Actions

Work Header

Not Going Anywhere

Work Text:

--

It has been a long day for Amanda Rollins.

She lets out a hard breath and rakes a hand through her hair as she arrives at her apartment door, juggling bags full of case files and fumbling for her keys. She turns the key over in the lock, pausing to listen as Sonny’s laugh and animated voice sound through the door. She smiles and pushes inside. “Hey,” she says, dropping her bags onto the dining table. She looks over to the couch with a smirk. “Having fun?”

“Oh, yeah,” Sonny replies with a grin. “We’ve been having a great night, haven’t we girls?”

She hates to admit it, but the sight of them makes her chest clench. Sonny is settled back into the corner of her sofa, swallowed up by the cushioning, Billie upright on one knee and Frannie’s head rested on the other, her body sprawled long next to him. Jessie sits at his feet, a mess of toys dotted across the floor, and she beams as she looks up at her mother. “Sonny let us bake biscotti!”

“Did he now,” she replies, cocking a brow at him. “Perhaps Sonny forgot how hyped up you two can get on sugar after 7pm…”

He lets out a sigh. “Jess, that was supposed to be a secret,” he says. “In fact, I’m pretty sure the whole thing was your idea, and now you’re just tryin’ to get me in trouble…”

Amanda suppresses a laugh as Jessie’s brow furrows and her jaw drops, and she launches to her feet with hands on hips. She is reminded instantly of herself, and by the smirk on Sonny’s face as he glances at her, so is he. “Am not,” she insists, proceeding to poke him in the chest. “It was your idea—you said it was your zia’s secret recipe and she would be disappointed if we didn’t make them…”

Sonny’s composure breaks at the young girl’s butchered pronunciation of ‘disappointed’ and he gives her a smile. “Alright, alright, it was my idea,” he replies playfully. Jessie watches him closely for a moment and then unceremoniously drops back to the floor to continue playing. Sonny catches Amanda’s eye. “Cop or lawyer…?”

Amanda shakes her head and turns toward the kitchen. “You’re teaching her well, whichever way it goes…”

She hears him shuffling behind her and suddenly he appears at her side, Billie on his hip. She has his smart watch in her hands, tiny fingers smearing the screen and eyes wide as she watches Mickey Mouse’s hands tick around the face of the clock.

“See, biscotti,” Sonny says, knocking on the glass jar on her counter that is filled with sticks of golden pastry. “Best served with vin santo…not child-friendly.”

Amanda grabs a mug from an overhead cupboard and tosses a teabag in. “You seriously made that while I was gone?”

He huffs a laugh. “Rollins, I was helpin’ make biscotti when I was four, I got it down,” he tells her. His expression sobers as he looks at her. “How’d your appointment go?”

It had been her first appointment back to see her therapist for months, after a short stint of sessions that ended before they truly began. “Fine,” she sighs, leaning her hips against the benchtop. “I guess…”

“You know they can find you someone different if you’re not happy—the sessions might be mandatory, but it’s your right to ask for someone else—”

“It was fine, Carisi,” she insists. “They ask a bunch of questions, I answer. Easy.”

He eyes her sceptically. “If you say so…”

She pours boiling water into her cup and watches her daughter, who is mesmerised by Sonny’s watch. She giggles at the animated screen and promptly shoves it into her mouth. Amanda groans. “Oh, God, Billie…” She scrunches her nose as she takes the watch from her grasp, handling it gingerly as it drips with saliva.

“Ah, it’s fine don’t even worry about it,” Sonny says, waving her off as she wipes it off with a cloth. “Nothin’ a baby wipe won’t fix...” She pats it dry and gives him a look. He shrugs. “She liked Mickey.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “If you had kids, you’d know not to give them expensive technology,” she tells him, sipping at her tea. He says nothing, his expression flickering, and for a moment she wonders if she has said the wrong thing. “Hey, thanks for looking after the girls when Sienna couldn’t. I know how busy you are…”

“Don’t mention it,” he replies. Billie leans her head into his chest and he rubs her back. “I haven’t seen ‘em as much lately so it was nice.”

It’s true—since he had left the department their time spent together had lessened, with evenings juggling kids, watching reality TV and making spaghetti growing less and less frequent. She watches him closely, in his dress pants and untucked shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, a sleepy toddler draped over him peacefully. Not for the first time, she muses how natural he looks—and instantly shoves the thought away. “Appreciate it,” she says with a tight smile.

