AN: Mature content. Song lyrics from Donny Hathaway's "I Love You More Than You'll Ever Know"-feel free to play the song when it gets that part in the chapter to really set the mood. Please enjoy this chapter! Smooches!
Thirty-eight wasn't supposed to feel like this.
She wasn't supposed to be alone, having worked a full 14-hour day before returning to her apartment, opening a bottle of 1996 Château Latour Premier Cru Classé, and draining the whole bottle in the time it took the bathtub to fill.
Thirty-eight was supposed to be vibrant. Full of love and laughter and friends and fun and achievement and sex. Her twelve-year-old self would have said that it was supposed to be full of marriage, of babies, of pushing strollers and tying shoes and singing lullabies, though she isn't sure what to make of those dreams anymore.
If anything, her dreams are simpler now that her life has become increasingly more complex.
Happiness. Satisfaction. Commitment.
Simple words that hold harrowing truths.
She's not sure if she even has one of those things… Certainly not all three.
On her thirty-eighth birthday, she has a wonderful career. She has respect, broadly, nationally—if not, globally. She has friends, but they are also co-workers, and they are also messy and complex and have their own lives to deal with. She has a man, but he is not hers—is not, cannot be hers.
Because if he were hers, he would be here, climbing into the clawfoot tub adorned with bubbles and candles with her. He would be here, holding her and listening to her recount her day. He would be here, showering her with love and affection and getting chastised for making a big fuss about her birthday.
He would be here, whispering into her ear as he rocks inside of her for minutes that feel like hours. He would be here, telling her he loves every part of her, that he loves that she's a year older, that he can't wait to grow old with her by his side.
He would just be here, instead of miles away in the White House, lying in an ostentatious, palatial bedroom next to a woman he didn't love, in a marriage devoid of all connection, with responsibilities keeping him away from the one person that truly makes him feel alive.
It's almost too painful to bear, so she wills the thoughts away, focuses her energy on the task in front of her and strips her clothes off, climbing into the near-scalding, eucalyptus-scented water. As she sinks down, the water rushes over her, consumes her, calms her. It cleanses the negativity that seeps from her skin and while it doesn't erase it entirely, she lets herself believe that it's gone, only if momentarily.
Tonight, she will live in this moment, one step at a time, accepting the reality that exists, instead of coveting a life she does not and cannot have. If Olivia is honest with herself, she's not sure she can stomach the thought that she's getting another year older, still being the other woman, so instead of wrestling with that any more than she already does every other day, tonight, she just lets it go.
She lets the suds lull her into blissful ignorance as she closes her eyes and takes in the sounds of the sizzling bubbles and the Curtis Mayfield album playing in the distance. Her hands glide along her body, appreciating how beautiful and confident and sexy she feels on her thirty-eighth birthday. Not that she thought she wouldn't, but still.
Her fingers trace gentle paths, stroking over the muscles of her thighs, teasing her hardening nipples, trailing over her flat tummy, dipping between her legs. Pressing harder, she tries to find relief, tries to convince herself that this is what she needs. That she doesn't need those things that other people do, like commitment and happiness.
She needs strength and power and pleasure. So dutifully, she tries. Circles on her clit, thin fingers curling inside of herself, head swirling with thoughts of orgasms gone by. She thinks of being held in strong arms while he thrusts into her, of letting go of her insecurities and allowing his words—you're beautiful, so perfect, my everything—to surround and fulfill her, of his touch so strong yet gentle, sweet but filthy at times, perfect but never enough.
Everything leads back to him and makes her think of him and ignites the ever-present need that she has for him. It's too much and before she can even consider climaxing, her head is elsewhere—sad, depressed, lonely.
The bath is no longer relaxing or sexy, it's cold—a reminder that she's by herself tonight and he cannot be here with her, making her feel the way she wants.
To be fair to him, he did offer. Of course, he knew it was her birthday; he had called her first thing this morning, while Mellie was in the shower and she was still in bed, willing her body to get up. His voice was serene and loving, and for a second, she could close her eyes and imagine that he was there with her instead of over the phone. With her eyes shut tightly, she could pretend that he was spooned up behind her, whispering it in her ear before rolling her beneath him and showing her how much he loves her, rather than having to settle for words alone, whispered across a secure line.
However, when her eyes opened, the reality remained. At the time, he could sense her sadness and hear it in her voice, which prompted the offer.
