Something shattered in him, the moment her lips touched his. The iron bands of restraint that duty and honor had wrapped around his heart burst free at his first taste of her, and the beast he carried deep within his chest surged forth, hungry and vengeful. Hungry, that's what she made him feel; his hands tangled in her hair, drew her tight to him while his tongue plunged between her soft lips and her nails scraped trails of fire down the back of his neck. That hunger slammed them both back against her front door, her softness caught between the unyielding hardness of him at her front and the wood of the door behind her, but she did not try to push him away or tell him to stop; she moaned, and opened herself up to him.

Hungry, that's what he was; hungry for her, desperate for her, and her for him, their kisses wet and messy and bruising. Their hands were everywhere, both of them; Christ, he'd never known a kiss this frantic, a clinch this damning. In his embrace she clawed at him, her hands dragging over the back of his head, his neck, across his shoulders, rucking up his shirt so she could dig her nails into the skin at the small of his back, and he was no better. The robe she wore was satin, smooth and soft, and beneath it she was smoother, softer still, and he wanted her, every piece of her, his hands roving endlessly. From the waves of her thick, dark hair over the swell of her breast, the curve of her hip, the fullness of her ass, his hands traveled, and traveled, could not find a place to rest because he wanted all of her. Dragged her closer to him while she sank her teeth into his bottom lip, pawed at her with the frenetic desperation of a drowning man grasping for a buoy.

All, and now; there was no thought in him, no plan, no reason, only instinct, and the desperate hunger he felt for her. A part of him had known, had always known, that if he ever got his hands on her it would feel like this, all-consuming, a conflagration that would burn him down to ashes, and he'd always feared it, always been terrified at the thought of what he might do, what might become of him when he finally lost control. In the moment there was no fear; there was only her, the beauty and the heat and the siren song of her he could not deny.

Every move he made she matched him, her hands as eager to touch him as his were for her. Smooth palms sought out the skin of his back, danced beneath the waistband of his trousers, to tight to allow her much movement but not so tight he could not make out her intent. She wanted her hands on his ass, and even as she reached for him his own hands dove beneath her robe, and he groaned into her mouth when he found her utterly bare. Beneath the robe she wore nothing, no satin or silk or cotton separating his palms from the lush weight of her ass, and he clutched at her there, kneaded her flesh and ground her forward against the iron hardness of his cock, still trapped inside his trousers.

Maybe he should've spoken to her. Should've demanded that she tell him what she wanted from him, should've told her how good she felt, how beautiful she was, should've communicated somehow, some way, what he was feeling, what he meant to do next, but there were no words in his head, no plan in his heart, no breath in his lungs, and he didn't want to waste a second speaking when he could've been kissing her instead. With his tongue curling around her teeth he tore the sash from her robe, the black fluttering around her gentle as butterfly's wings and he did pull back, just for a second, just long enough to take in the sight of her, her heavy breasts, her soft belly - there, a voice seemed to whisper in the back of his mind, she carried her son there, and something possessive and needful roared loud as thunder in his head - the thatch of dark curls at her center, and shit. He had to be inside her.

Needed it, the way he'd never needed anything in his entire goddamn life, needed to hold her, to claim her, to join himself to her, to make it real. What they were, what they had always been; they had, always, been a matched set, a perfect compliment to one another, so much the same that it was inevitable, really, that they would one day find their way here, to the place where they could make their bodies one as their hearts always had been. He wanted to feel it, to feel the physical manifestation of the truth he'd known from the day they met her. Made for each other, that's what they were, meant for each other, destined, somehow, to join. That's where he belonged, inside of her; she'd been inside of him for damn near twenty years.

But before he unfastened his trousers and freed his aching hardness, before he wrapped her legs around his waist and buried himself inside her, he wanted to touch her. Wanted to know that she was as turned on and hungry as he was now, wanted to know if he could make her moan, scream, keen her pleasure, wanted to make her feel so goddamn good that she'd forget, if only for a moment, how fucking bad he'd made her feel in the past. Good, that's what he wanted to be; he wanted to be good, for her.

And he really, really wanted to know if she was wet.

He palmed her breast, pushed her back against the door, made a little room for him to work. Reached for her leg with his free hand, hitched it up around his hip, and when he was certain she'd continue to hold that position on her own, he drove his hand between her thighs. They watched it happen together, both of them gasping, breathless, their hips rocking mindlessly together, eyes locked on his hand, tucked between her legs, but as he worked he wrenched his gaze back up to her face. Watched the pleasure wash over her there as his thumb found the nub of her clit, as he worked her over with a frenzied pace. She threw her head back on her shoulders, bottom lip caught between her teeth as she mewled, fingers digging in hard to his shoulders, hips rocking, rocking, searching, seeking, asking wordlessly for more of him, all of him.

