Long after Elliot left, long after the door closed behind him, long after she'd held her son close and sung a quiet lullaby to him, long after she'd tucked Noah once more into his little bed and kissed his little face, long after she'd laid herself down beneath the heavy blue duvet on her bed, the sensation of him lingered. Lingered in the furious pounding drumbeat of her heart, refusing to slow. Lingered in the goosebumps that dotted her skin, in the electrical buzzing of her frayed and yearning nerves. Lingered in the flush that colored her cheeks and the slickness between her thighs. Lingered like some goddamn disease that had laid dormant in her blood for the last four years only to surge once more into life, with a will, with a vengeance, intent on her destruction. Lingered in her thoughts that would not drift far from him, no matter how hard she tried to redirect herself.
She just couldn't stop; she'd crawled into bed still naked, knowing it was the wrong decision and doing it anyway, and the slide of the soft sheets against her bare skin enticed her every time she moved. Her lean thighs rubbed together and reminded her of the heat and hardness of him between them. Her hands ghosted across her bare belly and a shiver lanced through her at the memory of his rough palms against her skin. All she wanted was to sleep but her body would not let her, betrayed her, reminded her at every turn what she had been denied, what she had denied herself, and demanded some relief.
Paul had been attentive, earlier in the evening, made her fall apart with his mouth before he ever sank himself inside her, before he pursued his own pleasure in a sweet but too brief rut that left her unsatisfied. This thing between them was still so new, the pair of them still negotiating the way of things between them, and when he left she'd been thinking of getting herself off once more before bed, thinking about how to broach the topic of what she needed from him before he found himself in her bed again. She'd already been thinking about it, about the box of toys she'd bought herself in a fit of pique at Uncle Sam's expense, when Elliot turned up at her door, wild eyed and hungry; she was a little turned on and a little needy before he ever touched her, and once he had…Christ. His hands had become the match, lit the fuse of her desire and left her aflame.
Burning, she was burning, from the inside out, a heat of passion but also one of rage. She was the one who'd reached for him, the one who'd snapped, the one who gave in when she should have stood her ground, and she had no one to blame for the circumstances they found themselves in but herself. Maybe he'd crossed the line first, put his hands on her and talked about regret and stared her down with blazing eyes, but she'd told him to leave and he'd said he would. For her, he was willing to do that for her, willing to walk away just like she'd asked him to for the sake of her heart, never realizing that it was his deference to her that sealed their fate. How many times had he walked out on her now, left her shattered in his absence, each time insisting he'd done it for her sake? And there he'd stood on the cusp of doing it again, falling on his goddamn sword and leaving her because he thought it was what she wanted? In the moment everything seemed so clear; she knew that if she wanted him to stay she would have to ask for him. And she did ask, asked with insistent hands and fervent kisses, and he'd stayed, insinuated himself deep within the clutch of her body, and good, it felt so good, his hands, his kisses, the glorious fucking heat of him, felt better than anything she'd ever known, and if it weren't for Noah, if it weren't for that interruption, that last best chance to think things through, she'd have let him have her. All of her.
It was wrong, though. That was the problem, had always been the problem; what she felt, what he made her feel, was at odds with reality. In reality, she could not have him; he was married, and always would be, and she did not want to be that woman. The woman who fucked someone else's husband, the one who broke someone else's heart, the hammer that shattered someone else's family. The passion, the relief, the fervent joy she felt when Elliot touched her, it could not be real, not when it came at the cost of such ruin. That simple truth was the source of her rage, an impotent fury directed not so much at herself or even Elliot but instead at the trick of fate that introduced them to one another, bound them to one another, forced them into this hopeless dance that allowed them to find the briefest respite with one another, only to drown in shame and guilt after.
And yet, still she burned.
Just do it, she told herself miserably. It seemed the only way; if she could just find some relief perhaps the desperate clamoring of her body would quiet. If she could just come maybe then she'd be tired enough to sleep, and put this miserable night behind her. She'd done it countless times in the past, brought herself to a quick and quiet orgasm with some little battery operated treasure from her bedside table and slept deep and dreamless after, and she wanted - needed - help tonight.
She gave up; she gave in. Tossed back the blankets and rolled to the side of her bed, and pulled open the drawer of her bedside table. There were a number of toys inside; when the Marshals made her pack up her life she'd been given precious little time, and she'd had to be ruthless as she culled through her belongings. Her vibrators had not made the cut. But after a week or two in this house, alone and angry at the world, she'd used the credit card the Marshals gave her to buy an assortment of toys to replace the ones she'd lost. And since she wasn't the one paying, she'd picked the nice ones.