"Let me come over tonight… I'll bring food and wine, and we'll celebrate together…"
The promise of togetherness. The hope of their fantasies. Always broken by reality.
So, instead of accepting his offer like she so desperately wanted, she had grounded the plane, returning them to earth, reminding him of his obligations—hosting the British Prime Minister at the White House, holding a summit on international cooperation the next morning, followed by a lavish state dinner to honor the foreign dignitaries in the evening.
It was her birthday, but he was still the president, and she wasn't going to be responsible for causing some international incident or deterioration of global relationships, just so he could come over and be her boyfriend.
Resigning to her self-sabotaged loneliness, she drains the bathtub before wrapping herself in a fluffy white towel and padding her way into the kitchen to open yet another bottle of impractically expensive wine—the bottles she saves for special occasions that never come, anniversaries that she doesn't get to celebrate, holidays that she thinks one day she won't be alone for. Tonight, she opens the bottles and chooses not to remind herself why she was saving them in the first place.
She decides to pick out something sexy to put on, determined to try again on the pursuit she started in the bathtub. Maybe after a few more glasses, inebriation will pacify her anxious brain and let her body find pleasure, so she slips into a pair of deep burgundy lace panties with their matching silk nightgown.
The satin slip is beautiful—one of her favorite articles she owns. The way it falls to the tops of her thighs, the way the thin straps hang at her shoulders, the way the neckline swoops down tantalizingly, the way the fabric clings to her breasts. She turns in the mirror, inspecting every angle, reminding herself of why she loves this piece so much.
Satisfied, she grabs her wine glass and heads to the couch to bury in and drink away her sadness. However as soon as she sinks into the cushion, she hears the far away ringing—not her home phone, not her personal phone. His phone.
It's in her nightstand when its chime sounds—the only place that she can put it away, out of reach so that it's not easily accessible in moments of vulnerability. So that she doesn't get sad and call him. So that she can't pick it up and ask him for things he can't give her when she's feeling weak, because she knows him well enough to know that if she asks, he will try. He's too blinded by her to think logically or realistically, and she knows that as fact.
But the phone is ringing, and before she can stop herself, she's sprinting. She crosses the living room, down the hallway, into her bedroom, and throws open the drawer, picking up the phone with shaky hands and answering with an even shakier voice.
"Hi."
Immediately, she wants to cry from the sound of his voice alone. It's soft and warm and everything she's wanted tonight but has fought valiantly against.
"Hi—" Her voice is betraying her, and she hates it.
"How are you, birthday girl?" He is full of smiles, she can tell, and as much as it breaks her heart, she tries to absorb every ounce of joy he gives her. She plops on her bed, phone in hand.
"I'm—" She could lie—she's pretty good at it—but knows that he can see right through her. There's no reason to lie when he can tell immediately. "I'm okay. Tonight is—it's just hard."
He hums sympathetically over the phone. "I wish I could make it better…you know I do…"
Of course, she does, but it doesn't make it any easier. "I know. I'm the one that told you not to try and come over here, so really, I'm okay. Was probably going to go to bed soon anyway…"
She hears him let out a chuckle. "My insomniac, going to bed before nine o' clock? No way…"
It's supposed to be a joke and any other time she probably would have chuckled along with him, sending a teasing retort back at him about his own poor sleep habits, but not tonight. She remains silent, and he instantly picks up on her mood.
"I'm sorry, Liv… You wanna tell me about your day?"
Focusing on her triumphs and failures of the day, they fall into simple, relaxed conversation. It's easy to concentrate on anything other than themselves, their relationship.
After she tells him about her cases, she's curious. "How's the PM?"
"Oh, he's fine. Our welcome reception was good—he wanted to go straight to bed afterward, so I've just been in the Oval working since then. I'm sort of glad the old bugger didn't want to linger and talk tonight—the staff had a million briefs for me to read tonight… I think they're worried about what I'm going to say tomorrow at the summit…"
That makes her laugh a bit—she knows most of the West Wing staffers and how erratic they think Fitz is these days. A loose cannon. "What are you going to say, Fitz?"
"Eh- nothing too inflammatory. Working toward opening new military bases overseas means I actually have to hold my tongue now…"
"Yeah, that's definitely one of your strengths," she teases.
"Hey- You're lucky it's your birthday… I'll let you get away with that tonight…"
The silence returns as they remember the score. He wants to be brave and take away her pain and whisper how much he loves her, how much he wishes he could be there, but he knows she doesn't want that right now.
