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They’d agreed to work on their friendship, but life and work keep getting in the way. They’ve made plans a half dozen times since The Christmas That Wasn’t—lunches, dinners, an afternoon in the park with Eli and Noah—but every time they’ve been interrupted if not outright derailed before they’ve even had a chance to begin.

So when his name shows up on her cell phone less than five minutes after she’s walked in the door after a Friday from hell, she answers. When he asks her if she can come over for a while, just to talk, just to spend some time together—”Right now, before the universe gets a chance to foil our plans again”—she agrees.

She’s tired, and hungry, and wants a long, hot shower and her warm, soft bed, but instead she rallies, apologizing to Lucy (Lucy who is a saint, Lucy who is worth her weight in gold for her understanding and her flexibility) and asking if she can stay the night after all. She isn’t planning on sleeping over, but it’s already late and she doesn’t want to feel rushed.

She changes into her softest pair of jeans and an even softer sweater, kisses an already sleeping Noah on the forehead, and leaves again. By the time she arrives in Long Island City, her eyes are a little grainy, her limbs a little too heavy, but he has takeout waiting, and wine breathing, and he answers the door with that same boyish, flirty smile he’d had when he’d invited her to Christmas all those weeks ago.

She perks up with a little food in her, realizing after three bites of ziti that she’s ravenous, and they finally, finally have a chance to just… breathe. To talk. First about the kids (Noah has a recital coming up, Eli has been grumbling about an English project, Kathleen has a new boyfriend that Elliot has decided sight unseen is not good enough for her), then skirting around the periphery of work (they’d both had One of Those Days and neither really wants to talk about it; she wonders if he’d called her in part out of some desperate nostalgia for the way things used to be, when hard days would end with them together nursing twin beers in near-silence, or side by side in the car as he drove her home, idling too long in front of her building before he told her to blink her lights for him when she got upstairs).

There’s a lull, but a comfortable one. Elliot refills both their glasses of wine, Olivia stretches, twisting her back this way and that to ease the ache of an hour spent on a stool at his kitchen island after a full day of work. He watches her, and smiles, one of those warm, soft smiles that used to make her feel seen and cared for. Nowadays it has a slightly different effect, making her feel seen and cared for.

“Want to relocate?” he asks, and she agrees. Sheds her boots and curls her knees up onto the plush sofa cushions as she sips her wine and watches him flip channels until he settles on TCM, the volume down low so they can keep talking.

“So…” he begins, tilting his head and studying her with those too-blue eyes. “Tell me something.”

“What?”

“Something about you, something I missed.”

She frowns, mirrors the tilt of his head and shakes hers slightly. “Ask me something,” she urges, wanting him to take some damn initiative for once, but hoping he’ll steer clear of her love life this time.

He veers right into it instead, clearing his throat softly then asking, “How’d you meet Noah’s dad?”

Olivia’s brow furrows, her frown deepening for a moment before realization dawns. He thinks Noah is hers by birth, not by choice. Suddenly all his poking into her romantic past makes a little more sense. He’s trying very hard to look casual and not like the question has been eating at him for months: Who had Olivia loved enough to make a child with? Who was tied to her for the rest of their lives by the bond of parenthood? Who was he going to have to put up with, and keep his jealousy in check around, and not disparage within earshot of her son?

She smirks, sips her wine again, and tells him: “I arrested him for sex trafficking, rape, and kidnapping.” Elliot’s face falls comically, Olivia’s grin widening as she adds, “Noah’s adopted, Elliot. It’s just me.”

“Oh,” he sighs, shaking his head and laughing just a little at himself. “Fin told me you had a son; I asked about the dad and he told me I had to ask you.”

Olivia makes a mental note to buy Fin a whole dozen jelly donuts tomorrow.

“Took you long enough,” she points out. That conversation had to have been back in the spring, right after he’d arrived. Before he’d met Noah and given her that ridiculous letter.

Elliot has the decency to look sheepish about it, reaching across the space between them and hooking his index finger around her pinky before apologizing. Then he levels her with one of those open, interested gazes and urges, “Tell me how you became a mom.”

Olivia smiles at that, more than happy to oblige. She tells him everything—the case where they first found Noah, all the foster homes, the hearings, finding Ellie and then losing her. How stunned and elated she’d been when Judge Linden had taken a chance on her. Finding out who his father was, the anxiety of him making a move for Noah, and the relief at his death.