Their eyes meet and for a split second, she feels everything come to a grinding halt, and she hates this feeling. She loves it, but she hates it—because it feels beyond her; too hard to process. He holds her gaze, and like always, she’s the one to break it. She clears her throat and inclines her head to her daughters. “Should get the girls down for the night…”

“Yeah,” he agrees, and looks across to Jessie. “Hey, Jess, remember our deal…”

She pouts up at him from the floor. “But Sonny…” He gives her a stern look and she instantly relents, stomping off to her bedroom. “Fine…

Amanda leans over to him, speaking under her breath. “Your deal…?”

“No can do, Rollins,” he says, moving toward the girls’ room. “That’s between Jessie, Billie and I…” She rolls her eyes and puts aside her tea, half-finished as always. Before she can follow them, Sonny adds: “Finish your tea—I’ve got this.”

“Well, since you’re offering, I’m going to shower,” she replies. “I’ll kiss them goodnight.”

There’s silliness and commotion that comes from the girls’ room and she laughs—Sonny has his hands full, a fact she is sure he’s aware of. She sneaks off to the bathroom, stripping off her clothes and tossing them into the hamper while she waits for the water to heat. The room fills with steam and she stands, cold on the tiles, her mind drifting from her day, to her appointment, to memories of Bucci, and finally to the man just beyond her bathroom door. Sonny had been at the squad room, on his way home at the end of a tough case, when Sienna had called up sick, and Amanda knew he was aware of the appointment she had that evening. Without hesitation, he put his hand up to look after her daughters, insisting she take all the time she needed.

Instantly, thoughts of their turbulent year flew to mind.

I would be fine if you were right here beside me!

Are we good?

I got you.

Hang in there, Dominick.

She huffs and climbs into the shower, bracing herself as the hot water stings her skin. The intense heat distracts her mind; a method she has used many times before to simply forget. She stands there, soap suds rinsing down the drain, and her heart begins to pound at the base of her throat. It chokes her, and suddenly the anxiety of her abduction—a word she detests—rushes back to her.

Nope,” she mutters to herself, turning the water off and leaping out to dry herself off. The feeling was all-too-familiar—something that had occurred numerous times a week since the incident.

It isn’t the fear of Bucci, or the fear of having a gun held to her head. It’s the fear of her girls being left all alone—that is what paralyses her.

She combs her wet hair through and tugs on sweats and a baggy t-shirt, making her way back out to say goodnight to her girls. She pads toward their bedroom, but when she hears Sonny’s voice speaking quietly, she stops at the open doorway. She leans in, listening closely.

“…and so, I went right out on that stage and played my guitar, in spite of what my dad said, in spite of how I felt about my face. I played my guitar because someone made me feel like I was special and wasn’t alone—and that’s how you should feel, Jess. You are so special, and you should never let what other kids say about you stop you.”

Amanda draws a hand to her throat, where her racing heart has calmed but instead tightens with emotion. Jessie had been bullied since starting kindergarten, and while her daughter was fierce and headstrong, she was also a sensitive soul—just like her mother.

“Momma says so too,” Jessie says, her voice thick with tiredness. “What happened then, Sonny? After the priest helped you feel better?”

Amanda shifts into the doorway, watching as he musses Jessie’s hair playfully and rises from the edge of her bed. In her cot alongside, Billie is fast asleep. “That’s a story for another time,” he tells her. “Night, Jess.”

“Goodnight, Sonny,” she replies, and he brushes past Amanda with a smile as he leaves the room.

Amanda crosses the room quietly and bends over the cot to place a kiss on Billie’s cheek. She moves to Jessie, whose eyes are heavy. “Can’t Sonny stay all the time Momma?” She mumbles. “He tells the best stories…”

Amanda tucks the covers around the young girl tightly. “I know he does,” she agrees with a chuckle. “But he has his own home.”

Jessie hums sadly. “Iskra’s daddy is really nice, and Eric has two mommas.” She gazes up at her, fighting sleep. Amanda knew this was coming—it always did when Sonny visited. “Can’t Sonny stay and be our daddy?”

