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It’s after eleven when she unlocks the door. She’s later than expected, has been all week.


Your eyes fall onto her as she doffs the thin coat, hangs it, runs a hand through her long waves. 


“Hey,” you greet, eyes following her every move. Almost two and a half decades on the job have hardened her, but all you see when you look at her is softness and grace. 




Her reply is quiet, barely there, expelled on a single breath. 


“Want a drink?” 


She looks tired, rubs a thumb across her forehead. “Ah…” 


“Wine? Something stronger?” 


You see how she’s stumped, struggling for an answer she doesn’t seem to have, so you get up, tell her to sit, and make your way over to the kitchen. She complies. You watch her from the kitchen island as you pour her a drink. 


There’s tension in her shoulders, between her brows. It’s been a building storm for days now. The kind you know you can’t erase with soft words, gentle touch. Sometimes she’s too brittle for kindness. Sometimes compassion breaks her and you don’t think there’s anything you could say, you could do to put her back together until morning comes. 


As a captain there’s pressure on her, things you don’t know anything about. There’s an entire squad depending on her and while she’s a natural leader it takes its toll, sometimes. 


She cracked in front of you once. Admitted that sometimes she just wants to not make all the decisions, that’s she’s too tired, too depleted of strength and volition. That sometimes she just wants to follow. 


Sometimes she needs to be told. Wants to relinquish control. 


You’re not yet sure what exactly this is and decide to give it a bit, gauge the situation, get a feel for her, for what she needs from you tonight, if anything. 


Lord knows the woman needs sleep, always getting too little of it. You’re just not sure if she needs it first and foremost, now. 


You press the drink into her autumn-chilled hands, cup them with your palms for a moment. 


“You wanna talk about it?”


She swallows, huffs shaking her head. But she talks anyway. 


“I transfered Velasco out.” 


Her lips wrap around the glass, delicately, but the way she sucks the alcohol down is anything  but. 


“What happened?” 


She gives you a look and you nod, finding her suspicions were confirmed.  


“Okay. What now?” 


“Now,” she breathes, “we’re going to make up for the fact we’re one detective down until I find someone who can get the job done.” 


You’ve been with SVU long enough, know it’s a tall order to fill. Not everyone can handle live victims. Even fewer can handle the children. Until they fill Valesco’s place she’s going to be out there investigating cases alongside Fin and Rollins, getting home to you late. Getting home to you drained. 


“You going in tomorrow?” 


“I’m gonna have to.”



You don’t so much see lust as you see need behind her eyes that are dark and settled and expectant. 


She leaves you high and dry when you both know what you need to hear from her is as vital as what she needs you to do to take off the edge. She trusts you. Trusts you implicitly, but goddamn, she can’t, for the life of her, ask for things. At least not this particular thing. 


You talked about it, obviously. But when it comes down to it she gets tongue-tied, possibly nervous. It should be simpler, but you’ve been here a few times before and you get the feeling that giving all of herself to you, to do to her what you want, denying her choice, taking away the control she has a hard time giving up, exhausts her to the point she can’t put it into words for you. 

She initiated. Kissed you hard. Pulled you in. It didn’t surprise you. 


She’s against the kitchen island, the sharp edge of it digging into the small of her back as you pin both of her wrists against the countertop. Your teeth scrape her neck, gentle compared to the pressure you apply with your hands, with your waist. Rolling your hips you thrust against her hard, once twice, three times, suggesting fucking her, fully clothed. 


“Tell me,” you urge, but all you get in return is a whimper. It leaves you a little frustrated, a lot impatient. “ Olivia .” 


You look at her again, take her in. The almost jet black eyes, pink, swollen lips, the column of her neck, delicate and a little wet with your saliva. You’re already painfully hard and she’s… silent when you need something from her that allows you to get into the right mindset, something that is not going to make you feel like a prick, no matter how well you know her, how you know for fact what it is she needs from you. 


She swallows hard when all you do is scrutinize her, when your firm grip on her wrists eases. 


“Just-” she attempts, fails. She’s not a prude, not at all. Jesus fucking Christ, she very much knows what she wants in bed, what she likes, how to get off. For some reason this is different, though, and you decide to help her along. You lean in closer, your lips against her ear, your voice low as you ask her. 


“You want me to fuck you?” 


Against you she shivers, expels a breath, her arousal crawling across your skin. 


“Want it rough?” 


You corner her, grip on her wrists tightening as you push them back against the cool, sleek countertop, further restricting her ability to move. Choose words to take the edge off just a little. 


“Are you wet for me already?” 


And that does it, she succumbs, answers. 


“Yes.” Once. Urgent. “Yes.” Twice. Fragile. 


Good enough for you. 


“Hands against the countertop.” Your demand is clear, and you raise them and slap her open palms against the surface to make your point before you let go, smooth yours up her arms and down the front of her body, easing both of you into this. The swell of her tits, the lush and sumptuous expanse of her hips. You undo the buttons of her blouse one by one, bottom to top, her chest working furiously against your hands. You grab the lapels of the garment, yanking it across her shoulders, exposing her bra-clad breasts. 


You lick your lips, can’t wait to touch her. It seems neither can she. 


She’s thrilled insecurity, eyes lustful now. Waiting. And you let her wait, gaze examining her body, not touching her. Waiting her out until she cracks. 




No fucking way are you in control here. Olivia’s got you in the palm of her hand. You’re just the lucky bastard who’s playing the part, trying to find the balance between making her submit to you without degrading her, because that’s something you can’t get down with. 


She gives all of herself to you, so it’s not that you take away any room for her to make decisions, not the sting and the burn you inflict that does it for you. It’s the trust, the faith she puts in you that turns you on.


