A/N: This one is for the tumblr girlies
It was a feeling like falling. Like when he was a kid at Parris Island, eighteen and married with a baby at home to feed, the Gunny pushing him out the back of a soaring plane with a look of vindictive glee, and Elliot just plummeting, plummeting, his body moving too fast for his brain to catch up, at least for the first few seconds. The fall lasted longer than he thought it would and he remembered his training and instinct kicked in and saved him from ending up splattered on the ground like a puddle of wet paint. Maybe instinct would save him now; he hoped so, because Jesus, he was falling.
When he'd gone to Olivia's office earlier in the evening he hadn't know what to expect, really, same as he hadn't known what to expect the first time he went up in the air during his parachute training. He'd been gone six months, six long, painful months with no contact at all, save for a handful of sporadic text messages sent to her from his burner phone, assuring her that he was alive, that he was thinking of her, and then promptly deleted lest his mark discover them. She knew better than to respond, knew the risk of him receiving a personal message while he was in the middle of an op, and he just had to take it on faith that she'd seen the messages.
But what if she didn't? He'd asked himself on the journey to the 1-6; what if she thought he'd abandoned her again? What if his attempts to assuage her fears hadn't been enough? She was half - maybe three quarters - the reason why he'd taken the undercover assignment in the first place; Liv wasn't ready to let him hold her and he wanted it so bad he wasn't sure he could stop himself from trying, and he didn't want his reckless heart to scare her, to make her back away for good. It seemed to him that Liv needed some space to decide for herself what she wanted, and the undercover job was the only way he could give that space to her. He'd thought he was doing her a favor, but what if she hated him for it? What if she thought he was abandoning her again, what if she thought this was how he intended to live out his days, pulling close and then running away? What if she'd decided she didn't want him after all?
Those fears were quelled the moment he walked into her office. She'd been sitting behind her desk, hard at work, with the end of her pen caught between her teeth and her gaze fixed on her computer. She'd changed her hair; it was darker now, closer to the color it had been when they met, and he liked it, liked the richness of it, liked the way a lock of it tumbled smoothly across her forehead. What he liked more, though, was the white blouse she wore, and the way the collar of it dipped low enough to show off the enchanting line of her cleavage. What he liked most was the necklace she wore; a gold compass on a delicate chain, nestled safely in the soft warm crevice between her breasts. A rush of possessive pride surged through him at the sight of it, and when she looked up he was smiling, and that smile of his was hungry, and knowing, and she did not balk from it.
She'd smiled, too, called his name and risen to her feet. He'd thought for a moment she might come to him, hug him, but she didn't. She stayed behind her desk, kept it between them while they talked, and he'd wondered, at the time, if she felt like she needed that barrier, if the desk was the only thing that was gonna keep her from slapping him or kissing him or possibly both.
Now he was certain that was why she'd done it, because there wasn't a single barrier between them, and they were falling, flying, wheeling towards something cataclysmic.
Noah was out for the night, she'd told him, up in Woodstock for a long weekend, and she'd asked if he wanted a drink, and he'd said yes, and she'd told him she didn't feel up to fighting through the Friday night crowds at some bar where the music would be too loud for them to hear themselves speak. But I've got a nice bottle of red at home, if…
He'd said yes to that, too, and she'd driven them both across the city in her SUV, and they'd talked the whole time, quietly. About where he'd been, about Noah; a little bit about her, more than she'd been willing to share with him before he left, and he counted himself grateful for that, and tried to resist the urge to reach out and take hold of her hand.
I want to…I'm not ready.
It made a man doubt himself, seeing the woman he loved struggle so much with her desire for him. It made him feel like shit, actually, to know he'd hurt her so badly, that she could be so scared of him. He was supposed to be her best friend, and he loved her so fierce he ached with it, and she trembled in terror at the thought of letting him touch her. How do I fix this? That's what he'd been asking himself for the last six months, and he still didn't know the answer, so he kept his hands to himself in the car.
That restraint was harder to maintain once they reached her building. She had to park a block away, and the ground was wet, and he moved without thinking, maneuvered himself so his body was between her and the road, let his hand settle at the small of her back to guide her, support her, as they picked their way along the sidewalk. The gesture pulled them close, and she did not recoil from him, and when she moved her head he caught the faintest hint of lavender, and the ache inside his chest only intensified.