Amanda bites the inside of her cheek and gives her a tight smile—this was easier than the time Jessie had asked her ‘don’t you love Sonny’, and Amanda had fumbled over her reply. She glances back over her shoulder, suddenly conscious of Sonny perhaps lingering in the doorway, as she had moments earlier. “It’s just us for now, Jess,” she says, because somehow, telling her no didn’t feel right, either. She kisses her cheek. “Goodnight, baby.”

She turns on their nightlight and say goodnight twice at the doorway—a ritual since Jessie was old enough to talk. She closes the door softly. “They’re out,” she says to Sonny, as he sits on the couch to put on his shoes and collect his belongings. She chooses her words carefully. “Why don’t you stay for a drink?”

He looks up from tying his shoelace, still for a moment while he contemplates her offer—warily, she is sure. “Yeah, alright,” he says, toeing off his shoes once again.

She heads for the kitchen, swinging open the fridge and grabbing out two cold bottles. “Beer?”

“Why not,” he replies easily.

She passes him one and then folds herself up small on the couch beside him, placing deliberate space between them. Frannie appears in front of them, tail wagging, and Sonny scratches behind her ears. “What was that story you were telling Jessie?” She asks.

He looks up at her from where he is happily patting Frannie. “Just something to settle her down for the night,” he replies. “Nothin’ special.”

Amanda narrows her eyes in faux suspicion. “Part of your deal?”

He gives her a look. “I told you, Rollins…”

“I know, I know—no can do,” she says. She takes a moment before she continues, the ghost of Sonny’s story whispering to her. “You know, you never really talk about your past…”

He frowns at her. “Yeah I do—you know all about my family—”

“Not about your family,” she interrupts, “about you.”

“Ah, you don’t wanna hear about that…”

“Yeah, I do,” she insists. “You know all about my past so…”

He tuts. “That information has hardly come willingly…been like pullin’ teeth…” She shoots him an unimpressed look and to her surprise, he relents, taking a big gulp of beer before he speaks again. “I was…kind of a handful as a teen and in my early twenties,” he says, scrunching his face up as though it’s unpleasant to say out loud. “Had a lotta problems, wasn’t the easiest kid.”

You?” She can’t imagine it—well, perhaps a kid who never thought before he spoke, sure, but a handful? “The good Catholic boy?”

He smirks at her and draws the beer to his lips. “You’ve got no idea…”

“Is that right?”

He laughs, settling back into the couch and nursing the cold drink in his lap. “My dad was hard on us all, but ‘specially me,” he says. This isn’t new to her—she’s heard snippets about his father, here and there, and knows that he was tough—strict with his daughters and hypercritical of Sonny. “His only son: sensitive as his girls; wanted to be in a band; never stood up to his bullies...got his face scarred up ‘cause of it.” He smiles sadly. “Guess I just got to a point where I couldn’t handle him puttin’ me down.”

She shifts, a fraction closer. “What happened?”

“Spent a few years makin’ some dumb choices,” he replies. “Got in with a bad crowd…drove Ma crazy, never comin’ home, and when I did I was…well, let’s say I wasn’t in the best way.” He shrugs after a moment. “Long time ago—tryin' to numb some pain I guess.”

“God knows I know all about that,” she says, and after a moment, she softly adds: “What you said to Jessie, I know that means the world to her.” She feels the flutter and tightness in her chest return, potent, because the words that are about to tumble from her are those she has fought with across the years since Jessie was born. “You’re the only father figure they’ve ever known.”

His gaze snaps to her, expression unreadable—somewhere in the void between shock and gratitude. He stumbles over his words. “That means a lot, Amanda,” he says, his Staten Island accent chopping off the start of her name, shortening it to the nickname she hasn’t embraced since she was a teenager. Manda, she could hear in the back of her mind—his voice; softer and huskier than any context she’d ever heard it in before. “Just want ‘em to know a good guy, that’s all.”

“Well you are,” she tells him. She smiles wryly, her next words slipping from her before she can realise their weight. “Even if you are a pain in the ass…”

He chuckles, and then eyes her closely. “Now you gonna tell me what’s going on?”

