III:

It had been a hell of a week: a non-stop merry-go-round of shit. Between work and getting called up to the Bronx to handle abuelita and her identity fraud issues and a case getting casually dismissed for no damn good reason other than the judge was racist as fuck and didn't want a balsero (never mind that Rafael had been born in the United States and was just as legal as anyone else) trying the white rapist of a Latina woman, Rafael was just fucking done.

Which was why, when Benson had called him and been all, "So, I heard that Judge Dowd confused having a white prick with being a racist white prick," he had been reckless. Reckless and stupid. Reckless and stupid and now they were sitting across from each other at a restaurant.

It was like being on a date, only… it wasn't. It was more like a pity fuck, without the fucking. It was just pity. Which was so much worse, because he didn't want her pity or her commiseration at just how much the week had sucked and how horrible shit was.

He wanted her.

He wanted her with a fury that shocked him to the very core of his being, and the amount of effort it took to hide that was difficult to hide. So he gave up the pretense of even trying and let go.

Even in her work clothes, she was gorgeous. She'd opted for tight-fitting grey trousers with a pale pin-stripe, and a turquoise wrap top over a pale pink camisole and heeled boots. Her hair was pulled back, showing off the last of the bruises on her face – the scratches and scabs gone. Her smile was soft and radiant – one of those smiles – and her eyes sparkled with mirth as she related yet another story from the Manhattan squadroom.

He laughed at the appropriate moment, reached for his cocktail, and winced when the vodka concoction hit the back of his throat. He hadn't expected it to be so strong: or so sweet.

"You all right over there?" Benson asked gently.

"This tastes awful," he muttered.

She immediately took it and sipped it. "Not the best, but far from awful," she said. "I'll finish it if you don't want it."

"It's yours," he said with a sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. He paused and stared at her for a long moment, then said, "You're fucking gorgeous. You know that, right?"

Her smile vanished, replaced with hesitant shock. "I'm… not sure if that's meant to be a compliment or a complaint in that tone of voice, Barba," she replied.

"You know, I'm not sure either," he said. "You're always making jokes about your appearance and… you're beautiful, Benson. An absolute fucking knock-out. Ten of ten. It's all I can do to –" Rafael stopped himself short and looked away, knowing that a step too far would shatter the fragile calm between them.

They hadn't even known each other for two weeks and here he was, about to fuck it all up by propositioning her. She was going to hate him in the morning – if they got that far. If she didn't laugh him straight back to the Bronx for even thinking he was good enough to try to get into her pants.

But that wasn't all of it: he didn't just want to fuck her, to rid himself of the desire that was lodged in the base of his spine, screaming in the back of his brain for release. He wanted to know her. To understand her in a way that no one else did. He wanted so much more than just sex.

He wanted pleasure, yes, what man didn't? He was hard-wired for it, much to his shame. But as far as sex went, his needs were simple. Usually, his hand and some porn sufficed – at least, recently that had been the case, since he'd been entirely too busy to go out and actually interact with human beings on a high enough level to warrant touch and familiarity. And then Detective Benson had come along and crashed through all his walls, and –

Dear god, he wanted everything with her. Of course, saying that would just scare her right off, wouldn't it? He'd never felt like this – even with Yelina in his youth, when he'd been so passionate and full of life and the longing to make a life, the perfect existence, only to have it shattered in the span of an imperfect summer.

Would Benson destroy him the same way? Would he give so deeply of himself that this time, he would be lost completely?

"Barba?" she said softly, bringing him back to the table with a start.

"Sorry – I –"

She got up and came around the table to cradle his face gently in the palms of her hands. "Don't apologize," she said, giving him the gentlest of kisses on the lips. "I'll be right back." He looked over his shoulder, watching her as she went downstairs toward the ladies' room. His lips were still tingling where she had pressed her kiss to his mouth, and he was stunned that she had made such a move without…

The food was delivered to the table – a butter poached salmon filet and roasted potatoes with asparagus for him, and a garlic-crusted Cornish hen with cranberry wild rice and zucchini flowers for her – and he blinked when she slid back into her seat. He'd been truly convinced she wouldn't come back from the restrooms, since the exit was on the lower level and it would have been all too easy to run away. After all, he'd pushed a button that he couldn't possibly take back now.

"So… this looks good," she said. "Yours looks amazing, too."

"You're welcome to try mine," he said.

She smiled. "And you're welcome to try mine – on the provision that you stop calling me Benson when we're not working."

"What should I call you, then?"

"Olivia," she said. Then she paused, her fork partway to her mouth. "Better yet, why don't you call me Liv?"

"Liv," he said, the word foreign in his mouth, but gentle and soft.

She stared at him, unblinking, her lips parted, the tiniest whimper of a moan leaving them. He shifted in his seat, his pants becoming uncomfortably tight. Fuck. Abort. Mission abort.

"If… if we're going by first names, I can't just call you Barba," Liv said, her voice cutting through his arousal and finally hitting home in his brain.

"Rafael," he said quickly, by reflex.

"Do all your potential lovers call you Rafael?" she shot back.

He blinked at her, stunned. "Do you think I'm just trying to sleep with you?"

"I don't know what this," she gestured vaguely between them in a nebulous way, "between us is yet."

"It could be fireworks and then nothing," he threw out dismissively. "It could be a failure from the start. It could be anything we want it to be, Liv. Hell… it could be love. I don't want to sit on my ass, thinking about what ifs when I could be making you scream in pleasure."