She talks and talks, and he asks questions and listens intently, and this, this was what she had meant when she’d told him everything had been one-sided. This is what she’d wanted to rebuild with him—the conversation, the knowing each other. There was a time when he’d known her better than anyone, and it had been comforting. Safe. The knowledge that there was someone in the world who knew everything about her and hadn’t shied away. Had had her back, always. Someone she’d known, too, like the back of her hand. Like breathing.

Until he’d just disappeared, the vacuum of his absence deafening in its silence.

She wants to know him again, wants for him to know her. Wants him to see her, and to stay this time.

“You’re a great mom,” he tells her, again, when the quiet stretches between them for a moment or two.

Olivia lifts her brows and lets them fall, sighing and telling him wryly, “Maybe not tonight. I worked til after bedtime, then left as soon as I got home to go meet a man for a late-night dinner.”

“Still a good mom,” he assures. “Also human. A cop. A captain. You’re allowed time for yourself.”

“So I’ve been told,” she smiles; it’s advice she’s never been great at taking. But tonight, she had. Tonight, she'd done something just for herself and it has worked out spectacularly so far. She feels the need to let him know, softening her smile and telling him quietly, “Thank you for tonight. It’s been good to talk.”

“I’m shocked the phones haven’t rung,” he smirks, and she laughs, nodding and warning him not to jinx it. A beat of quiet, and then he asks, “More wine?”

She’s tempted, sorely, but she’s already had two and half over the course of the evening, and she still needs to drive home. “I shouldn’t; if I don’t leave soon, I’ll fall asleep at the wheel.”

He looks at her, then, measuring and thoughtful. Cautious. His tongue peeks out to wet his lips, something she finds terribly distracting at the best of times, but even more so after an evening of wine and conversation. He clears his throat quietly and tells her softly, “You could stay. Here.”

Olivia’s brows climb slowly toward her hairline.

“I didn’t mean—” Elliot rushes to defend himself. “I just—I know it’s late, but I… don’t want you to go yet. So you could stay a while longer, and then sleep here. If you want. If that’s okay.”

It’s too soon for overnights. She knows that. Eli might be spending the night at Brett’s, but Bernie and Kathleen are both asleep in their rooms and she’s not sure she’s ready to Walk of Shame it in front of them on a Saturday morning. And she’d promised Noah pancakes tomorrow.

But she wants to. God, she wants to. She doesn’t want to go yet, either, wants to stay tucked away in this perfect, quiet, uninterrupted night with him and keep listening to the deep rumble of his voice, fall a little deeper into the blue of his eyes.

“I could stay a little longer,” she tells him, telling herself that she’s making up for lost time. That who knows when they’ll get time like this again, who knows when God or fate or whatever will allow them so many hours uninterrupted by kids or cases.

Elliot tops off the wine, emptying the bottle to half-fill both of their glasses.

For a minute, they sip in silence—a silence that is both comfortable and aware. As if the potential for staying coupled with the ticking clock of a little longer has made them both think of ways they could be spending the extra time she’s granted them.

She should say something, revive the conversation, anything but sit here slowly draining her Cabernet and dwindling her excuses. But just when she thinks she might, just when she’s resolved to ask him how Lizzie is settling into her new job, he stretches an arm across the back of the sofa, crossing the small space between them and brushing his fingertips against the soft fabric covering her shoulder. It’s nothing, really. Barely there, a gentle caress through a cozy layer of material, but it stills her breath in her throat and sets her heart beating double-time.

They don’t caress.

They never have. They have always very dutifully not caressed.

But that was before.

Before, when acknowledging this would have imploded too many carefully built structures—their partnership, his marriage, their reputations, his family. But now, well, now there’s nothing stopping them, is there?

Now it’s perfectly acceptable for him to be spreading his fingers across her shoulder, the blue of his eyes gone darker, more intense as he watches his own touch traverse its way toward her neck, his thumb coming to rest against the bare skin of her throat as she swallows, hard.

“This okay?” he asks, barely more than a whisper, as if he’s afraid to disturb the gossamer fragility of this moment, the moment just before they take that step from friends to more.

And this is that moment, she can feel it now, the loaded tension of it, the way the air has grown thick and heavy around them.

His eyes flick up to hers, seeking, a little hesitant, and she realizes she hasn’t answered him yet, that she’s been sitting here frozen like a statue from the moment he’d made contact.

There’s nothing stopping them now. Nothing but good sense, and taking things slow, and working on their friendship, and those things had been very important to her just a few minutes ago. But now his hand is sliding just that little bit further, his fingers warm against the back of her neck, and memories pop in her mind like fireworks, one after another. Every time he’d touched her just like that, every time she’d wanted him to, every time she’d wished that they’d been unburdened and he could have used that steady, sure grip to pull her close and kiss her breathless.