She is quiet a moment, before she concedes. “I don’t sleep so well these days,” she confides. She takes a swig of her beer, bitter after the taste of peppermint tea. Sonny doesn’t say a word; just watches her and waits to see if she’ll continue. She’s begun now, and oddly, it’s as though the flood gates have opened. “I toss and turn, check on the girls a lot. Can’t help worrying something will happen to ‘em.”

The thumping in her chest rises once again, and she feels her hands start to shake. She grips the beer tighter and shoves her free hand under her thigh in an attempt to hide it, but he knows her too well. His eyes narrow. “You’re not okay,” he states—not a question, because he knows how she hates that.

She shrugs, taking another swig of her drink. “Who is,” she quips—her defence, when things become too hard; when someone cares too much.

Because she can’t do nice.

He puts his beer down on the coffee table and leans forward, closer to her. “After what happened, after the year you’ve had, it’s understandable,” he says. “I know you won’t want to, but maybe you do need some time off—to spend with the girls and just heal—”

“I don’t need time off, Carisi,” she sighs. “I just…need it to go away.”

He meets her eye, catching her with a look that calls out all of her bullshit. “We both know that’s not how it works,” he says, and suddenly she’s stuck; the world around her growing slower, quieter, as his gaze holds her in place. “I’m here for you…pain in the ass or not.”

Somehow, the words mean more, but she says nothing—just laughs and sips her beer, breaking their spell. The corner of his lips quirk to a smile and he grabs his beer, settling back at a safer distance. He tips the bottle back to his lips and finishes it, and then checks his Billie-slobbered watch. “It’s late—I’d better go—”

“Stay,” she blurts out suddenly, and she watches his face change; eyes darting away, brow furrowing—just like it had in his office, when she had offered to drive him home. She cannot face that again, and so she quickly adds: “On the sofa—you know, maybe just knowing someone’s here will help…”

He has never stayed before—not even on nights when he had stayed late when her girls were little. He would hand her a set of earplugs and tell her to rest, while he fed them and paced the halls, soothing them as they needed into the middle of the night—but he had never stayed the night. She internally berates herself—what a stupid thing to ask—

“Sure,” Sonny replies quietly. “Sure.”

--

It’s two o’clock in the morning, and Sonny Carisi has hardly slept a wink.

“Frannie,” he hisses at the pit bull, who has made herself at home curled into the crook of his sprawled legs. “You snore louder than my nonno…” The dog huffs and rests her head on his thigh, ignoring him entirely. “I see how it is…”

He ruffles a hand through his hair, disturbing its styling and letting it curl into his eyes. He shifts beneath the pile of pillows Amanda has given him and glances around her apartment—to the faint orange light glowing through the glass doors of Jessie and Billie’s bedroom, to the case files strewn across Amanda’s dining table, to the stick-figure drawings plastered across the entirety of the refrigerator door. City noise and moonlight travels through the windows, eerie and soothing, all at once. This was a home—one he had imagined himself being a part of, perhaps foolishly.

He lets out a sigh, cursing himself for saying that he would stay. “Who are you kiddin’, Carisi,” he mumbles to himself, “there was no way you were sayin’ no…”

His thinks back to their conversation on the couch, and can’t help the feelings that roil inside him as he pictures her curled up opposite him—blonde hair wet and clinging to her neck, face clean of make-up, oversized clothes swamping her and yet still causing his eye to stray unless he kept it in check. She had surprised him, with her questions about his past and her confessions around her own struggles. Most of all, though, she surprised him when she spoke about his relationship to her girls, telling him, you’re the only father figure they’ve ever know.

He couldn’t begin to express what that meant to him.

There is so much between the two of them, these days—so many near moments; so much loaded tension in the space between them.

Flinging the blanket off himself, he swings his legs over the edge of the couch and sits upright. Perhaps it’s the proximity of Amanda sleeping just down the hallway that is holding him back from sleep. Or perhaps it’s the worry for her wellbeing that consumes him—the same worry that frequently keeps him awake in his own bed, too.

I would be fine if you were right here beside me! He can hear her bursting all over again, flooring him like nothing else she had ever said to him before.

There is a language between them—one they are both fluent in, but neither chooses to communicate in return. Understood, but unspoken.

There is suddenly a knock from down the hall, and he frowns at Frannie as her head lifts and her ears perk. “What is it, girl?” He asks, as she climbs off the sofa and disappears toward Amanda’s room.