As they walked he watched her from the corner of his eye. Her profile was proud, and strong, and he wanted to trail his fingers along the line of her jaw, all the way to the sinful softness of her mouth. He wanted to know if her neck smelled of lavender, too, if it was her shampoo or lotion or perfume or what. He wanted to bury his face between her strong thighs and learn the smell of her, and his body burned at the thought of it.
The door to her building required a key card to unlock it; she swiped the card and he opened the door for her and when she brushed by him she looked up at him from beneath the thick fan of her eyelashes, and her eyes were wide and dark and blasphemous in their beauty, and his heart flipped over in his chest at the sight of them. For the last few years of their marriage he'd fucked Kathy with his eyes closed, not wanting to see blue eyes looking back at him when he knew he was dreaming of brown. The thought occurred to him that he'd fuck Olivia with his eyes wide open if he could, wouldn't want to miss a second of it, and he felt guilty for that thought even as it made his cock stir in his pants.
They had to wait, at the elevator. There was no need for his hand to linger at her back, no pretense to explain it when they weren't moving anymore, but he didn't want to stop touching her, and so he didn't. She turned to him, to ask him some question, but the movement didn't dislodge his hand; it only gave him the sensation of holding her, his arm wrapped around her waist, and she seemed to lean into him, and he never heard a word she said, too lost in the shine of her eyes, in the warmth of her beside him. Olivia didn't seem to mind; she just went quiet, looking up at him.
What is she thinking? That's what he needed to know. She was the one who'd invited him to her home, on a night when her son wouldn't be there. She was the one who'd asked to spend time alone with him, after six long months apart. She was the one still wearing the necklace he'd given her, close to her heart, close to the place where he longed to sink his mouth over her tender skin. There was no way, he thought, that she couldn't feel it, the longing bubbling up between them; she kept swaying into him, and it made him think about Ohio, about the weight of her in his arms, made him think about her arms around his neck, the way she'd trusted him to lift her up, made him think about her hand on his chest, his hand on her hip, their fingers intertwined. It made his heart race; Jesus, he might just keel over if he didn't find some way to release that tension, and soon.
The elevator doors opened, and a couple departed, hand-in-hand and smiling. That could be us, he thought. One day. One day she might let him take hold of her, and welcome it, and not pull away.
Her new apartment was on the sixth floor; not a long ride up, but not a short one, either. Elliot leaned back against the far wall of the elevator, watched her standing just beside him. Drank in the sight of her, hungry for her after so many months away. She looked good; she'd stopped wearing those bulky blazers with the pronounced shoulders, seemed to favor a more fitted look these days, and he was glad of it, because Jesus, the shape of her; she was the prettiest goddamn thing he'd ever seen. Hips, tits, ass, thighs; Liv had it all - had always had it all - and he wanted to feel it in his hands. Wanted to chart the course of her body with his palms, wanted to sink his fingers into the softness of her, wanted to feel her pretty arms, her pretty legs, wrapped around him, clutching at him -
Get ahold of yourself, he told himself firmly. The visions he was conjuring in his mind were sending all the blood in his body rushing south, and the tight jeans he was wearing wouldn't afford him any privacy. If she looked at him now he was pretty sure she'd notice something was up, but this was Olivia, it wasn't like she was gonna look at his cock -
She did. She did look at his cock.
He saw it happen; she leaned against the wall to his left, and crossed her arms over her chest, and drew his eyes to the swell of her tits, and he looked, God help him he looked. Soft, tanned skin, heavy and warm; it was impossible not to look. He caught himself, though, snapped his gaze up to her face, just in time to catch her staring at the seam of his jeans and the bulge of his cock inside them. She must have felt guilty, too, because she did the same thing he did, jerked her eyes up to his face in search of safer quarter, and when she found him looking at her, when she knew that she'd been caught, she actually blushed.
Fuck it, he thought. Fuck everything, really. Fuck waiting, fuck restraint, fuck the niceities and the courtesies and the polite dithering. Fuck him, for being stupid enough to leave her, and fuck her; Christ, he wanted to fuck her.