Her gaze drops to his lips and she is acutely aware that there’s nothing stopping her now.

There are perhaps a few reasons why they shouldn’t (yet) but absolutely zero reasons why they can’t (ever), and so Olivia licks her lips, looks him dead in the eye, and breathes, “Kiss me.”

Elliot breaks into a grin, smiling at her the way he had right before he’d invited her to family Christmas all those weeks ago. His hand tightens against her neck just enough to urge her forward while he leans in, and then they’re close, so close, noses bumping and foreheads touching. She sucks in a breath, the sound of it louder than she’d anticipated in the expectant quiet of the room, and they both freeze, hovering there with their mouths a scant centimeter apart.

He waits until she exhales, her breath warm and heavy between them, and then he closes the miniscule gap to brush his lips against hers. That first kiss is barely there, a whisper, and she chases it with one just the same, catching his top lip softly with both of hers. It leaves her bottom lip right here for the taking, he sucks gently at it as she pulls back, and she wants more of that, so she dives right back in, parting her lips, her tongue flicking out to taste him. He acquiesces with a quiet sound that shoots straight to her middle and then their tongues are touching; Elliot tastes like the red wine in the glass she is now gripping like a vise, and all she can think is that she wants more of him.

They are, as ever, in sync. No sooner than the thought crosses her mind, Elliot is leaning in harder against her, a low groan she can only describe as surrender breaking from him as those fingers at the back of her neck slide up into her hair, tilting her head just right so he can sweep his tongue into her mouth and kiss her deeply. He is only touching her right there, just that hand at the back of her skull, his mouth capturing hers with abandon, but she feels pinned in the very best way. There’s no escape from the sudden onslaught of him, and, God, she wouldn’t want one anyway.

Their breaths go ragged, one of Olivia’s hands rising to fist at the material over his ribs, the other still clutching hard at her wine (she should have finished it faster, she thinks, when she can manage to think at all).

She wants to get her hands on him, both of them, wants both of his hands on her, so she steels her resolve, dips her chin down just enough to gasp, “Wait!”

Elliot stills with an exhale that feels like resignation, loosening his grip on her hair and swallowing hard.

He’s expecting her to put the brakes on this, she’s sure, but all Olivia does is set her wine glass on the coffee table, then pluck his from his grip to do the same. And then she reaches for him, both hands cupping the back of his head and dragging him back to her.

They’re chuckling as their mouths meet again, back on the same page, giddy and greedy with the freedom to kiss each other, finally, to touch each other, finally. He slides one warm, broad palm up the outside of her thigh, then drags it back down to her knee and uses it to tug her closer. The shift puts her off-balance for a second, and she drops one hand behind her to steady herself; Elliot kisses her harder, setting her even more off-kilter and Olivia decides to just go with it. She lets that arm crumple, lets herself fall, lets Elliot follow her all the way down to the sofa cushions.

She wants to feel that man on top of her and there’s nothing stopping them now.

They shift to accommodate without ever ceasing the eager, heady kisses, ignoring the way their noses and chins bump as she bends her knee and he stretches out on top of her, and then oh God, oh God, she’s surrounded by him. There’s nothing else but Elliot—his broad shoulders under her palms, and his strong arms caging her in, and his hips pressed firmly against hers. He’s hard, she can feel the rigid length of him pressed against the seam of her jeans, and she wishes she’d gone for leggings. Wishes there was less between them. (It’s probably good that there’s so much between them, they really shouldn’t have sex tonight, they cannot have sex tonight. It takes her a second to remember exactly why, and when she does she wishes she hadn’t—they haven’t discussed what happened to her yet, and she thinks he should have a heads up before he sees her without her clothes on. But she wants a night to just enjoy him, to enjoy them, to kiss him breathless and not have to talk about trauma and pain and fear, so she banishes the thought and palms the back of his skull and kisses him harder.)

Elliot moans (she likes that, she really likes that) and rocks his hips against hers and oh. That feels… that feels really good. Really, really good. Maybe it’s that it’s been so long, or maybe it’s just Elliot, but the firm friction of him between her thighs makes her want to throw the whole no-sex thing out the window.

She won’t, she will not, but she wants to. She doesn’t trust her own resolve, but she does trust him to respect her boundaries, so she drags herself out of the kiss long enough to rasp a breathless, “No sex. Not tonight.”