He strains to listen, hearing the knock again, and then a thud, and he is on his feet. His hand automatically goes to his hip, to find no gun—he had handed it in months ago, and yet the habit is still dying hard. He hears Amanda cry out and he rushes to her bedroom, bursting through the door and instantly, his hands are in the air, instincts kicking in. “Woah, woah—”

She is kneeling up on her bed, gun pointed in his direction, and she is shaking. Her eyes are unfocused, her breath laboured, and her t-shirt clings to her sweat-drenched chest. A nightmare, he realises, and inches toward her slowly. “Amanda, hey,” he says, barely a murmur, and he reaches out to wrap his hand around the barrel of the Glock and move it aside. He extracts the gun from her grip and places it on the nightstand, grasping her arms as she breathes heavy. “Hey, hey, it’s just me…”

“S-Sonny?” She panics, waking from her trance. Her eyes dart around the room, wide and glassy. “The girls—”

“It’s alright—they’re alright—you had a nightmare,” he tells her as he holds her steady. “Everything’s okay…”

She sucks in a breath like she’s choking, once and then twice as she starts to cry, and he tugs her into his chest. “It’s alright,” he repeats, over and over, arms winding around her protectively. “You’re safe, the girls are safe…”

“Sonny, I-I can’t—the girls—and I couldn’t get to ‘em, I couldn’t…”

She trails off as she sobs, and he simply holds her tighter. He can feel her tears on his chest, her body tremble. “Shh…” He soothes. “S’alright…”

She leans heavily against him as she cries, and he wonders how many times she has woken like this, with no one to calm her. No one to tell her it’s alright. “I got you,” he whispers, again, like he had months ago.

She stills immediately, tensing, but rather than pulling away as he expects, she lifts her head from the crook of his neck, just a breath away. Time slows as their eyes lock, and his breath hitches as she brushes her lips against his, soft as a butterfly’s kiss.

I got you.

It feels electric.

He kisses her back so gently before breaking away, his thundering heart heavy. “Amanda, I…” He swallows as she draws one hand along his jawline, prickly with stubble beneath her touch, and he wills himself to do the right thing. “You…and the girls…you mean too much to me. I can’t…” He shakes his head. “I can’t lose that to a one-night thing…”

He can’t risk their friendship to a night of intimacy, when what he wants is commitment; a romance. A relationship and a family. The night she had come to his office, asking to drive him home and share a few drinks with her, he had turned her down, he knows that. He remembers the way she looked at him—like her offer had been foolish; like the rejection pained her. He remembers that, but it’s nothing like the way she’s looking at him now: flush against him; willing to be vulnerable, open. “I don’t want a one-night thing,” she tells him, “I want you, Dominick.”

Dominick.

The sound of his name, rounded and raw on her lips, is enough to undo him.

He reaches his thumb to her lower lip, caresses her cheek, his breath unsteady. It is their language she speaks, and he knows this is her way of saying I’m ready. His voice is rough when he whispers back. “You’re sure?”

Her gaze doesn’t shift from his. “Never been so sure.”

All of those near moments, all of the loaded tension between them, it all collides when they do.

He catches her lips hard against his, kissing her like he had wanted to so many times. It is instant fire—deep and desperate and intoxicating like nothing he has ever experienced. She pulls him down to her, her heat and her mouth and her tongue like a drug to him. His hands skim her thighs, her waist, and one weaves its way to the column of her throat to tip her head back, breaking their kiss. He traces his lips down her neck, teeth grazing her pulse point. “Sonny…”

He loves hearing Dominick, but there is nothing like Amanda calling him Sonny.

She moves back on the bed and he follows, climbing onto the mattress with her without breaking away from her neck, her collarbone. She bunches the fabric of his undershirt in her hands, pulling it over his head and tossing it onto the floor, and then pushes him back to climb across his lap. She watches him, eyes dark and lips swollen, and his blood feels thick in his veins as she slips her t-shirt over her head, suddenly in nothing more than her underwear.

She is beautiful.

Perhaps she is expecting him to dive for her, for this to be hurried, but he sweeps his eye over her slow and simply pulls her lips down to his once more.

This is different—after everything he knows she has endured, the trauma and the hurt, he wants to be the man who treats her better. As she deserves.