"What did you do tonight?"
"Mmm, took a bath, drank some wine… considering ordering some food but it seems like a lot of effort so I probably won't. I was kind of serious about going to bed soon…" She glances at the clock on her nightstand. 8:42.
"Oh- okay. Are you getting tired? Do you want me to hang up?"
"No. I'm okay here…" She kicks her feet up, sliding fully onto her bed, wishing she could hide from the sting of separation in her pile of pillows.
"Liv, I'm sorry that I—"
"—please, don't Fitz. Don't… you don't need to do that—"
"Livvie…baby…"
He's pleading with her, trying to soothe her and, in turn she assumes, soothe himself and take away the guilt he feels for the burden that he has caused. It makes her angry, and all of the sudden, a flip switches inside of her. "I don't know what to say, Fitz. This is hard for me, but I know what I signed up for. I chose you, regardless of how insane it makes me. It fucking sucks—I'll be fine, but it just… sucks. Of course, I wish you were here. Of course, I don't want to be alone, but that's where we are…"
She feels like she's about to cry but she doesn't want to.
"Sweetheart, I'm—"
"I swear to god, please—I can't handle…"
"Okay, I'm dropping it… Let's talk about something else. Oh, I think… Did your record just finish?"
Furrowing her eyebrows, she focuses her ears, realizing that it had, in fact, switched off. "Um, yeah it did—"
"—why don't you go pick out a new album? One of your favorites? I want to hear it—"
She wants to question where he's going with this, but she doesn't–doesn't have the energy to. Hopping up from the bed, she scurries out into the living room and ducks down to look through her cupboard where her vinyl collection is kept. Her fingers trail through record after record as she recites them aloud for him to hear.
Nearing the end of the row, she's about to select the one she wants—Betty Wright's 'I Love The Way You Love'—when her heart stops. There's a rustle at the door, the sound of a key entering the lock, and her anxiety bubbles into her throat to the point that she can't even alert Fitz that someone is coming into her apartment.
"Livvie?"
She registers three things at once: the phone call disconnecting, the door opening, and a casually dressed Fitz entering her home. It's overwhelming.
He's here.
Before her brain catches up, he's shut the door behind himself, placed several different bags on the entry table, and turned to face her, his gentle grin lighting up his face.
What the fuck is he doing here?
How the fuck is he here?
Her head is spinning—the initial fear and the wine and the love she has for this man all culminating in a dizzying concoction. She doesn't have to ask the questions—not now—because all at once, she's in his arms, tucking her face into his neck and breathing him in. Dutifully, he holds her, rocks her side to side, clutches her body to his.
Then, she retreats, pulling back to look at him. In the next breath, she punches his shoulder hard.
"What the fuck did you do that for?! You scared the shit out of me!" She's hissing through her teeth, trying to seem menacing but she's so relieved, so blown-away to see him that she's having a hard time being truly upset with him.
Fitz smiles at her, rubbing his thumb across her cheek. "I'm sorry, Livvie…wanted to surprise you." Finally, he leans in to kiss her, and everything is right in the world again. "Happy birthday, sweetheart," he breaths against her lips, not daring to separate from her yet.
She hums in reply before sinking back into a kiss, open mouths and gentle brushes of their tongues together. Stepping backward, she pulls him with her, already angling for her bedroom, ready to show him how much she wants him, but he's going too slow. He cradles her jaw with both palms and pulls back to look at her—to admire her again.
Then, he shakes his head. "Not yet… I have other things I want to do with you first." Groaning, he lets his eyes roam her chest, admiring the little slip she has on and the way he can already see her nipples straining through its soft fabric. "And trust me–it's taking a lot for me to say that…God, you are gorgeous."
Taking her hand, Fitz leads her to the sofa, instructs her to sit, and shuffles back to the entry to grab the packages he brought with him. Surprises have never been her thing, and she finds herself eagerly scanning each bag to try and deduce what he's brought before he shows her.
The first is a slender bag, four times as tall as it is wide—she thinks she can guess what's in there. The next is a larger bag with Manon printed on it—her favorite restaurant. The third is a market style bag—it seems to be full of something bulky, she can't quite deduce what. The last is a gift bag, white with gold tissue paper sticking out the top.
