She was tearing him apart from the inside out.

Everything he ever wanted right there in his hands and more beautiful than he'd ever imagined, sweeter than his sweetest dream, and yet it was wrong, and even as he gave in to the glory and the joy and the damning heat of her he knew he'd gone too far.

Let her go too far.

Christ, just that morning he'd looked at her over frying pans and eggs and told himself that only a monster would kiss her while she was in this state, and now here he sat, fifteen hours later, doing exactly that. Doing a hell of a lot more than that, actually, considering the way she was grinding on his lap and the way his hands, clenched hard around her ass, encouraged her to continue.

It was wrong, he knew it was wrong, but it felt so right, and even as he kissed her he could taste the brilliant smile she couldn't seem to shake. It was a precious thing, her smile, her happiness; she had been without a piece of happiness for so goddamn long, and how could he possibly take that from her, now that she'd finally found it? How could he be the one to break her heart, when the one thing she seemed to want most from him was the one thing he most wanted to give?

There was no roadmap, here. No clear answer, no guiding light. What seemed like gospel truth in the morning had turned to lies by nightfall; what seemed an unforgivable sin at daybreak became righteous in the dark. Confusion overwhelmed him; Olivia wasn't the only one who was lost.

Touch her now, because she asked him to; stop this now, because the old Olivia would've hated him for it. Which was right? Whose agency should he most respect, the woman in front of him or a ghost she could not recall? Was he even right, about the old Liv; now that they were both single and no longer partners would it have been such an impossibility, the pair of them sharing a kiss? For six long months he'd fallen asleep each night praying for the chance to make amends, dreaming in the dark about reaching for her hand; was this not precisely what he'd been dreaming about, just playing out in an unexpected way?

He didn't know, and with each passing second his thoughts grew hazier, instinct and need taking him over. On his lap, in his arms, she was a creature of delight, happy and insatiable, utterly unrestrained. Every impulse she had she acted on it, and he enjoyed every goddamn second of it. There was no way she could touch him that did not bring him bliss, no way she could move that did not make him harden for her. The grinding press of her hips, the heat of her spread wide over the thin fabric of his sweatpants, the softness of her ass against his palms, the intoxicating bounce of her heavy breasts, loose and free beneath her too-thin tank top, her nipples rubbing against his chest through two layers of fabric; she was everything he'd ever hoped, more than he ever dreamed. Most of all, she was happy, and knowing that he was the one who'd made her that way only left him eager to make her happier still.

There had been too much sorrow, too much grief, too much distance between them, for far too long. For seven long years he'd been searching for peace, for absolution, and he found it there in her arms. Whether she loved him now he could not say, but she wanted him, and in that moment wanting felt close enough to loving as to make no difference.

But she'd forgotten everything; how complete was that rending? Had she forgotten this, too, the way of things between men and women, what it meant when she felt him harden for her, what it would mean if she let him bury himself inside her? Did she have any idea what was supposed to happen next, or was she just chasing the sensation like a hormonal teenager with no thought for the consequences?

" 'Livia," he groaned her name into the sweetness of her neck, his face buried in the warmth of her while still she rocked and trembled on his lap.

"Don't tell me to slow down," she panted back at him, turning her nails into the hardness of his chest, pinning him in place beneath her.

"Just want to make sure you know where you're going," he grunted.

"I know," she said, and between the endless grind of her hips she reached down, slid her hand between them and palmed at his cock.

Jesus.

The touch of her hand broke through the haze of his arousal, brought him sharply back down to earth. He was too long an SVU detective, too much a Catholic, too in love with her to let this go too far.

His hand darted out, caught her by the wrist, and pulled her away from him.

"Elliot," she groaned his name in frustration, fire burning in her eyes as he tilted his head back to look at her.

"You don't want people telling you what to do, I get that," he said. "But this right here, this isn't just about you. This is about me, too, and I can't…you gotta know I want to, but I can't -"

With a huff she clambered off him, swayed on unsteady legs just in front of him, ran her fingers through her hair while his eyes roved endlessly over the heart stopping beauty of her. Those lean, powerful legs and the scars that peeked out at him from beneath the satin of her shorts; those hard, beguiling nipples, taunting him beneath the thin satin of her top; the heaving of her heavy breasts as she tried to bring her breathing under control; the anger simmering in those brown eyes he loved more than any other.

"Is this why we never slept together before?" she demanded. "Any time we got too close, you got cold feet?"

"No."

No, if they'd come anywhere near fucking before there wasn't a force on earth that could've stopped him. But this wasn't like before; she wasn't like before. This woman was half a stranger to him, and much as he longed to make her happy, much as his body was crying out, desperate to lose himself inside the warmth and wet of her, it wasn't right. Not like this.