He pushed himself up off the wall, took two steps so that he was standing right in front of her, so close their chests were almost touching, and then he looked straight into her eyes, electricity crackling between them as he reached out, and pressed the emergency stop button, bringing the elevator to a sudden, shocking halt.
She did not gasp, or wilt, or try to put more space between them; she did not duck her head, or avoid his gaze, or ask him what the fuck he thought he was doing. So often - too often - since he'd been back she'd been reticent, hesitant, shying away from him, away from any conversation, any glance that made her feel too vulnerable, that demanded too much honesty from her. Not so, now; she stayed right where she was, arms crossed over her chest, looking up at him with something like a challenge, something like hope in her eyes.
"I missed you," Elliot told her roughly, raggedly. He reached out and gently stroked his knuckles over the rise of one of her delicate cheekbones, felt the warm softness of her skin, drank in her smile like wine.
"I got your messages," she answered. It was such a Liv sort of thing to say; she had no problem busting his balls but she struggled to give voice to her own feelings, would draw close to confession but always seemed to back away. Those messages; most of them had been innocent, toothless - I'm thinking about you or I'm doing ok, I hope you are, too, that sort of thing - but one of them, the last of them, had been different.
"All of 'em?" he asked.
"All of 'em."
I want you, that was the last message he'd sent to her. Drunk at four in the morning, bruised knuckles and blood under his fingernails from a nasty fight with a perp, he'd tumbled into the filthy cot that passed for his bed while he was away, took himself in hand, and thought about her until he came, and when he did he'd rolled over, and sent her a text. Three little words, whispered in the darkness, and he hadn't known before now if they ever found their mark.
Evidently they had, and evidently she wasn't offended by his boldness. The expression on her face; he kinda got the feeling she liked it.
"I told you I was coming back," he reminded her, still holding her gaze, want smoldering in the air they shared. They were playing with fire; the confined space of the elevator carriage and the unnatural way it had shuddered and stopped moving left Elliot feeling as if they'd stepped out of the flow of time altogether, as if the entire world had paused, stilled, stopped in its turning just to give them the chance to be alone with one another. Probably they could've had this conversation just as easily in her apartment, but he didn't think so. The minute they walked through the door she'd be distracted, occupy herself with pouring the wine and asking him questions; if they'd made it into her apartment she'd have put the island between them just like she'd done with the desk and maybe they would have ended the night as distant as they'd started. In the elevator there was no obstacle to stand in their way, no exit, no retreat, just them, together.
She uncrossed her arms, slowly, and it seemed like an invitation to him, so he reached out once more, this time letting his fingertips brush across the pendant of her necklace, still cradled between her tits. The gold was cool to the touch but her skin burned, and adrenaline flooded through him as he touched her, touched her in a place he'd only ever dreamed of touching her, as she let him.
"I know," she said, and maybe he just imagined it but it seemed to him that as she spoke she arched her back, just a little, just enough to push his fingers deeper into her cleavage, like she liked having his hand there, close to her heart, like she wanted it. "I was waiting for you."
How long had she waited for him the first time? How long had she held on, waiting for him to come back? Did she ever get the courtesy badge he sent her, the note? And if she did, what had she done with them? Did she understand why he'd chosen to send her the courtesy badge, a gift usually reserved for family members? Did she believe him, when he told her semper fi?
Always faithful; he had been, always, faithful to her, even if it didn't look like it from where she was standing.
"I'm home now."
"You are," she said, shooting him a look that seemed to say and what are you going to do about it?
"Olivia -" He spoke her name slowly, carefully; if she kept looking at him like that, pretty like that, if she didn't stop him he was gonna snap, and the last time he'd almost kissed her she'd been scared and it would kill him if he scared her now, but a man could only withstand so much temptation before he crumbled.
"I want to," she told him breathlessly. "I want you.'
That was all he needed to hear; all he'd ever wanted to hear, really. She was not shaking, she was not backing away, was not falling apart or wrestling with herself; she was steady and unflinching, watching him with eyes clear and unblinking, and he looked into those eyes as he gripped the chain of her necklace, looked into her eyes and drowned in them as he used his hold on the necklace to pull her close and finally, finally sank his mouth over hers.
