"And now you live here."
He frowns at her, before realization dawns. "I suppose I do. But don't tell the Immigration Department - my visa is business only. I might get thrown in the Tower of London and beheaded in front of the Queen."
He loves that he can make her laugh. "I don't think you're that important," she teases, but her eyes tell him another story.
When they arrive in Soho they find that the place they're looking for is a rooftop bar, accessed by several flights of stairs. At the top, Olivia gives the bouncer her name and they are allowed to enter. Inside it's busy, packed full of Saturday night drinkers. The room is small and dark, all green leather and soft amber lighting, and the music is just low enough to allow for conversation. He can see over the crowd that the back wall opens onto a terrace.
After their coats are taken to the cloakroom by a member of staff, they make their way to the bar. The wall behind is stacked floor to ceiling with bottles on glass shelves and Fitz can't help but laugh when they get close enough to read the labels.
"What's so funny?"
"Liv, it's a whiskey bar - look."
She peers up and then turns to him, looking annoyed and adorable. "Let's go somewhere else."
"What about Stephen?"
He feels her elbow in his side. "Shut up."
The couple in front of them leaves with drinks in hand, allowing Fitz to guide her to the counter. They are right at the end of the bar next to the wall, and facing her with his back to the room in the low light it seems very private, as if they're in a world of their own. She perches on a stool and studies the cocktail menu while he quickly comes to realize he's in some kind of heaven. Maybe this Stephen isn't so bad after all.
"Ooh, they have vodka. I'm going to have a Cosmopolitan."
"No you're not." Fitz takes the menu from her and closes it, trying to ignore the way her indignant expression makes his cock twitch. "I am going to get you into real whiskey. This is the perfect place."
"But-"
"But nothing. Just trust me on this."
"Why?"
"Why?"
"Why should I trust you? What are you gonna do to me?" She's teasing him again, smiling with the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth. Instinctively he reaches out, using his thumb and index finger to gently push down on her chin. As her mouth opens she automatically retracts her tongue and he then closes her jaw again.
"Don't do that," he growls. "And don't ask why," he adds when she starts to protest.
They're caught in one another's gaze, hot and expectant. He traces his thumb over her lower lip. He can already read her expressions like a book: right now she feels amused, powerful and aroused.
"What are you going to do to me?" she asks again, her sweet voice rougher than he's ever heard it. Her breathing is becoming more irregular with every passing second.
Fitz considers her, studying her beautiful face. "Everything," he murmurs, unable and unwilling to control what he's saying in a moment which is so intimate, so nakedly honest. "I want to do everything to you, in every position, with every part of my body."
Her pupils dilate and the air shifts, suddenly heavy with sexual tension stronger than anything they've created so far. Fitz holds his breath, desperate to hear her reaction to his confession. After a long minute where she simply stares at him, she opens her mouth to speak - but at that very moment they are interrupted.
"Olivia Pope!"
It takes her a second to react - a second which feels like forever, given the circumstances - before she turns to greet her friend across the counter.
"Stephen, hi."
Fitz can hear the desire weighing down her voice; can see that her chest is still rising and falling rapidly. She quickly and subtly brushes her hand down his thigh, squeezing briefly just above his knee, and he knows - his words haven't freaked her out, they've turned her on. Emboldened by this, as he turns to face the bar he raises his right hand and brings it to rest on her lower back. It could just be a familiar gesture between friends but from the way she tenses at his touch, she knows better - as does he.
"How are you Liv? And who's this?"
Stephen is looking between them, his senses not yet adjusted to the unusual energy surrounding them. When Olivia doesn't speak - and her distraction makes Fitz smirk - he offers his own introduction.
"Fitz Grant."
"Stephen Finch."
He has to remove his right hand from her back to shake Stephen's, and when he returns it, he places it slightly higher so his thumb is now on her bare skin. He feels her shiver and it makes him hard. Touching a woman in public who is not his wife makes him hard and it shouldn't, but he has just passed the point of caring.
"This is a great place," Fitz says, trying to be polite when all he really wants to do is focus back on Olivia, to hear her thoughts on his earlier words.
"Thanks. You're a whiskey drinker?"
"Absolutely."
Stephen grins and Fitz finds that he likes the guy, despite his unintentional intrusion on the most exciting night of Fitz's life so far.