He runs his hands over the round of her hips, the crease where they meet her thighs, and up along her stomach, skimming the soft edge of her breasts and tracing his thumbs over her nipples. She lets out a sigh that catches in her throat—of relief; of frustration. He drops his head to her chest, kissing and nipping at her skin. “Problem…?” He asks.

She sinks down onto his lap, and he inhales at the feeling of her, warm against his cock, with nothing but fabric between them. She shoots him a daring look. “You tell me…”

He narrows his eyes at her, the words like an echo in his mind, and in one swift motion, he rolls her underneath him. He tuts at her, mouth teasing the skin between her breasts, along her ribs, her belly, moving down her body as she watches him, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. “Is there a rush, Amanda…?”

“Don’t you play games with me, Counsellor…”

He chuckles against her hipbone, running his hands behind her knees to angle her just right and settling himself between her thighs. “Never…”

The skin of her inner thighs is like silk against his lips, and he draws his thumb over the cotton of her underwear where she is wet, circling with the lightest touch he can muster. She exhales sharply and he hooks his fingers around her panties, tugging them over her ass and off. He takes a moment to look up at her, taking her in. “You’re gorgeous, Amanda,” he tells her sincerely.

She falters but isn’t given time to respond as he dips his neck to press his lips against the velvety skin covering her clit, tasting her. She moans and tips her head back, throat open and hands fisted in the sheets. He moves his tongue over her clit, light and then firm, teasing her; sucking softly. He finds a rhythm, a pattern, and he takes his time; finding what she likes. She is breathing fast, and she threads her fingers into his hair, pulling him closer. “Don’t stop,” she breathes, and he obliges by slipping a finger inside her, curling up toward her pelvic bone. Her hand knots in his hair and he adds another finger, quickening his pace, his pressure; sucking just a little harder.

She gasps and her back arches. “Fuck, Sonny,” she breaks, as she comes against his mouth.

He slows his movements as she comes down from her high, her body quaking and her chest heaving. He has every intention of continuing, but she pushes up onto shaky forearms, eyes wild. “Jesus,” she hisses, and then drags him up to her, kissing him over and over.

Pleasuring her had always been at the centre of his fantasies.

Her nails scrape down his back as he crawls back over her, and then her fingertips are at taper of his hipbones, sneaking beneath the band of his underwear. She pushes them over his hips and he detangles them from his legs, throwing them aside, and her hand travels down to his cock, fingertips teasing him, just as he’d done to her. He looks down from where he is hovering over her, her hair splayed across the pillow and a smirk at the edge of her lips.

“Don’t you play games with me, Detective,” he repeats, voice like gravel.

She places her hands on his chest and pushes him back to kneel upright, crawling toward him, and he is certain it’s the sexiest thing he’s ever seen: her blue eyes gazing up at him, the fair slope of her back, the curve of her waist to her hips. She reaches out to wrap a hand around him and he groans. “Amanda…”

She strokes him, slow at first, and he watches the way she wets her lips with her tongue; the way her eyelashes flicker up as she looks at him. Without breaking her gaze from his, she kisses his tip and he swears she’ll kill him. “Please…”

Something about his begging spurs her on, and as she takes him fully in her mouth, his mind clears of everything but the two of them. The feeling is sheer bliss as she moves up and down him, hot and unabashed and beyond anything he had pictured in his most private moments thinking of her. She teases him, learning his signals rapidly—slowing when he is close; a little faster when he isn’t; deep, and then shallow. It’s driving him mad, and he knits his hand into her hair, refraining desperately from taking over some sense of control. He draws her back from him and watches her pout. “I was returning the favour…”

“I want to be inside you,” he tells her, and by the look on her face, she is not expecting him say that. “Now.”

He presses her back into the covers and bites at her neck, hands grasping at her breasts, her hips, her thighs. The tortuous pace he has set dissipates quickly as urgency ignites between them. His fingers are at her clit again, and she is gasping, when he pauses to meet her eye. “You sure?” He asks again.

She smiles at him and cups his cheek, looking at him like he is from another world. “I’m sure,” she assures.

He dips his head to hers and kisses her, aligning himself between her spread knees; feeling his cock against her pussy and hearing her whimper a plea against his lips. He slides into her, tortuously slow, and he growls; she is tight and warm and perfect, and the moment is surreal. She moans and wraps her legs around his hips impatiently, pressing him deeper inside her.