"First of all," he growled at her. "If we're gonna do this, we're gonna do this in a bed, not on the couch. And I'm gonna take my goddamn time."

The impact of his words on her was immediate and undeniable; he saw her shiver with want, saw her away towards him, but he resisted the temptation of her.

"But second, we never got this close before. We've never…shit, Liv, until tonight I've never held your hand. Maybe this isn't moving too fast for you but it's damn sure too fast for me."

Too many changes all at once, and he felt himself in danger of losing control completely. He'd promised himself he wasn't gonna do that, sworn to himself that he was gonna be good for her, steady for her, that he was gonna be patient and thoughtful and all the things he'd never been before, and there was nothing good or steady or patient about this, about fucking her on the couch in the middle of the night just because it felt good.

"You said -"

"I said I'm always gonna want you and that's the fucking truth."

Right that very moment he was hard as marble and aching for her; it was not a question of want. It had never been a question of want.

"But if we're gonna do this, it's gotta be because you want me. Not just because you're excited or 'cause Malcolm's a dick and you wanna get one over on him or just 'cause it feels good. I gotta…you don't even know me, right now. And when I fuck you I wanna be damn sure you want me as much as I want you."

When, he said, not if.

When I fuck you.

Like it was a foregone conclusion, like he knew already that it was gonna happen. Such a small distinction; it wasn't enough to banish her frustration - and embarrassment - entirely, but it certainly took the edge off, made her cheeks flush with heat at the very thought. He said he was going to fuck her, and she remembered what that meant. Had discovered her own memories of the act right there in his lap, could recall now with stunning clarity the sensation of a man moving above her, below her, in her, and she knew just from the heat of his kisses that Elliot would make her feel just as good as she remembered in those hazy snatches of recollection. Better, even, probably.

But he wouldn't fuck her now, and she didn't know what to do about that.

Maybe he was right, about sex, about how she didn't get to decide for him what happened next. She'd been so focused on what she wanted, on defying the expectations of the men around her and making herself feel good, she'd all but forgotten to think about him. To think of his heart, of his memories, to think of him as a man flesh and bone and not just a means to an end. Maybe she'd been unkind; maybe she'd been using him.

"I do want you, though," she told him carefully, trying not to sound as bitter as she felt. "Just you. Because I like the way you look and the way you talk to me and the way you touch me. Not just 'cause you're here."

If all she wanted was a warm body beneath her she could've just as easily gone to Malcolm; it was Elliot she wanted. The heat and the danger and the comfort of him. It was Elliot her heart cried out for, Elliot her hands itched for, Elliot her sex clenched for. What she felt for him seemed to defy any explanation; she could only call it want, only call it need, but the pull she felt, the insistent tug of her body, her heart, drawing her ever closer to him, seemed to go beyond need, into a yearning so deep and profound she could not find the words for it. He thought she didn't know him well enough to want him; he was the only thing she did know, her attraction, her desire for him the one piece of herself that remained when all else had fled.

"You might like me better in a few days," he said. "You might like me less in a week. I don't want…I don't wanna be something you regret. And this, you and me? I don't want it to be a one time thing. I always thought…"

It was his turn to look shy; he looked away, unwilling to meet her gaze, unwilling to finish his confession. What was it, she wondered; what had he always thought about her?

"Tell me." She reached out, braced her hands on his shoulders and slipped one knee between his parted thighs, held herself poised halfway over him, daring him to touch her, to look her in the eye. His body tensed, but he did not rise to the bait.

"I always thought if you and I ever…if we ever did, that'd be it. For both of us. It'd be just you and me, forever. I still want that and I can't touch you while you don't."

Forever was such an awfully long time. She'd already promised forever to one man, to Ed, to her husband, and Ed had left her first. Could she ever give her forever to someone else, knowing he could throw it back in her teeth, leave her the same way Ed had done?

"I can't promise you forever," she said, "and I don't think I should have to."

"That's 'cause you don't remember," he told her, a smoldering heat in his voice, his eyes, that made her belly clench with need. "If you remembered me - us - you'd know it was always gonna be all or nothing for us."

Nothing, that's all they'd been before, and he wanted all now, but she wasn't ready to give that to him. Might not ever be.

"So what do you expect me to do?" she asked grimly. "While you're waiting around for me to remember something that might be gone forever? You won't touch me, so what, I should just ask Malcolm?"

Maybe it was petulant, throwing Malcolm back in his teeth, but she felt petulant just now, her pride smarting, frustration consuming her as she found herself once more denied a pleasure she had only just begun to understand, still so unsteady in this strange new world. However gently he had done it Elliot had hurt her, and there was a part of her that wanted to hurt him back.