"Olivia hates whiskey. She was always a vodka girl, which I never understood. No character, no real flavor."
Their chat seems to have allowed her to regain some of her wits, because now she smiles at her friend. "It doesn't need to have flavor when you put it in a cocktail. If I want a drink with flavor, I turn to my old friends Merlot, Rioja and Pinot Noir."
Stephen rolls his eyes. "You were always the wine snob, even when we first met. How old were you then, nineteen?"
She turns to Fitz, her dark eyes alive with humor but still smoldering unmistakably with lust. "Once, when I was about five or six, my mother caught my father letting me try his wine. It was a 1972 French Merlot and it tasted like chocolate. I can still remember the look of horror on her face, and how I came downstairs the next morning to find my dad asleep on the couch."
"Well," Fitz says lightly, "not every mother wants to raise a child with an alcohol problem." He lifts his hand a little higher to touch more of her bare skin, slowly stroking his thumb back and forth across her spine. The shivers are coming thick and fast now, making her fidget in her seat.
"So, what can I get you two to drink?" Stephen claps his hands together, regaining their attention. "On the house, of course." Fitz can see now that he is starting to catch on to the vibe between them: his eyes narrowed ever so slightly; a smirk playing on his lips.
"I'd love to try your favorite Scotch," Fitz says, and then speaks for Olivia too. "And Liv will have a Cosmopolitan - but only if she agrees to try my drink first."
Despite the haze of arousal clouding her gaze, she manages to look affronted. "I don't want to try your whiskey. I don't like it."
"You don't know that yet. Remember what I said - you need to trust me."
"Fitz…"
He is vaguely aware that Stephen has retreated to make their drinks, and no doubt to give them a moment alone as well.
"…What are you doing? I thought we were just friends?"
She's not angry, but she's clearly confused and he can't blame her. He's been sending mixed signals all night. It's just… here, in this bar, among a crowd of strangers, with her exquisite body so responsive to his touch, his reservations are slipping away by the second. Why is he denying himself? He's still married, but on paper only. He's not trying to deceive his wife, to start an affair, to play away and then go back home and pretend it never happened. He's just… trying to be happy, for the first time in a long time. If she was just a pretty girl, he might be able to turn around and leave, even now. But he has this formidable feeling, deep in his gut, that Olivia Pope is special; that they were somehow destined for one another.
And he knows without a shadow of a doubt that if he walks away now, he will regret it until the day he dies.
"I thought so too," he sighs, his hand sliding down her back and around to rest on her hip. She's so warm, so sexy, and it's not enough. Touching her through her clothes won't ever be enough. "But I'm starting to forget the reasons why… Why did we agree on that?"
Stephen returns before she can answer, passing their drinks across the counter. "Here you go. This is Isle of Ismay Special Reserve. It's the best there is, in my humble opinion."
Fitz thanks him, lifting the glass first to the light and then to his nose. He's had this particular vintage before, a few years ago, and he remembers how excellent it is. The aroma is heavenly, but he's too distracted by Stephen's conversation with Olivia to fully appreciate it as he should.
"How long are you in town for, Liv? I'm afraid I've got to go and sort out an issue with tomorrow's delivery. Can we catch up another time?"
His gaze flicks between the two of them and Fitz knows there's no such delivery issue. Still, he's immeasurably grateful to Stephen in that moment.
"Of course. I'm here until Tuesday. I'll give you a call."
Stephen leans over the bar to kiss her cheek. "Be careful," he says, just loud enough for Fitz to hear. His gaze falls briefly onto Fitz's wedding ring before he smiles, and there's nothing malicious in his face - he's just looking out for his friend.
"Nice to meet you, Fitz. If you're ever in town again, come by and we can share a wee dram or two."
"I will do, thanks. Good to meet you too."
As soon as he's gone, Fitz turns to Olivia at the same time she turns to him, moving her whole body ninety degrees towards him on her seat. In their small space in the crowded bar, her knees are pressed against his thighs. He can smell her perfume again and it raises the hairs on the back of his neck. She lifts her martini glass to her lips, her eyes not leaving his, but he takes it from her and returns it to the counter.
"Uh uh. You're trying this first, remember?"