She licked her lips and murmured, "You have a very tall opinion of your skills, Rafael."

"I think we're both very passionate people," he said simply. "Do you enjoy sex, Liv, or has working in sex crimes soured that for you? It hasn't for me – I just find myself tired of endlessly searching for the right partner." He looked her directly in the eyes, challenging her in that moment to rise to the bait.

It had been a hell of a week, and if she said no, if she turned him down flat, if she somehow, some way, did not have the same feelings that he did… dear god. His stomach clenched and he felt bile rising in his throat as he waited for her to respond to him.

"I enjoy sex," Liv said, her brown eyes never wavering from his. "Very much, in fact." She laid down her fork and carefully dabbed at her lips with her napkin, then leaned forward over her plate. "Rafael… I'm not sure this is a good idea."

"Oh, it's definitely not a good idea," he agreed. "In fact, it's probably the worst fucking idea I've ever had. It's going to absolutely blow up in our faces. But at the risk of you suing me for sexual harassment, Liv, I've had nearly two weeks of fantasizing about fucking you and I can't take it anymore. And you seem to –"

"Oh," she said, her eyes wide and not at all innocent. "Yes."

Rafael paused. "Yes as in –"

"Yes, as in… finish your dinner so we can leave," she said firmly.

The scent of coffee beans permeated every part of his apartment and Rafael didn't mind: in fact, he loved it so much, it had been part of the appeal in the first place. He paid $4500/mo for half of the upper floor of a three-story walk-up. The first floor was an open plan coffee shop, the second floor was the roasterie for the shop, and the third floor was comprised of two apartments: his and the owner's. He paid his rent on time, got free coffee from the shop, expertly roasted coffee beans whenever he wanted, and all of his things smelled like coffee: it was a win-win scenario.

Clearly, Liv thought so, too, because she inhaled like she'd stepped straight into heaven. "It smells wonderful in here," she breathed, smiling.

He grinned with pleasure at her approval and tucked his hands into his pockets, rocking on the balls of his feet. "I love it, too," he agreed. "It will be a sad day if I ever have to give this place up."

"I feel that – I've never been attached to an apartment or a house like that, though," she said. "I've always felt like… I don't know, it's always good to keep moving. I guess it's why I rent instead of own."

"Ugh, the market in this economy? Why would you want to own?" he scoffed. "You want some coffee, Liv? Or a nightcap?"

She came up to him and gently settled her hands on his shoulders, soothing his arms. She had to sense his nervous tension even across the room, because he was practically aching, vibrating with it. "Rafael… it's okay," Liv said with a small chuckle. "It's only me. You don't have to be perfect or… nice… or anything. You just need to be you. I like you."

"Why?" he shot back, making a face.

"Probably the same reason you think I'm beautiful," she teased, leaning in and ghosting the softest breath of a kiss against his lips.

"Don't tease, Liv," Rafael said, "please."

With that permission, she kissed him for real, and the floodgates opened. As he had predicted, they were both very passionate people, heated and intense, desperate to feel things with all of the strength of intention behind them. Kisses that bruised, gentle nips, hands scrambling for purchase on every curve of flesh, lips and tongues on the most intimate parts of each other's bodies, until the pleasure was too much for her to bear and she imploded with a high-pitched cry that wasn't a scream, but wasn't a wail, either, but somewhere in between. He smirked smugly at that: at having been the cause of such a delightful sound.

"I need you," Liv pleaded, her voice hoarse with the gruffness of desire. "Rafael, please."

He fumbled with a condom from the bedside drawer and sheathed himself with her enthusiastic participation and delighted smile. For as much of a talker as he was in every other situation, Rafael Barba was nearly silent during sex, preferring the silence of his own thoughts, his own pleasures, and the sounds of his partner's desires over an outward demonstration of verbosity. And as he helped shift Liv to straddle his hips, noting how the position change made her all but glow with delight, he knew – he knew – that he had given in to the most dangerous, lethal temptation of his life, and quite probably, he was lost for good.

She was good: every move, every motion, sent a surge of primal need through him. Rafael's right hand and Liv's left hand were clasped together tightly, their fingers threaded together. Her right hand was braced on his shoulder for leverage, while his left hand kneaded her ass and hip as she rode him harder and faster by the passing moment. He stared up at her while she stared down at him, neither refusing to break contact, and she kept smiling – damn her.

It was like a runaway train going off the tracks. He felt his orgasm building to a point he couldn't have stopped it if he'd tried, and stilled her, grinding his pelvis hard against her, crying out, gasping, unbelievable pleasure unfurling in his veins like an explosion of fire. "Fuck," he panted when he could breathe again. "Liv –"

She was laughing breathlessly, her body trembling against his as aftershocks still quivered through her. "Oh…" was all she managed.

Oh. Oh indeed.

He was in so much trouble. Danger, Will Robinson, Danger. Falling in love = a bad idea. Falling in love with a co-worker = a really bad idea. Falling in love with a co-worker who happens to be Olivia Benson = A Really Really Bad Idea.

Too bad he hadn't gotten the memo at the beginning of the week before everything went to hell and he'd fucked it all up.

Dear god, she was pretty when she was naked and still had that orgasmic glow…

"You are beautiful," he whispered, kissing the salty tang of her skin and breathing in her scent, holding her close beneath the sheet. He didn't expect a reply; she was already drowsy and pliant in his arms. He closed his eyes and tried for elusive sleep, surrounded by the smells of coffee, sex, and Olivia.

TBC...