Her heart aches because this was planned. She told him that he couldn't come, and she's never been happier for him to not listen to her.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you over the phone…" He murmurs softly while arranging the bags on the coffee table in front of her. "I wanted to surprise you, but I think I ended up making you even sadder, and that was never my intention—"
Quickly, she reaches across the sofa and kisses him, shutting him up from his apologies. He's not allowed to apologize when he's here like this.
Then, he begins motioning her through the packages.
She opens the tall, skinny bag first. It's what she assumed it would be…wine—a 1982 Château Pichon-Longueville Comtesse de Lalande.
Then, the market bag—flowers wrapped up in the most beautiful bouquet…peonies and hydrangeas and orchids.
Then, the food from Manon—coq au vin and soufflé…her absolute favorites. Her curiosity about the final bag is immense, but when he hears her stomach grumble, the take out containers are opened, and they begin to share delicious bites, being ridiculous–eating from the same fork, kissing intermittently just because they can, letting him steal drinks from her wine glass so that he doesn't have to get up to get his own.
Then, their meal is finished and it's time…the gift bag…as soon as it's in her hand, she registers how infrequently they do this. Besides her ring, Liv struggles to remember the last time he's given her a gift, and she instantly feels nervous. Sensing her anxiety, Fitz leans in and kisses her softly, wiping the shocked expression off her face.
"It's not much, and I don't ever get to spoil you…let me, please?"
She just smiles, shaking her head and nuzzling her nose against his. "You bought me a $500 bottle of wine…that would have been more than enough…"
Gesturing to the bag again, he relaxes back against the couch cushions and waits smugly for her to open it. She's tentative, pulling one piece of tissue paper out at a time, eyes glued to his as he watches her fondly. When she looks down in the bag, she's oddly surprised and amused at what she finds.
A little white box and a record.
The box is bigger than the last one he'd given her, so she doesn't worry too much about it and instead reaches for the album first. She thinks it's kind of random—he knows she loves music but it's not like they talk about it often. But then she notices it. She notices which album he picked out.
Donny Hathaway's Extension of a Man.
Her eyes burn, and a lump rises in her throat.
"Do you remember—" he starts, reading the reaction dancing across her face.
"—of course, I do—" she chokes out.
The campaign trail. The town hall. "I'm a man in love… with an incredible woman." She wouldn't acknowledge it for weeks afterward, even after they started sleeping together—if he didn't say the words, she could pretend they didn't exist. Then, Hathaway's voice in the hotel lobby. Eyes locked on each other, the music speaking for them. "…said I love you, more than you'll ever know." Then, the hotel room—she still wouldn't let him say it. But she let him play the song on her phone, whispering the lyrics over and over against her ear as they made love, pretending he was just singing the song. Pretending he didn't mean every single line he breathed against her neck.
It stands alone in her memory—the only song she's ever made love to and not been able to listen to again—it feels too sacred to listen to on her own, too monumental to listen to with anyone else. It's been years since she's listened to it for that very reason, but here it is in her hands—a mint condition, first pressing of the album with the song that feels like home.
This sweet, sentimental, thoughtful man.
He keeps her focused and urges her to open the remaining box but decidedly doesn't comment on the state of her quivering hands. Instead, he slides in close to her, to where the sides of their thighs are touching, his arm wrapping around her, his thumb stroking the silk at her waist. She pops off the lid to the box, coaxing the cloth pouch out, and dumping its contents into her palm.
It's a watch—a sleek gold design with diamonds studding the circular face. It's petite, not overly gaudy, but sophisticated and beautiful, nonetheless. Wordlessly, his hand comes to caress hers and flip the watch over delicately so that she can see the back that would rest against her skin.
More than you'll ever know.
Engraved in tiny, swirling letters. Secretive, private, just for her.
And it's too much. She cannot hold herself back anymore. She launches into his arms, into his lap, sitting sideways over his thighs, letting the watch fall against the pillows so that she can grasp his face and direct him where she wants him to go. Sighing against his lips, she dives in and moves in slow, sweeping motions. Their lips press, tongues intertwine, hands roam.
It's not until he's shushing her, guiding her face back into the safety of his shoulder when she realizes that she's crying, tears staining his cheeks along with hers. He holds her and lets her release all of the emotions that have been mounting in her this evening.
This love.
It's everything.
Even when she can't say it. Even when she doesn't let him say it. They both know how consuming the flames of their affection are.