It was a kiss a quarter century in the making, and as his lips touched hers for the very first time all the fury and the terror and the love, Jesus, the love that had defined every one of those years filled his lungs as she arched into him. Her hand flew up to cup the back of his neck, her nails scraping gently across his skin as she opened her mouth to him, and he groaned, desperate and needy, gave in and let his tongue surge between her parted lips to tangle with hers. They danced, for a moment, tongues sliding together, and then she chased after him, her tongue licking at the roof of his mouth, lips and teeth clashing, melding, as she sought to claim him with the same sort of ferocious possessiveness he felt towards her, and he grinned despite himself. Either she was ready or she was tired of waiting to be, but either way she was here, with him, not holding herself back, and later he'd ask her, ask her what had changed her mind, ask her what she needed from him; later he'd do everything he could to make her feel safe, but his cock had been slowly hardening since they stepped out of the car and the taste of her was driving every thought from his head.
There was something he wanted to do, something he'd been wanting to do for years, something he knew now that he could, and he did it, then, because she was kissing him, because she'd said she wanted him and sounded like she meant it. He leaned forward, pressed his body hard to hers, and caught hold of her ass with both hands. With a grunt he lifted her clean off the ground, and she laughed into his mouth as she moved with him, locked her perfect legs around his waist while he pressed her back to the elevator wall and dug his fingers hard into the swell of her ass.
"Show off," she murmured against his lips.
"You love it," he growled back.
"I really do," she agreed, and then she was kissing him again, and left his heart preening, pleased at having pleased her. It had been terrifying, carrying her out of that diner, knowing she'd been hit but not knowing how bad, blind and yet wholly responsible for her safety. This was different; lifting her up, holding her like this, it felt fucking good.
Better than good, because he could grind his aching hardness between her thighs and taste her tongue in his mouth, and her hair fell in a curtain around their faces, soft and warm and smelling of lavender, and Jesus, he had a feeling he was gonna get hard every time he walked by her for the foreseeable future, just remembering this moment.
He rolled his hips into her experimentally, his cock straining for her through too many layers of clothing, and they couldn't stay here in the elevator forever; there were only two in the building, and someone was gonna notice something was up - the emergency stop had to set an alarm off somewhere, didn't it? - and the sensation of running out of time only made him more eager to finish what they'd started. He didn't want to put her down, to feel the elevator lurch back into life, didn't want to walk down the corridor to her apartment with his cock screaming in his jeans, didn't want to try to recapture the heat of this moment behind her bedroom door. He wanted her now, right here, just like this, fast and hard and messy. But what did she want?
"Tell me to stop and I will," he growled against her mouth, though his hips were still rutting mindlessly against her. Olivia was moving, too, her arms around his neck, holding on for dear life while she tried to match the pace of his hips with her own, grinding down each time he pressed up, chasing the friction and the heat and fervent pressure they were building up between them.
"Don't stop," she gasped, nails digging into the back of his neck. "Please, don't stop."
There was a long standing joke among people who knew them, knew of them, unis and bosses and disgruntled colleagues. They liked to say that Benson held Stabler's leash, that Olivia was the one who kept her bulldog in line. It was true to a point; the people who talked shit about him never seemed to remember the time he'd pulled her bodily away from a dead suspect's wife, screaming, or the time he'd had to pick her up and throw her off a smug serial killer, or the time he'd followed her to Jersey in what could have been a career-ending defiance of orders. She might have held his leash, but he held hers, too. They kept each other in check, took turns being reasonable except for those rare and spectacular occasions when they flew off the handle together. He'd never touched her while they were partners because he was married, because the job forbade it, and maybe that was him holding them back, but he'd never touched her because she'd never allow it herself. The push and pull between them kept them both toeing the line.
But this time, this time he'd rushed headlong into her, and she'd opened her arms and told him don't stop. She'd let go of the leash, and so had he, and there would be no stopping them now.
He hitched her a little closer, close enough for him to rub his fingers over the seam that ran along the center of her cunt from behind even as he thrust into her from the front, and she buried her face in the crook of his neck, moaned her pleasure and then sank her teeth into his throat, worried a mark into his skin to keep herself from crying out, and fuck, that drove him crazy, the soft, needy sounds of pleasure from the back of her throat, the thought that she wanted to claim him, that he wanted to let her. She might as well mark his skin; she'd marked his heart indelibly long ago.
