Law and Order: SVU is the intellectual property of Dick Wolf. The use of the characters, settings, and plotlines is not malicious. This is a work of fiction.

Elliot, leaning up against the wall of his wife's office, stared at her as she popped three more chewable antacid tablets into her mouth. "That's starting to worry me," he told her, biting his lip.

"Well, not knowing what the fuck happened to this little girl is worrying me," she bit back, chomping the chalky bits left in her mouth. She rubbed her eyes and yawned, and then looked at her husband. "Did you find Eames?"

"Yeah," he said with a nod, moving closer to her. His hand toyed with the laces handing down from her grey hoodie, and he smiled, remembering the constant traveling the sweatshirt did from him to her and back again. "She couldn't remember anything, but, uh, she gave us access to her old files."

"And I'm guessing Goren told you the same thing," she said, her words filled with disgust and disdain.

"Only thing he remembers, for obvious reasons, is he met Sarah Bramson during that investigation," he said. "We already figured that out, anyway."

Olivia shook her head. "How could they not fucking remember!" she yelled, frustrated. "I remember every case, every victim..."

"So do I, Liv, but this unit...how can you not remember?" he questioned, and then he sighed and wrapped one arm around her. "No matter how hard we try to forget, we can't. In a way...I sort of envy them." Pausing to take a breath and a long look at his wife as he continued to roll the cotton laces of her sweatshirt between his fingers. "Oh, before I forget, we need to get Barba down here, because Ramirez..." the words were lost, forgotten.

Olivia raised an eyebrow at him. "You gonna finish that sentence, or are we gonna play charades, now?"

Chuckling, he tugged on the strings in his hand, towing her toward him. Letting go of the grey laces, his hands flew to her hips and he pulled her against him. He buried his head in her neck, moaned as he breathed her in, and let his other hand rest on the small of her back. "You smell amazing." He slid his hands back up to finger the ties from the hood again. "So amazing."

"I went downstairs and took a shower," she said, rolling her eyes. "That smell is industrial soap."

"No," he said, shaking his head. "It's you." He bent his head again and kissed her, moving his hands up to hold her face in them. "You." He closed his eyes and breathed her in, moaning softly, before dropping his lips to hers.

Stiffening before she relaxed into him, she held her breath, exhaling when his hands moved down to her shoulders. She kissed him back, losing herself, her arms looping around his neck. Her body pressed into his, her hips rolling against his firm frame. She ached for him; it was clear by the way she whimpered and clutched his collar.

"Work," he mumbled, as best as he could with her tongue in his mouth. He knew, at this point, it didn't matter. They'd gone far too long without some sort of physical contact between them, and the weight of the case was wearing them down emotionally. His hands traveled over her sides, around her waist, down her hips, landing on her ass. He squeezed and pressed her into him as he thrust, holding her still and close against his already-painful erection. He rocked into her again, earning moans from both of them as he backed her up into the soft, leather chair in the corner.

Her knees hit the cushion and she fell with an ungraceful plop into the chair. She was only given time enough to brush the hair out of her face and take a short breath before he was on top of her, one of his large hands working her pants buttons apart and the other yanking at his belt. His fingers tugged on the black leather and the silver buckle jingled. Grunting, he shimmied his hips, letting the slacks fall around them, and he laughed at the expression on Olivia's face, reacting to the fact he wasn't wearing anything under them. "Up," he commanded, and watched her hips rise off the chair. Eagerly, he licked his lips and and grabbed her pants, hooking his fingers around the elastic of her underwear and pulling down fast.

"Shouldn't be doing this," she said hoarsely, reaching for his tie and pulling him back up to her. "So fucking wrong," she breathed, feeling his dick prodding at her.

He gave a small thrust, groaning when he felt her wetness coat the tip of his cock. "Don't really care right now," he said, tightening his muscles and thrusting again, harder this time, slamming into her. He caught her cry in his mouth as he kissed her, just in time, and he began to move slowly, but with great force. Sliding his hands down her thighs, he curled his fingers round the backs of he knees and lifted, anchoring them around his back. He moved faster, harder, knowing they were already risking a lot, and they didn't have any time to bask in the warmth of the moment.

This wasn't about romance, it was pure, primal need. It had come out of nowhere, spurred on by a look and a kiss. She folded her fingers under his shirt, scratching at the skin of his lower back as he hit into her. She felt him deep, her head fell back and her mouth dropped open, a low, lyrical cry of his name spilled out. With two more thrusts, her back arched, her toes curled, and she picked her head back up to look at him. "Elliot."