God,” he hisses against her neck.

He rarely swears, and he rarely takes the Lord’s name in vain, and she knows that, so he’s certain that’s the cause of the catch in her breath and the smile he can feel on his cheek.

He would worry about his sins on Sunday.

“You feel so good,” he hums against her, and then pulls his hips back as far as she’ll let him and thrusts forward, earning a muffled cry of his name from her lips. Hearing her voice bend around his name like that, around pleasure that he is bringing her, scatters his mind, and all he wants is to make her do it again and again.

She digs her fingers into the nape of her neck as he starts to build a rhythm; moving in and out of her faster and harder as he loses himself in her. She kisses his lips, his jaw, her breath on his, and there is nothing between them but jagged breaths and unsaid words.

Sonny…

He grabs her waist and rolls her on top of him, remaining chest-to-chest with her as she starts to ride him. His hands and his tongue wander and he is rougher now, squeezing the round of her ass and sucking the peak of her breasts. She rolls her hips, letting her weight bury him deeper inside her and rocking against a spot that has her making those beautiful sounds again.

Fuck, Amanda,” he swears.

Her eyes flash, and at that she slips her hand between them to touch herself, and he thinks he will come right then and there. She is so shameless, so uninhibited, and he loves it. He looks at her. “Show me,” he rasps.

She takes his hand, guiding the pad of his thumb to her pussy and directing him, setting the motion, the pressure, the speed. “Right there…”

If there’s one thing Sonny Carisi is, it’s a fast learner.

She releases an airy breath as he takes over, circling as she had but upping her pace. He moves in close to her ear as she starts to pant—she’s near the edge. “Come for me, Amanda…” He whispers.

Amanda bites her lip, stifling a moan as she grinds against him and he bucks his hips up into her, his thumb pressing firm on her clit. “Oh my God, Sonny…”

She lets out the most spell-binding cry as she comes again, head tipping back as she shakes. It’s breathtaking, seeing her like this, and he is close. She lolls her head to his shoulder, a whisper at his ear. “I want you to come inside me, Dominick…”

Something detonates within him as she says those words.

He lifts her up by the hips and flips her onto her back once again, and then he is driving into her fast, breathless and aware of nothing but her airy whimpers and fingertips digging into his back. He pulls back just enough to look at her. “Yeah?” He manages.

She kisses him, deep and rough. “Please,” she begs.

His hand splays at the junction of her jaw and her cheek, holding her gaze to his, because he wants to look at her as he comes. He thrusts into her once and then twice more, growling her name as he comes, hard. “Amanda…

Nothing has ever felt so good.

His vision swims as he explodes inside her, panting and riding out his climax, eyes focused one hers. She breaths heavily beneath him, pink-cheeked and sated, and she softly reaches a hand to push back the hair hanging in his eyes. “Sonny…”

There is a tiny moment, a heartbeat, where their reality hits him and his chest tightens, expecting her to retreat; to regret the choice she has made and push him away. He swallows, bracing himself, as silence sets in and those unspoken words fill the void.

She moves the hand from his hair to his cheek, tracing the faint scar that runs alongside his mouth. “That day in the squad room, months ago, you asked me if we were good, you remember that?” She asks, and he nods, uncertain of where she is going with this. Her lips curl to a smile. “Well, now we’re good.”

He immediately huffs a laugh—of relief; of joy. He grins. “Who’s a pain in the ass now?”

She smiles in return, pulling his lips down to hers once again. It’s slow and tender just like when they began, and when he breaks it, he feels whole. He draws away from her, and they joke as he takes the sheet with him, wrapping it around his hips and leaving her bare. He can barely steal away to the bathroom before she grabs his wrist, and when he turns back to look at her, she steals his breath—curved across the mattress, all pearly skin and round eyes. “Sonny, I…” She starts, her words dissolving into the air between them.

I need you here beside me, but I don’t know how to do this.

I’m sorry for hurting you; for pushing you away.

I’m terrified of what might happen, of what we could lose.

I’m terrified of losing you.

It is their language—he knows it. He feels it.

He looks at her softly and gives her a smile, leaning over the mattress to touch her cheek. “I’m not going anywhere,” he tells her.

--