It took some doing but he rearranged himself, kept one hand anchored to her ass and pressed her back harder against the wall, let the wall do the bulk of the work of holding her up while his right hand drove between them, intent on finding the button of her pants. The second he had it unfastened his hand delved inside, fingers sliding against satin panties that made him curse, diving down, and down, until he found coarse curls and a slickness that made his cock twitch in his pants.
When his fingers found her folds she cast her head back on her shoulders and looked at him through hooded eyes, soft tits heaving with each of her ragged breaths. Her hair was mussed and the color was high in her cheeks and he wanted his mouth on her now, but first this, first his fingers gliding over the shape of her cunt while he looked into her eyes, and saw for himself the impact his touch had on her. There wasn't a lot of room to work, between her pants and his body pressed against her, but the natural curve of her sex seemed to draw his hand right where he wanted it, right where she wanted it, and the heel of his hand settled over her clit while two of his fingers traced around her entrance, hot and wet and beckoning him on. He'd never kissed her before tonight and now he was about to bury his fingers inside her and with anyone else it would've been too much too fast, but it was different, with her. They'd been building towards this moment from the night they met, every glancing touch, every darkened look building upon one another, and twenty five fucking years of foreplay had them both so ready there was no need to stop, to assess, to question.
He curled his fingers and let them slip inside her and watched, as her eyelashes fluttered, as she struggled to keep her eyes open, apparently wanting to see him in this moment as badly as he wanted to see her. He watched, saw her tits straining against her blouse, saw the necklace, his necklace, burning between them, saw her catch her bottom lip between her teeth, saw her hips, pressing towards him, asking silently for more. Olivia was rapturous, beautiful in her pleasure, and the silken clutch of her cunt around his fingers felt like heaven. The walls of her sex and the wetness he found there cradled him, welcomed him, seemed to be trying to suck him in deeper, and deeper, and he put the force of his hips behind his hand, used his entire body to thrust his fingers inside her, searching out the secret places that would make her scream when he touched her.
"Fuck," she hissed, "oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh, please."
Her voice sounded so pretty begging for him; he was dying to hear it again.
"Feel so good," he praised her, dropping his head to her chest. He wanted his mouth on her tits but her shirt was in the way and his hands were otherwise occupied, unable and unwilling to stop fucking her for the time it would take to bare her to him, knowing they couldn't afford that luxury just now, anyway. Instead he licked a strip along the curve of her breast, and sent two fingers curling inside her, and she moaned, a rich and throaty sound, and wrapped her hands around his head, cradled him in the sanctuary of her chest.
"Yeah," she panted at him breathlessly, unable to form more than that one word but trying still to encourage him.
As his fingers worked inside her the molten clutch of her cunt grew tighter, tighter, her entire body tensing with the lightning fast surge of her pleasure, and his wrist was aching from the pressure and the angle but he wasn't going to stop now, not for anything. He had his fingers inside her, inside Olivia, and she was whining, moaning, grinding against him, and he could taste the salty sweetness of her sweat on her skin, and it was everything, everything he'd been waiting for, for years beyond counting. It felt right, this sudden conflagration, this wanton display of need; she was his, and she was him, a part of him, the other half of his soul, and he was only whole, was only complete, when he was with her, and joining with her now, locking their bodies together as close as it was possible for two people to be, was a joy, a relief, a freedom the likes of which he had never known.
He wanted to bury his cock inside her more than he wanted his next breath, but there was something he had to do first, and he told her so.
"Wanna feel you come," he growled into the curve of her breast. "Wanna feel you come for me."
It was half an assurance and half a question; she was close already, he could feel it in the tightening muscles of her cunt, but she'd need something to push her over the edge, and he wanted to know what it was. He wanted to hear her tell him how to fuck her.
"More," was all she said, a demand, a plea, vaguer than he would have liked but enough for him to work with.
He shifted his hand, and then plunged three fingers into her, and tight, she was so tight, at first her body seemed to resist the intrusion but he could hear her breathless, desperate whimpers, and kept working his fingers until all three were buried deep within her, curling to drag against her pubic bone while his palm ground furiously over her clit and she keened, high and sweet. Close, he thought, they were closer now; he just needed to tip her over the edge.