And he gave it to her, then, splayed his fingers across her sex and felt the wetness of her there, dragged his fingertips along the line of her folds and watched her. Watched the heaving of her breasts, one of them caught hard in the cages of his fingers, watched the shifting of her hips and the fluttering of her eyelashes. Watched her, Olivia, as good as naked and glorious to behold, more beautiful than he'd ever imagined, the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Two of his fingers plunged easily into her soaking cunt, into the tight satin grip of her body, and a guttural yeah burst forth from her lips, urging him on. Just that one word, yeah, the only word either of them had spoken since he promised to leave, since he broke that promise and slammed her back against the door. Just that one word, and it was all he needed, really. She liked it, liked it when he touched her like this; really liked it when he curled his fingers inside her, when he thrust hard and deep, and he couldn't stop, couldn't stop fucking his fingers into her, couldn't stop watching it, the way he disappeared inside her body, the way she accepted him, angled her hips and begged him for more.

Alive, that's what she made him feel. With his hands on her, in her, he was alive, his body electric with sensation. Sight, smell, touch, sound and taste, even, she overwhelmed his senses, made adrenaline course like lightning through his veins. This was what a man was meant to do, to feel, to live, not to watch the days pass him by in routine and hesitation, thinking and never acting; he was meant to do, to do this, to be with her in a moment of madness. Her keening cries, the satin softness of her cunt around his fingers, the wetness of her smeared over his palm, the diamond hard bud of her nipple between his fingertips, the taste of her kiss on his tongue, the staggering beauty of her face lost in pleasure; that was what a man lived for, what he stayed alive for.

"Close," she panted at him, not that he needed her to tell him; he could feel the orgasm barrelling towards her in the clenching of her sex around his fingers, in the tightness of her muscles. She'd stopped rocking against him, was only holding herself steady, letting him take and take from her, and he meant to take this, too, to rip the pleasure from her with the fevered thrusting of his hand. She was close, and he wanted to drag her over the edge, wanted to know, once and for all, what she looked like when she came, when she came because of him, because of how he'd made her feel. He wanted -

"Mommy?"

One little word, spoken in a soft and frightened voice, carrying down from the stairs behind them, was enough to shatter Elliot's world in an instant. They sprang apart from one another in precisely the same moment, in sync as ever. Elliot shoved his hands deep in his pockets and glanced over his shoulder, saw Noah standing at the top of the stairs rubbing at his bleary eyes with one hand and clutching a little stuffed elephant with the other. Olivia scrambled to pull her robe closed over herself, and glanced once at Elliot, something like shame in the depths of her dark eyes.

"I'm coming, sweet boy," she called to Noah, already making for the stairs. "Why don't you get back into bed? Mommy will be there in a second."

Noah hesitated for a moment, and guilt washed over Elliot in waves. How much had the boy seen? He was barely two years old, and so surely could not begin to understand what it was he'd caught his mother doing, but it must have scared him, to wake in the middle of the night and find a stranger in his home. That was all Elliot was to him, a stranger who did not belong. Olivia had a son who needed her, and Elliot…Christ. There were people who needed Elliot, too.

What have we done?

"We can't do this," Olivia whispered harshly as they stood together, watched her son turn away and disappear back down the hall.

"Liv -"

"You have a family, Elliot. We can't…we can't."

She was right, and he knew it. What kind of bastard was he, losing himself inside Olivia when he had a wife waiting for him at home? Kathy deserved better from him, sure, but Liv did, too. Liv didn't deserve this, didn't deserve to be dragged into his infidelity, to be made a party to his betrayal. Liv deserved more than a desperate fuck and the guilt that would follow after. She deserved someone who would love her, cherish her, someone who would not give her cause to feel such shame. Someone who would take care of her, the way he wanted to, the way he wasn't sure he could. Someone who would not hurt her, when he had hurt her so many times before.

"I'm sorry," he said brokenly. "Liv, I…I'm sorry."

"I'm going to put Noah to bed," she said heavily. She looked tired, all of a sudden. Worn out and weary, exhausted by the chaos of him. "I want you gone when I come back."

"I will be," he promised. "I'm going."

And he did; he waited, just for a second, watched her walking away from him, and then he opened her front door and disappeared into the night, his head hung low on his shoulders, his heart full of grief.