Tapping her thigh, he helps her climb over him, rearranging herself and straddling his hips on the couch so that she can rest more comfortably on him. So that he can embrace every ounce of her–chest to chest. When her sobs subside, she tries once again to launch herself on him. The feelings, the vulnerability of this is too much and she needs to disconnect from her head. She needs the love to shut off and the heat to remain.
The heat is familiar. It's comfortable–hot, incredible, toe-curling heat. Between her thighs, it's easier to understand the feelings. It feels good and right and perfect. It feels safe and true and for once, it feels like her. It's easier to accept that those feelings come from the heat and not from love.
Love is soft. It's admitting when she needs him. It's admitting that as much as she fought it, this is exactly what she wanted. It's admitting that she's better with him. He makes her better.
As her fingers tug through his curls and her hips start their quick rolling grind over his, he realizes what she's trying to do. She's trying to make him go too fast, make him take her to the bed and pin her down and make her take it. And while he's more than happy to do that on most nights, he doesn't want it like that tonight.
He wants her, slow. He wants her love.
So his hands find her waist and slow her movements down. He sucks her bottom lip into his mouth as his palms grasp her ass, tugging her firmly to him and rocking his hips up slightly to meet hers, giving her the pressure against her core without the frantic tempo. She recognizes him trying to slow her down and for some reason–she's not sure what–she doesn't fight him on it anymore.
His lips trail down her neck, nipping her skin softly, sucking at her pulse point before finding her ear.
"I wanna listen to the song…" he murmurs quietly into her ear and her breath catches in her throat. They haven't since that night, but she nods her head, fighting back the tears again.
He stands up with her in his arms and lets her feet rest back on the floor, taking her hand and walking them both over to her record player. The album is put on, the machine turned on, and the needle placed about halfway in the middle of the disc–he had practiced beforehand to get the placement just right on their song.
The slow, soulful music begins filling the air, and as he stands back up and turns to her, he places a hand at the small of her back and intertwines their fingers together with the other, starting a soft sway. And in the living room of her tiny apartment with Olivia's head resting against the collar of his gray tee and their hips pressed together, they dance.
"If I ever leave you, baby
You can say I told you so
And if I ever hurt you
You know, I hurt myself as well
Is that any way for a man to carry on
Do you think I want my loved one gone"
Fitz's lips find her forehead and linger, pressing soft kisses, mumbling the words to the song, soaking them into her skin.
"Said I love you
More than you'll ever know"
His head turns to find her ear again and kisses its lobe, whispering delicately but deliberately to her.
"More than you'll ever know"
It's overwhelming–her head swims with memories. Memories of them together like this at state dinners gone by. Memories of this song and the fire it ignites in her belly. Lost memories that could have been hers if he wasn't married–listening to this song on their anniversary, a first dance at a wedding.
Before she lets the tears rise up again, she breaks the connection of their hands and reaches both arms up around his neck, clutching to him fervently.
"I'm not trying to be just any kind of man
No, I ain't
I'm just trying to be somebody
You can love, trust and understand"
She considers the truth of that–how trust and understanding have not been their fortes in the past. How much progress they've made together in recent years. How she does trust him and understand him on a level that many people don't, including his wife.
"I know, I know, I know that I can be
A part of you that no one else could see, yeah"
She doesn't know if she can take another year being the other woman, another year being a mistress, but also she doesn't know if she could ever go a year without him. Without his love. Without being his part that no one else gets to see.
"I love you
More than you'll ever know"
He needs to see her, so his fingers slide up her back before tangling in her hair and guiding her face away from him. Their eyes meet–soft and so sure–and as he gazes into her beautiful eyes, he pours every ounce of love into the words he says— he doesn't sing them, just speaks them to her, confidently. They aren't his words, but never have someone else's words felt more true.
"I said I love you
I love you, I love you, hey
Don't want nobody else but you"
When the song finishes, there's no slowing down for either of them now. Fitz connects their lips and begins to direct her toward the bedroom, only stopping briefly to press her against the wall in the hallway because the way she's kissing him, nipping his lips, and squeezing his ass, is making his head spin. Her back is against the wall and his erection is against her belly and it feels perfect.
It feels like them.
They make it to the bed finally, and she giggles when he picks her up and tosses her playfully onto it. She raises up onto her elbows, letting her thighs fall apart onto the mattress as he looks down at her wolfishly. When he finally glances down and notices her matching panties, he practically falls apart, groaning and dropping to his knees instantly.