He opened his mouth and sank his teeth into the curve of her breast, and she broke with a wail, her hands clawing at him while her pleasure rushed over them in a surge of wetness, her cunt locking so tight around him that it sent his fingers sliding back out of her, and he'd done it, he'd done it, he'd made her come, and he raised his head from her breast to watch the pleasure washing over her face while his heart sang with pride.
In his arms she was trembling, panting, dark eyes closed while she drifted away on the swell of her release. Beautiful, Jesus, she was beautiful in her abandon, still wearing all her clothes and somehow sexier for it. He wanted to touch her, wanted to brush her hair back from her face, but he could not release his hold on her ass and his fingers in her pants were too wet with her, and he would not smear that wetness through her beautiful hair, not now. Instead he drew his hand slowly away from her, and as he did she pouted, just a little, eyes fluttering open to watch him while she struggled to catch her breath.
Those eyes; they burned him, and he looked into that fire without flinching as he drew his dripping fingers up to his mouth, and licked them clean.
"Jesus," she swore at the sight of it, running her hand over the back of his head, down to clutch at his shoulder.
It should have been enough, this sudden fervent release, should have been enough to sate them, enough to tide them over until they could get to her bed and strip themselves bare. It should have been enough, but it wasn't, because the way she was looking at him now only intensified his need to bury his cock where his fingers had been.
Slowly he drew his fingers away from his mouth, let them come to rest on the softness of her bottom lip instead, fingertips leaving her mouth glossy with her slick and his spit, and she did not balk from the touch, did not turn away, but only opened her mouth, and drew his two fingers between her lips, her tongue running over them, cheeks hollowing just a little as she sucked at him gently, gently, and that only made him think about her perfect mouth wrapped around his cock, and probably that was exactly the effect she'd wanted to have on him. He groaned, and she smiled, triumphantly, and released his fingers, tilted her head back and let his hand fall to the curve of her throat.
"What do you need, Elliot?" she asked him. Not was that enough for you, or how are you feeling, or would you just fuck me, please? Olivia wanted to know what he needed, and she'd asked in a tone of voice that made him think she wanted to give it to him, whatever it was.
"You," he said, letting his forehead come to rest against hers, closing his eyes for a moment and trying to regain control of his wildly racing heart. "I need you, Liv."
"You have me," she assured him.
And he did. He had her, her heart, her compassion, her anger, had her gentle touch and her warm hands. Somehow, after everything he'd done, everything he'd put her through, he had her, still. And she had him, now and always; he had belonged to her from the very first, and no heartbreak, no passing of time or oceans between them had ever been enough to sever him from her.
A part of him longed to look once more into her eyes, and so he raised his head, looked down on her in wonder as she held him cradled between her thighs. He brushed her hair back from her face, and she pressed herself into his touch, her posture relaxed but enticing, her body loose and languid from her release and promising him still further reward, if only he was brave enough to push ahead.
"Take what you need, Elliot," she told him.
There was a beast inside him, feral and angry, possessive and arrogant; the beast had always been there, and Kathy had always hated it, but Olivia called to that beast, drew it forth, bared her neck to it. Take what you need; she knew what he needed, and she was offering it to him now, asking him to loose the beast, to sate his hunger, and he should have known it would be like this, should have known, maybe always had known, that if he ever got his hands on her they would be perfectly matched in every way.
What he needed was to see her, and he was through with waiting.
The white blouse she wore buttoned up the middle, and seemed a perfect place to start. With his eyes burning into hers he reached for the collar of her shirt, and with an almighty yank he ripped it apart down to her navel, the buttons tinkling against the floor of the elevator like rain on a rooftop. She gasped when he did it, surprised but not displeased, and did nothing to stop him, to shield herself from his hungry gaze. Beneath the blouse she wore a soft bra almost the same color as her skin, the cups cut low so that her breasts spilled deliciously above them, and he buried his face there at once, nosed aside the fabric and drew her flesh into his mouth, tongue laving her skin, sucking her into him with a heavy pressure that made her mewl. It was good, Christ, it was good, but it was not enough; the damn bra was in the way, and so he reached up and wrenched one of the cups aside, just far enough so that her breast spilled forward and he could suck her nipple into his mouth.
When he did she moaned, deep and needy, her hips rocking against his aching cock once more, and the sound only spurred him on. He worried the bud of her nipple between his teeth, bit and sucked and lapped at her until every breath that left her was a whimper of desperation.