"Fuck," his answer was, and his lips slanted over hers again, his hands now gripping the arms of the chair. He felt fire in his groin rising and a tightness in his balls that told him this was a long awaited release that his body couldn't wait for, and he had to make sure she'd go with him. He cursed into her sweet kiss, "Fuck, Liv, baby, please," and shifted his weight to one side, moving a hand between their bodies. He heard delicious sounds, skin slapping and wet squelches, every time he pulled out of her and rammed back into her, and his fingers finally met the source of such glorious music.

"Oh, my God," she yelped, her voice high, but soft. She felt his fingers swiping with lightning speed and thunderous force over her clit, and she dug her nails into his skin deeper, not noticing or caring if she was drawing blood. "El, oh, God."

"I don't like rushing this, baby, but...fuck, shit." He felt her pussy clamp and grasp, holding him prisoner as he tried like hell to keep moving. The pulsing of her body took over, dominating him, and he came harder than he thought he would. It was pent up, he realized, and with this fast and furious release, his body gave up everything it had. He pried his lips away from her as he shook against her, his muscles clenching.

She opened her eyes, as hard as was, and watched his face, the way his eyes changed, the way his lips fell into a round shape, the way his skin reddened. She felt his abs twitch against her body and she moaned, loving that moment, every time. "Elliot," she moaned softly as ripples of another orgasm, weaker but still intense, washing over her.

He stayed with her as long as he could, until he felt the blood begin to rush back through the rest of his body, and he laughed as he kissed her again. "Holy shit," he chuckled, backing away from her and holding himself upright. On wobbling legs, he stood and bent down to pick up his pants. He shook them a bit to keep the fabric from grazing his tender-to-touch cock, but as he zipped the fly, he moaned. "Fuck," he seethed, closing his eyes, feeling his dick twitching against the cold metal.

"What the hell was that," she panted, shoulders rising and falling with her quick breath. She wriggled her own work slacks back up and got to her feet. As she rebuttoned them, she felt still-warm wetness slide down her inner thigh. Rolling her eyes, she swiped a hand along the fabric of her pants and stared at her husband. "Bad, bad Sergeant," she scolded.

"Well, see," he began with a smirk, licking his lips arrogantly, "I needed that. So did you." He reached for her, pulled on her sweatshirt to straighten out some wrinkles, and kissed her softly, his fingers dancing through her hair as he swayed with her.

"Mmmm," she hummed, smiling against his slow kiss. "Now, you want romance?"

He nodded, tugging her hair just a touch. "Always." He pulled away from her, took a long, deep breath, and as he exhaled he said, "What were we talking about? Before..."

She laughed, cutting him off. "You came in here, told me Rollins and Amaro had Ramirez in the box..."

"Right, right," he said, grinning. "I told you Eames didn't remember anything but..."

"Gave us her network password," Olivia nodded, smiling. "You were gonna say something else but...we got a little distracted."

Elliot bit his lip, then, knowing he was about lose the relaxed, content wife and replace her with one very pissed off Captain. "Ramirez caved. He'll tell us everything but, uh, he wants a deal."

"Don't they all," she scoffed, folding her arms. The satisfied grin faded and in its vacated spot was a scowl. "What does he want?"

"He asked...Liv, he asked if we could guarantee his safety," he said. "This isn't a federal case, I know we can't put him in WitPro," he told her. "But he won't talk unless we figure something out. He said...he's got a lot of shit to give us, this goes much deeper than Valerie Bramson, and his life has already been threatened."

She narrowed her eyes, took a step toward Elliot, and asked, "Who threatened him?"

He ran a hand down his face, grinning and moaning just a bit because her scent was still lingering on his fingers. He composed himself, looked into her eyes, and said, "Bishop."

"Like the Bishop of the Church?" she asked, confused. "I didn't think...we know the nuns never knew anything, so how..."

"No, baby," he interrupted. "Detective Bishop." He gave her a severe glare. "You remember her? We had to throw a few cases her way when she was with Homicide? She, uh, she worked for Major Case for a while. Guess who her partner was?"

"Goren," Olivia said, her eyes widening, her arms folded.

He nodded. "Bingo, baby, and when Eames came back, she left the squad. Eames wouldn't work with anyone else." He smiled. "Whenever one of them left for any reason, they just...always came back to each other. Sound familiar?"

She rolled her eyes and swatted at him, but grew serious again. "Where is Bishop now?"

"That's the thing," he said, walking toward her office door. He grabbed the knob, turned, and as he pushed it open, he said, "No one fucking knows."

She gave him a wide-eyed scoff in response, and before she followed him out into the squad room, she grabbed the bottle of antacid off of her desk. She popped the top, tossed two tablets into her mouth, and walked with him as she chewed. "Shit," she sighed, and she narrowed her eyes, swearing to herself that the case would come to close. Tonight.

Peace and Love

Jo

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