She didn't reach for the vibrators, though; that wasn't what she wanted, not really. The one she chose was long and thick, heavy and hard and made of glass. The glass was appealing, slick and smooth and cool to the touch, ridged all the way around in a way she knew would make her want to scream. With the toy clutched in her hands she stretched out on her back and slid it slowly between her legs, ran it once along her folds, let her own arousal paint the head of it before she began to slowly work it inside. She was keyed up now and had been for ages and didn't bother with any preamble, didn't reach for her own nipples or rub at her clit, just eased the toy inside her and gasped as it slid deeper, deeper, the ridges that circled down its length sparking like lightening deep inside her.
It wasn't a vibrator she wanted, thrumming silicone that moved in a way no human man could. What she wanted was Elliot, heavy and thick and deep, deep inside her, and this wasn't him but shit, it was close enough. With one hand wrapped around the base of the glass cock she began to thrust, not gentle and shallow and tentative like Paul had been, but deep and fast and rough. The way Elliot would've been, if she'd given him the chance. In the darkness behind her closed eyelids she tried to imagine it, Elliot's bulk above her, his arms around her, his cock driving deep within her, and she had to turn her face into the pillow, had to bite the fucking thing to stop herself from crying out as she continued to furiously fuck herself with the heavy glass cock that was not Elliot's, no matter how badly she might have wished it could be. Her body moved on instinct, her feet planted on the mattress, hips canted up to meet the fevered thrusts of the toy in her hand, and the coil of her desire wound ever tighter. It was overwhelming, the sensation of that ridged cock sliding through her wetness, the glass so slick now she could hardly keep her grip on it, every muscle in her body pulled taut, so taut she feared she might snap like a guitar string tuned too sharply.
Close, she was embarrassingly close embarrassingly quickly. The muscles of her arm burned as she struggled to keep up the relentless pace; there, she was right there, running right on the very edge. On the edge, but not toppling over, suspended in the agony of almost, an almost that stretched on, and on. She needed something more, just one little push to send her careening out into bliss, but she could not give it to herself; her free hand was clutched in the bedsheets and her body too tense to move it, too close to her release for the coordination a two-handed approach would require, and still she worked the glass deep, deep, deep inside her, as fast as she could, tears of desperation gathering in her eyes.
"Please," she gasped suddenly, pleading with no one, her sex clenching fecklessly around the ridges of glass, stars exploding behind her eyelids. "Please, please, please."
Sweat was beading on her brow and her body ached and still, she could not find her release. The tension would not abate, only grew, and grew, her belly coiled tight as a spring, pressure building, and building, and nowhere for it to go. Flashes of Elliot ran like a slideshow through her mind; his blue eyes, his strong hands, his lips, his hips, the way he growled when she sank her teeth into his bottom lip, but the vision of him would not resolve itself into a fantasy; he'd had his fingers inside her and still, somehow, she could not allow herself to imagine, to really imagine him fucking her, even when she wanted to. The endless climb towards an orgasm that seemed to drift further and further out of her reach no matter how hard she fought to grasp it became almost unbearable and all at once she gave up the fight. All but tore the toy out of her and tossed it away, shuddering, and as her hips sank back down against the mattress she curled onto her side and began to weep.
Christ, what a mess.
For twenty minutes he sat in his car at the end of her street, reciting Our Fathers like his life fucking depended on it, but it was still no use. No prayer would drive the thoughts of her from his head, and his cock was still so goddamn hard he didn't trust himself to drive. He couldn't go on like this, couldn't bring himself home to Kathy like this, aching with need of another woman. It wasn't romantic, he told himself, wasn't even a betrayal, not really; it was just practical. He had to find a way to sate this need, to clear his head, to bring him back to center. He wasn't proud of it, but he could see no other course, and so he pulled a wad of napkins out from the center console, and unzipped his pants.
Right there, in the front seat of his car, in the dead of night, he took himself in hand, and thought of Olivia, thought of the burning softness of her skin beneath his hands and the wet heat of her around his fingers, thought about her mouth and her dark eyes, thought of all the ways he would touch her if only life were kinder, and stroked himself until he spilled hot and wet across his fingers, her name a ragged curse on his lips.
Christ, he thought, dazed; what a mess.