It’s what makes you crack and finally you touch her, your palms filling with the succulent flesh of her tits as you weigh them, then squeeze. She sprawls between your fingers. Dragging the black distraction of a lace-trimmed bra down you catch her nipple between your thumb and index finger and you tug hard. She winces, hisses. 




You know it came unexpectedly. Know, because usually you take more time. Her skin reddens under the assault and you tug her tit into your mouth, soothe her, muttering against the perky bud: “Shhh. I’ve got you.” 


It’s for you as much as it is for her. Liv’s warm and soft and wonderful, but her heartbeat is erratic as your lips climb up the hill of her breast and Jesus, when you breathe her in the remains of vanilla and whatever it is that’s in her body oil clouds your senses, making you ache to devour her, be inside her. 


It never ceases, that need. Fifty-seven years on this earth and you get harder for her than you did when you were a green, horny teenager knocking Kathy up in the back of your father’s truck. 


Popping the button of her slacks you get her out of all the unnecessary clothes. The chelsea boots, the pants. The underwear you find soaked with her sweet arousal. 


“So wet already.” 


You use your leg to shove her knees apart, your mouth covering hers as you grab the back of her neck, your fingertips biting into the muscle tissue at the apex of her shoulders. You take her mouth hard and she’s keen and responsive as your tongue penetrates. Your hips have her pinned against the island and when she attempts to bring her hand to you, you catch it, your grip unforgiving. 


“Nu-uh. Hands on the countertop.” You bring it back to where it was, your face tight as you speak. “Apologize.” 


For a moment she gauges your reaction, making you wonder if she’s trying to test you. You lean in, your torso forcing her back to bend over the kitchen island, aware that the added weight of your body must cause her a great deal of discomfort as the ledge digs into her skin. You hold her eye and when there’s hardly any more room for her to bend any further she mumbles, compliant. 


“I’m sorry.” 


In your eyes a warning flashes, makes her shrink although you ease yourself back, allow her to retake her standing position. 


“You try that again, you’re gonna be.” She trembles beneath your touch, swallows, the sight of her causing your balls to tighten as you massage her tit, exploring her slowly, gently until you give it a good pinch and your grasp snatching away at once.


She cries out, her mouth open. 


“That good?” You demand, focusing on the other side, giving it the same attention. 


“Yes,” she replies around a weak whimper. You catch it with your mouth, tuck the bottom one between your teeth, fingers entangling in her hair. You pull. Let go. Catch her, your arm snaking around her waist, squeezing her against your body as your hand disentangles slowly,  drops to her sternum, drops and drops, grazing the spasming muscles on her lower abdomen, maddeningly soft skin, drops further, fully, and nestles between her legs. You cup her at once, feel her, drown in it.  


She’s so fucking wet, your throat goes dry in an instant. Unstoppable you succumb to the sore temptation she’s always been to you.


She’s plump, ripe and juicy, headspinningly so. Falling victim to her effortless irresistibility you groan, slip a finger into her welcoming heat, find her an oasis where you’re thirsting after a drought. 


The sounds she makes do you in, make you sink your face into the warm valley between her tits as you exhale sharply. For a moment you fuck her leisurely, long languid strokes that help ground yourself despite your raging hard-on that wants to take your middle finger’s place. You add a second digit, coating it in the silk you draw from her and angling your wrist you pick up the pace, widen your stance as your fingers piston upward. 


Strangled moans fall from her mouth, her eyes wide, lips parted. She’s a fucking sight, worth coming up from in between her tits, although they are beyond perfect. Your free hand settles against the top of her chest, slides up and up until your fingers spread around her throat, applying just enough pressure to add to the thrill and sensation, but not nearly enough to restrict airflow. You check in with her anyway, need to. 


“You good?”  


Her response is a slightly strangled, desperate sound, followed by vocal affirmation. “Yeah.” She’s not struggling, she’s turned on beyond what you’ve ever experienced with her. You see it in her eyes, feel it in the increasing wetness that drips from your fingers as her walls squeeze you. 


“That it? Is this what you want?” 


“Harder,” she pleads, the word vibrating against your palm. Instead of obliging you slow down gradually until you slip your fingers out and coat her pussy in her juices. Her lips, soft and delicate, her sensitive clit, its hood. You cover every inch in her arousal before you start rubbing and tapping her most sensitive spot, lightly at first, then quicker followed by a little slap with three fingers that make her purr. You watch her, repeat it five, six times. 


“Oh God… like that…” She looks a perfect mess, hooded eyes, rosy cheeks, reddened chest, an unruly strand of hair in her beautiful face. 


You know it’s the repetition that does it for her, the light sting that you soothe with gentle taps, with the warmth of your hand.


Just when she starts to enjoy it a little too much, you resume teasing her, drawing big, slow circles, barely touching her where she needs it most. 


“Please…” You’d give a leg to hear her plead, because it’s a rare thing with her. 


“Please what?” You taunt her, want her to say exactly what she wants. 




“Playing it close to the vest I see,” you breathe against her ear, run your hand further up her throat until you hold her jaw in your hand. “More what? More of that?” You give her another tap and she’s so fucking sensitive already. It’s not going to take much for her to come but you’re not half done with her. Once more you sink your fingers into her, slow but deep. 


Your pants feel like sandpaper against your cock and as much as you enjoy finger fucking and teasing her, you need some relief. Need it now. 


“Hmm… you like that, baby? You wanna come?” It’s the only scenario in which she lets you get away with the term of endearment, at least without referring to you as an asshole or  a bastard. 


Her eyes are squeezed shut as she bites her bottom lip, teeth clenched so hard you think she might break skin as she nods, enveloped by indistinctive sounds coming from her nose. 


“Yeah? You’re gonna. I promise.” You flick her clit with your thumb.  Then you stop cold, pull out and wipe your coated fingers against her hip. “Get down on your knees for me.”