With strong arms around her thighs, he tugs her body close to him so her core is level with his face. Her panties–as much as he loves them, and the sight of her in them is turning him on–are discarded to the floor and his mouth quickly replaces their pressure, diving in, lapping at her folds, swirling kisses at her clit, making love to her with his mouth.
She'll never get used to the way he goes down on her. Maybe it's the wine, maybe it's the fact he's surprised her, maybe it's the fact that it's her birthday and for once she feels special and celebrated. Maybe it's just the fact that he knows how to get her off with confident strokes and incredible sucks. Whatever it is, it's working for her.
She moans and gasps, clutching her fingers in his hair and wrapping her thighs over his shoulders, surrounding his head like he likes. When he slips two fingers into her, she's so wet that she hardly registers it until they've curled and pressed against her front wall, sending her hips flailing off the bed.
Easing his suction on her clit and fingering her with unhurried strokes, Fitz gazes up at her, finding her eyes watching his every move between her thighs. As he keeps her focus, he leans back in, kissing and nuzzling his lips against her cunt. It's so wildly erotic for some reason that she tosses her head back and groans.
It's her birthday, so he flips through his mental catalog of all of her favorite things–the things he does to her that make her wanton and desperate. He wants to give her all of them.
His lips trail down her thighs, rubbing the subtle stubble on his chin against the sensitive skin between her legs. Everything is tingly and she immediately cries out at the sensation.
"So, so pretty…" he whispers up at her. "So pretty on my fingers like this…"
She stares down at him, confidently, consumed with how sexy he makes her feel. Her hips start to roll and he immediately stills his fingers, watching as they disappear within her from her own movements alone.
"My god, Livvie… Such a good girl, fucking yourself on my hand like that…"
Her hips begin to move faster, and he can't deny her any longer. His thumb covers her clit and rubs perfect circles over her, and then she's coming on his hand, belly clenching and fingers tugging on the strands of hair at the back of his neck.
He softens his pressure, kissing across her hips and finding her hands before tangling their fingers together and helping her sit up on the bed as he stands and connects their lips. Darting her tongue out, she tastes herself on his–another one of her favorite things.
When he pulls back again, she immediately wishes that she could wear stuff like this more often for him…lingerie, silk and lace, sheer pieces of clothing that make his eyes darken. One hand leaves hers, and she grins up at him as he delicately traces gentle fingers along her nightgown–the hem at the tops of her thighs, the strap that had fallen off her shoulder in the midst of his attentions, the neckline that shows just enough of her cleavage to tease him.
He can't stop himself any longer and grips the bottom of the little dress, pulling it up and over her head, revealing every inch of her beautiful, bare skin before pushing her back down to the bed once again and crawling up her body. His kisses are unrelenting, every inch of her attainable–her belly, the soft skin of her ribs, her breasts, her collarbones.
She lets him devour her, rolling her hips up against him, and when her core meets the fabric of his jeans and leaves a wet spot against their zipper, she needs him undressed now. Her hands skim up his back, yank his shirt over his head, before gliding down his abdomen and making quick work of his belt buckle.
The way he's groaning against her lips makes her want to tease him a little more so she briefly cups his bulge, applying quick, firm pressure while she can, before he grabs her wrist and pins it against the bed next to her head.
"You are trouble, ma'am…"
Liv smiles warmly, sneakily up at him. "It's my birthday…"
"–Exactly… which means you are supposed to be good and let me take care of you…" He kicks off his pants and boxers before returning to his place on top of her and settling between her thighs.
"...but what if I want to take care of you? Don't I get what I want on my day?" Her grin is radiant and full of lightheartedness.
He hums, mock-considering her offer. "Hmm… nope. That's not how it works…"
"Oh okay… and how does it work, mister?" She lifts her thighs, crossing her ankles at the small of his back, rocking her bare cunt against his bare length.
"Well… I'll let you tell me how you want it…" His lips fall to her neck, peppering her skin with kisses and grinding his hips into hers, his cock sliding teasingly across her folds. "...and then I get to give it to you…only things that make you feel good…only for you tonight…"
And then, he's sliding inside of her–the perfect stretch, the perfect connection. It's incredible how it always feels like this–she's always so wet for him, always so ready for him to take her, to make love to her. He's inside of her but soon she realizes that his hips are still–he's not trying to move or thrust or roll his hips. He's…still.
She tries to use her leverage to rock her own hips up onto him, but the way he's pinning her to the bed makes it impossible.