"Fuck, Elliot, fuck, please-"
He'd never tire of hearing his name fall from her lips, never tire of that desperate please.
"Please what?" he grunted around a mouthful of her.
"Fuck me," she demanded.
That was an order he was all too willing to follow.
He straightened up and as he did her hands shot between them, fumbling with the button of his jeans, and he let her work, chose instead just to watch her, to memorize the sight of her like this, one breast hanging free from her ruined shirt, the mark of his mouth against her skin, a Polaroid taken in the depths of his mind to be pulled out and examined at will in quiet moments.
The second she got his jeans unzipped her hand delved inside to wrap around his shaft, and his hips surged forward of their own accord, rutting needfully into her grasp, and the smile that tore across her face then was triumphant, as his own had been. It made him feel like a God, when he found her soaking wet for him; maybe she felt the same, discovering him hard as marble for her.
"Need you," he managed to choke out.
"Please," she answered.
It took some doing; he had to set her on her feet to get her pants down off her hips, but he missed the weight of her in his arms, missed the warmth of her legs at his waist, and the second she pulled her left foot free of her trousers he hitched that leg back up around him, left her pants puddled around her right ankle on the floor. He shoved his own pants down off his hips, let them tangle around his feet - he didn't intend to move them, anyway - and then he froze, for a moment, the head of his cock poised at her entrance.
Is this really happening? He thought in a daze. It felt like a dream, Olivia half naked and wrapped around him, the heat of her cunt soaking his cock, the pair of them on the verge of coming together. It was a dream they had denied themselves for so long now that he found it hard to grasp the reality of it. Everything would change after this; or no, that was wrong. Everything had changed already, had changed the moment he kissed her. There was no turning back; no part of their lives would be the same, after this. And yet for once he found he welcomed change, this change in particular. No more hiding, no more running, no more looking at her and wanting her and yet knowing he could not have her. No more denial, no more lonesome yearning, and it was no wonder, really, that she hadn't been ready that night in her kitchen. She had known then what he knew now, that the moment they touched one another they would change the course of their relationship, of their futures, of their lives forever, and she had been right, he thought, to be cautious then. She had been right, to wait until she was ready, but she was ready now, and shit, so was he. He was ready to love her, with everything he had, openly and without hesitation.
"I love you," she blurted suddenly, and then blushed and looked away, somehow more ashamed by that confession than by anything else they'd done in this elevator. Elliot knew why, though. Elliot understood, because he had confessed his love to her in a moment of high emotion and immediately regretted it, not because it wasn't true but because he'd chosen precisely the wrong time to tell her. Maybe Olivia thought the timing was wrong now, too, but it wasn't. It really, really wasn't.
"Look at me," he demanded softly. He had one hand on her thigh, holding her leg up at his waist, and the other wrapped around his cock, preparing to thrust inside her, and so he could not touch her, could not lift her chin and force her to face him, but his words alone were sufficient to turn her gaze once more to his face.
"I love you," he said firmly, with conviction. "I love you."
"Show me," she whispered, eyes shining as if with unshed tears, open and needful.
And oh, he wanted to.
With eyes wide open, just like he promised himself, staring hard into hers, into their future, he moved slowly forward until the head of his cock slipped inside her. He stayed there, for a moment, just barely in her, rocking against her entrance and the cluster of nerves there that made her body sing for him, savoring every flicker of emotion on her face. Pleasure, and joy, rapturous and without fear, that was what he found in her, what she found in him, but it was not enough, not by half.
"Please," she whispered, and at her command he plunged himself inside her, buried his cock in her to the hilt, and they both groaned loud, too loud at the sensation.
There was no restraint in him nor her, not then. He pounded into her at a feverish pace, her body bouncing between the wall of the elevator at her back and the solid wall of his chest at her front, the heel of her boot digging into his ass as she tightened the grip of her leg around his waist. He dropped his head, panted and moaned his pleasure into the hollow of her throat, kissed and licked at her there, and she did the same, buried her face in the crook of his shoulder, her hands fisting in the back of his shirt and holding her tight to him.