"I don't want that bastard's hands anywhere near you," Elliot growled, his hands reaching possessively for her hips, drawing her in closer to him. "And I don't think you do either."

"Might feel good," she hummed, well aware that she was goading him and wanting to, anyway, just wanting to know if she could get a reaction out of him, just wanting to see the desire flashing in his eyes, just wanting to know that he wanted her, even if he wasn't willing to take her.

"You wanna know what feels good, why don't you touch yourself," his voice rumbled at her. "Find out what you like all by yourself so you don't have to ask anybody else to do it for you."

That idea had some merit, she thought. She remembered the contents of her bedside table, the strange devices she hadn't remembered yet knew instinctively what use they were meant for. Maybe he was right; maybe it would be less complicated if she explored this feeling on her own, without the messy entanglement of other people's emotions. Certainly less pressure than Malcolm's endless assertion of his authority over her, than Elliot's mouth full of forevers.

Still, though, she couldn't resist teasing him, poking at him as retribution for the embarrassment he made her feel when he told her no.

"You gonna help me with that?" she asked him, arching her back just a little, angling her hips towards him just to watch the way he swallowed, hard, his hands dropping from her hips to clench at his knees as if he was only just barely restraining himself from taking her right there.

"Christ," he grumbled. "No. I'm trying to do the right thing here and you're not making it easy."

Neither are you, she thought. It would've been so easy, if he'd just let her have her way. But he'd decided he wanted to be noble instead, and he was gonna have to suffer for it.

"Go to bed, Liv," he said, and to emphasize his words he slapped her ass, lightly, just enough to make her yelp. He used her momentary distraction to peel her away from him, and then rose slowly to his feet, towered over her but did not intimidate her, only looked down on her with eyes full of love for her.

"Please," he added, and at last, she relented.

"Good night, Elliot," she said, and then she lifted herself up onto her tiptoes, and kissed his cheek. While he stared at her in wonder she danced away from him, heading straight for her bed and the pretty pink rose she knew was gonna make her see stars.

He waited a whole half hour before he finally dared walk down the hallway, right by her closed bedroom door, to the bathroom. And though he promised himself he wasn't gonna, as he passed by her door he couldn't help but pause, listening intently for any sign of life on the other side. A faint rustle of bed sheets, the muffled buzz of some toy he couldn't let himself think about without losing control completely; he heard these things, and knew then that she'd taken his advice. By the time he reached the bathroom he was fully hard again, thoughts of her naked and writhing in her bed, touching herself, thinking about him, driving him mad until there was nothing else for it. He started the shower and stripped himself bare, and then he stepped beneath the burning spray, took his cock in hand, and stroked himself to completion with the vision of her burning behind his eyelids.

God help me, he thought. God help me.

The rose was good. The rose was very, very good; its vibrations electrified her, made her toes curl with want, but it was not enough. Every spark of sensation along her aching sex brought with it a waterfall of memories - of hands and voices and burning blue eyes, Ed's face swimming in her field of vision, morphing into Elliot's, and then shifting again into the faces of other men, men whose names she did not know but whose hands she could feel burning along her body in the almost-dream of her memories. It was those memories she chased, as much as she was chasing her current release; she wanted to know, to reach out and touch the ones who had once touched her.

In all of those memories there was a fullness she ached for now, a sense of completion that the rose alone would not bring her, and so while she kept that toy pressed hard to her clit she reached for the pink silicone cock, and sank it deep inside her own wet heat, and tried not to scream as the overwhelming sensation of it exploded through her body like fireworks.

That's it, gorgeous, she remembered a man's voice panting in her ear, not Elliot's voice but Ed's, the voice she recognized from the messages on her own phone. Just like that, the Ed in her memories praised her, and in the present she tried her best to just give in, to just let the furious heat of her body take her over, but still she lingered just on the edge of bliss, unable to tumble from the precipice no matter how hard she tried. Tears of frustration stung at the corners of her eyes; she was exhausted, and she wanted release, but still it seemed to dangle just out of reach.

Until she closed her eyes and focused her thoughts, not on the tumult of half-forgotten fucks that crowded through her fractured memory, but on him. On Elliot, as he had been tonight, hard and hot underneath her, Elliot's hands on her ass, Elliot's voice in her ear telling her when I fuck you. With the silicone cock plunging inside her and the rose vibrating madly against her clit she imagined it was Elliot taking her, filling her, tearing her apart, Elliot promising her forever, and the pleasure that rushed through her in that moment was so overpowering that she sank her teeth into the meat of her own arm to stop herself from crying out his name as she came undone. Panting and trembling she wrenched the slippery toys away from her overstimulated sex and lay boneless and naked in the tangled mess of her bedsheets, tears spilling down her cheeks though she couldn't say for certain what she was crying for.