He holds out his tumbler which she eyes skeptically, making him chuckle at her adorable expression. "Just try it." He takes a sip himself, letting the alcohol flood his senses. It's even better than he remembers: the high and low notes, the taste of the oak; the slow burn at the back of his throat. "Mm. This is another of the finest whiskies in the world."
There is such blatant desire in Olivia's gaze now. He wonders if his expression was anything like hers when he watched her sip their Château Lafite before dinner. The memory adds more fuel to his simmering erection, and they're so close together she need only lift her hand towards him and she'd be touching it.
He watches, enraptured, as her gaze slowly falls towards his glass. She reaches for it, but instead of taking it from him she dips her index finger into the amber liquid and raises it to her mouth. Her eyes lock in on his again and suddenly there's nothing simmering - he's on fire.
"Do that again," he murmurs, his voice impossibly husky.
She does, but this time he takes her wrist in his free hand and brings her finger to his own lips. When he sucks it into his mouth, swirling his tongue over her, her eyes fall closed as her head tilts back. He barely hears her breath catch in her throat over the thundering of his heartbeat in his ears. God, she's so sweet. It's his first taste of her and he knows it won't be his last: he will devour every single inch of her.
"Finest in the world," he says again, pressing a kiss to her fingerprint before downing the rest of his drink in one go and discarding the glass on the bar, his gaze never leaving her face.
He lets his hands come to rest on her thighs. He's so aroused after having her in his mouth that he can't see anything but the shape of her body: the curve of her breasts, her tiny waist; the perfect width of her hips. He could fuck her in this position, if she opened her legs. He could slide his hands over her smooth skin, pushing up her dress; revealing her heat, her scent, her silky wetness. He wonders what panties she's wearing, and then imagines that she's not wearing any at all.
He can't remember ever being this hard before in his entire life.
"You have no idea how much I want you right now," he confesses, and there's so much longing in his voice. He's leaning in towards her, unable to stop himself; so close to just grabbing her and fucking her right here, right now.
"Fitz."
Fuck. The way she moans his name is too much. He grips her legs, their mouths just inches apart now. In a last-ditch attempt to regain some of his control, he closes his eyes and tries to think of anything to distract himself, to calm his blood.
"Do you still have that second cigarette?"
He looks at her again and she's nodding. He thinks he can see relief on her face and he knows exactly how she feels - they both need a minute to be able to breathe again. "Let's go outside."
It's almost midnight and fully dark, but this terrace is also illuminated by lamps. It's busy out here, too. The view of the London skyline would be magnificent if only either of them had the capacity to appreciate it.
Instead he leans against the railing and watches as Olivia approaches a group of well-dressed young men. "Hey guys, can I trouble you for a light? My husband's lighter just broke."
And then it happens: the universe suddenly diverges in front of him. He sees his life displayed before him - a life with Olivia Pope as his wife. He could run for Governor, Senator, President with her by his side. She would become his First Lady. Every night he would get to go home to her: to undress her; to make love to her; to curl his body around hers as they sleep. He even imagines how she would look pregnant with his child: dressed in a tank top and shorts, straddling his lap on their couch; sliding her fingers into his hair and giggling as he kisses her neck, her chest, her baby bump.
He's simultaneously so desperately sad and so aroused he thinks he might explode.
"Why did you tell them I'm your husband?"
He sounds like he's about to cry and it's so embarrassing to be unable to contain himself; to have all his emotions, all his flaws, displayed right in front of her.
"Because…" She shrugs. "They're drunk City boys, and I didn't want them to hit on me."
She takes a drag of the cigarette but he snatches it from her, his need far greater. He's so agitated his hands are shaking. When he raises it to his lips and inhales, it's still moist from her mouth - and that's the end of everything he's ever known.
He clutches her bare arms, pulling her closer, careful not to burn her. "Tell me to stop and I'll stop," he says hoarsely, and this is it: the deep breath before the plunge. It's her last chance to escape, and he has to offer her that because he's terrified of the inferno he's about to release. It will be hot and frantic and utterly uncontrollable, and who knows what it will leave in its wake.
After this, it's a new world for them both.
"Just say the word, Livvie."
"No," she breathes, and the very last of her armor falls away. Looking into her eyes he can see all of her: every atom, every thought, every desire.
He can see himself, and it makes him brave.
"Fuck the cigarette," he growls. He tosses it to the floor and then he's kissing her.