With a mighty force he took her, pulled his hips back so she could feel every inch of him sliding through her sex and then slammed forward again, deep, so deep it made her scream, and surely someone could hear them, the banging of their bodies against the wall, the desperate cries of their pleasure, but Elliot felt no shame at the thought of it, only fucked her harder, proud at the thought that someone else might hear and know that he had done this, that he made this goddess of a woman scream in pleasure, that she had chosen him to love.
She could not find the breath to speak, but he did not need her to; her moans, her cries, the flutter of her sex around him told him all he needed to know, and he followed the entreating of her body, surged within her until both of their thighs were slick with their desire for one another, and close, he was close, faster than he would have liked but she didn't seem interested in slowing things down. Her teeth bit at him through the fabric of his shirt, her hands dropping to grip his bare ass, pulling him into her, and he took hold of her hips, pulled her down into him with each furious thrust of his body, ground himself against her clit, desperate to feel her come again, desperate to hear her call his name.
"Come on," he groaned at her. "Come on, baby, come on, come for me."
For me, the beast growled. Her pleasure, her wetness, her cries; he wanted it all for himself.
"Please," she said, and he did not know what she was asking for, but he knew what he wanted, and he gave it to her, then.
Still thrusting feverishly within her he raised his head, tangled his hand in her hair, and pulled her face away from his shoulder, held her up so that he could look into her eyes. Brown eyes, dark and desperate, the eyes he'd been dreaming of for so long now, not a dream but real, watching him as he fucked her, begging him silently to make her fall apart.
"Feel that," he gasped at her. Feel me fucking you. Feel us. It felt holy, to him. It felt as if their bodies had melted into one, a twisted, intricate thing, unbreakable, eternal. He felt closer to her in that moment than he had ever felt to God.
"Please," was all she could say.
"Anything for you."
He'd cut off his own arm and give it to her if she asked it of him. There was no piece of him she could not have. He lifted her up once more, helped her lock both her legs around his waist, and she cried out at the change in angle between them, and he groaned as she hooked her ankles together at his back, the movement tightening the eye-watering grip of her cunt around him. Both her arms looped around his neck, holding him tight, so tight, and he held her up with his hands once more clutched around the unbearable softness of her ass. Never once did the movement of his hips slow; he kept his cock pistoning inside her, kept grinding against her clit until with a sharp, ragged cry she broke, and the fluttering of her sex around his cock tore his own release from him.
With a groan he spilled himself inside her, thrusting still, as best he could between the trembling of his own body and the clenching of her cunt, fucking every last drop of their combined release back into her until the fury of their climax subsided. He leaned hard against her, her body sandwiched between him and the wall, and tried to remember how to breathe, nuzzling against her skin while his heart sang in his chest.
Mine, the beast whispered, pleased. Mine.
They could not remain there forever, much as he might have wanted to, and so finally, regretfully, he let her legs drop from around his waist, and grinned like a fool when he saw the mess he had made of her, her breast still hanging free, his come slipping slowly down her thighs.
"You're beautiful, you know that?" he said.
She smiled at him ruefully as if she did not agree, but her eyes flickered over him, took in the sight of his chest in the tight grey henley he wore, his flaccid cock hanging between his bare legs, and he thought he saw something like appreciation in her gaze.
"I think I'm too old for this," she told him as she began to tug her pants back on, wincing as if in response to a twinge at her back, or perhaps to the wet mess he'd left between her thighs.
"Nah," he told her, reaching for his own pants. "You're perfect."
And she was. She really was.
It took only a minute for them to get themselves dressed again, though Olivia's shirt was ruined. She pulled the halves of her blazer together to cover herself, and then looked up at him, something uncertain in her eyes.
"Are you ready?" he asked her, his finger hovering over the button that would restart the elevator, set the world to spinning once again.
"Hang on," she said, and then she raised herself up onto her toes, and kissed him once, a low, slow kiss, warm and wet and full of promise.
"Now I'm ready," she said as she pulled away, smiling.
Here goes nothing, Elliot thought, and then he pressed the button, and as the elevator shuddered back to life he wrapped his arm around her waist, and drew her close to him. In his embrace Olivia sighed, and rested her head on his shoulder, like she was comfortable, there with him. No longer afraid, no longer holding herself apart from him, she rested, safe with him, and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and made a silent promise then, to keep her safe and happy, to love her, for all the rest of his days.