"Fitz–"
"Yes, pretty girl?" He pushes up with his elbows on either side of her head.
"Would you just–c'mon–"
Shaking his head, he pecks her lips once more. "Nuh-uh… not until you tell me what you want…"
"You know what I want…" she groans, frustratedly.
"I haven't heard you tell me… you want it like this? On your back?"
"Yes, please–Fitz… want it like this…"
He chuckles against her lips at the haughty expression on her face. "I'm sorry, Livvie…it's just too fun to tease you…"
And with that, he starts rocking his hips into the delicious heat of her core, and they allow themselves to let go, living in the space between their lips and their connection, enjoying the way they embrace one another. The song comes back into her head and as her fingernails scrape along the plane of his back, she begins whimpering against his temple.
"Oh- Fitz…love you–"
Her breath comes out in stuttered pulses as he surges into her cunt, the tip of his cock grazing her cervix and heavy balls pounding against her ass as his pace quickens at her words. The sound of their love making is deafening, the slick sound of her, the slap of his skin, the labored sound of their panting.
He groans against her neck, continuing to fuck into her at the rate that he knows she loves, grunting praises against her skin–so good, feel so good on me, love you so much. Her breathing quickens–a tell-tale sign that she wants to come. Sneaking a hand between them, he helps her over the edge and she cries out, thighs trembling around his hips and cunt quivering around his cock.
When she relaxes and feels Fitz inside her–motionless, but still hard–she uses her hips to flip them over, pressing her breasts against his chest before sitting up. His cock has frustratingly slipped out of her, but as she straightens up above him and widens her thighs, he angles himself for her and when she feels him pressing against her entrance, she slowly sits back onto him, letting him fill her up again. Her pelvis is settled against him and while she doesn't always want it like this, tonight she does.
She's thirty-eight and she wants to show him how much she loves him. How much she loves how he makes her feel. How confident and sexy and beautiful she is with him.
So instead of laying down on top of him, she stays upright. He offers her his hands, and she immediately intertwines their fingers to help keep her balance as she begins to rock her hips forward and backward on him. She moves over him, chasing her own pleasure, letting him watch how her breasts sway with her movement and how her body rolls beautifully.
He groans, the eroticism of her body moving over him almost unbearable, their eye contact always intense when he's this deep inside of her. Lifting his knees and planting his feet on the bed, he delivers just the slightest increase in pressure and like that, she's climaxing again. He holds her upright with his hands until she comes down, relaxing.
Without another word, she falls forward, her hands resting against the bed on their side of his head as she begins to lengthen her own strokes. Feeling her start to bounce over him makes him lose all logical thought and begin fucking up into her quickly, and once he starts, he cannot control it.
Within the next three strokes, he growls, palming her hips to bring her down fully onto him as he starts to come deep inside of her. His hips stutter and thrust up into her, and his eyes nearly roll back into his head when he feels her hips start to circle lightly over him–the most satisfying overstimulation.
Finally, when it becomes too much, he lifts her off of his cock, sliding out of her and letting her cuddle into his chest, sated and satisfied. He chuckles when he feels her wiggle her hips, a puddle of cum forming against his groin as it trickles out of her. He'll get the tissues and help her clean up in a little bit, but really, he knows how unabashedly filthy she is–how she loves the feeling of his spend all over her, inside of her–and it's her birthday after all, so he leaves it for the time being.
"Thank you," she whispers sincerely, peering into his eyes.
Huffing a laugh, he kisses her forehead sweetly. "You're more than welcome, baby… You know I love doing that with you…"
She smiles sleepily. "No… I mean, yes thank you for the sex, but just…thank you for tonight. For…my birthday."
"Oh, well it's my pleasure. Love giving you everything you deserve. I'm sorry I can't do it more often–"
"Shhh, none of that tonight…" She kisses him once, twice, before looking at him with a both serious and sneaky expression. "I'm making you get your ass out of here soon–you've already been gone for far too long tonight–but can we…" Her voice trails off, questioning.
"One minute?" He asks, grinning stupidly at her.
"Yeah… one minute."
Her cheek rests against his chest, eyes closed and soft breaths blowing against his skin. It's quiet in her apartment, the record player turning off long ago, but the sound of a gorgeous voice breaks the silence, and he realizes that she's humming a familiar tune.
Said I love you…more than you'll ever know…
AN: Hello beautiful people! I hope you enjoyed this update! Let me know what you think :)