Elliot doesn’t miss a beat, grunting his agreement and turning his attention to the side of her neck, dragging his tongue down the length of it and sprouting a path of goosebumps in his wake. Her breath catches; she’s weak for neck kisses, absolutely weak for them, and Elliot does not disappoint. He tastes his way back up with swirls of tongue, and soft sucks, and she goes from panting to gasping, her hips pitching up against his when he finds that so-sensitive spot just behind her left ear and plants a kiss there. He sucks lightly at the spot and she moans, tilting her head to give him better access.

His “Like that?” sounds way too smug, but then he’s dragging his teeth gently against that spot, biting softly at it, and she decides not to give a crap about his smug satisfaction. He licks to soothe the ache of his love bite and Olivia lets out a sound she’d prefer to pretend never came out of her—a little whine that bleeds into a throatier moan when he sucks, hard.

It sends a ripple of pleasure through her, her grip tightening in his shirt, and Olivia feels her nipples go tight and hard at the sensation. Their hips are rocking steadily now, a slow, lazy grind that’s making her even wetter than she already was.

His teeth catch her skin again and she realizes what he’s doing, wonders if he means to do it (he probably does, the bastard).

“No marks,” she gasps, his breath huffing out against her neck.

His voice is gravelly and wonderful, his lips tickling against her skin when he mutters, “Wouldn’t be the first,” and that answers that question. Definitely on purpose.

“I’m a captain,” she reminds him, as if that should be enough of a deterrent—she can’t go walking into her squad room with a hickey.

“Oh, I know,” he murmurs warmly, his nose skimming up her jaw before his mouth covers hers and she’s drowning in his kisses again.

However she had expected Elliot Stabler to kiss, it wasn’t this. He doesn’t kiss so much as he devours, his tongue wicked and clever as it dances against hers. Like he wants to possess her, like he wants to swallow her down and drown her in him. She’s ready and willing to let herself sink, to let herself be consumed.

She should be doing more, she thinks. She should be kissing him the way he’s kissing her, not just trying to keep up. Should be doing more than gripping the shirt at his ribs, his shoulders, and holding on for dear life under the onslaught of him.

If this is what kissing him is like, she’s going to lose her mind when he goes down on her.

The thought streaks heat all the way down her belly, makes her clit ache even more than it already does from the way he’s dragging his hard cock up against it through two layers of cotton and two layers of denim. She’s so wet, she can feel it, can feel the way the cotton of her underwear is sliding slick against her with every push of his hips. She can’t remember the last time she got this wet…

She needs to think of something else before she embarrasses herself, so she busies herself with exploring him. Unclenching her fists and dragging them down, running them up under his shirt, the thin material of his tank top the only thing separating her nails from his skin as she rakes them up over his spine. It makes him shiver, has him breaking their kiss to groan, “Liv…” in a way that makes her grin.

Oh, he likes that…

She does it again, scratches her way down, and he moans quietly and buries his head in her neck again, his hips rocking harder against her. Fuck. She noses into the space between his collar and his throat and returns the favor, tasting the salt of his skin, her nose full of the faded scent of his cologne. He takes her wandering hands as permission to do the same, skating one broad palm up beneath her sweater until he’s cupping her breast. She has a camisole beneath her top, but it’s thin, and so is her bra, and she wonders if he can feel how hard her nipple is beneath his palm. He must, because he drags his thumb over it, once, twice, then grasps it and squeezes.

Olivia’s breath stutters, her jaw dropping open on a moan as he pulses against her nipple again, again, again, quick little tugs that match the way he’s thrusting his hips against hers, and then his mouth has found that spot on her neck again and it’s all too much and not enough, a hot flush of pleasure rising beneath her skin. He is everywhere, everywhere, and it’s wonderful and overwhelming, and all of a sudden she is close, right on the edge, her skin prickling, her clit throbbing, and if she doesn’t stop this she’s going to come right here on his couch.

She gasps, “Stop!” breathes, “Stop…” one hand shooting down to grip his hip, hard. He stops, immediately, his hand slipping away from her breast, his brow pressing to hers as they both pant heavily.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, and he shouldn’t, he has nothing to apologize for, but she’s so close she’s dizzy with it, and she’s concentrating too hard on dragging herself back from the brink to answer him. “I should have asked before I—”

Olivia shakes her head, licking her lips (they’re warm and kiss-swollen and damp), her voice velvety and low when she tells him, “You didn’t—didn’t do anything wrong. I just need a second.”

He lifts his head then, looking down at her. The way he shifts wedges his hips impossibly harder against hers, and her lashes flutter. She sees the moment he realizes, the corner of his mouth tipping up in a satisfied smirk. If she wasn’t already so flushed with arousal, she might manage to blush in embarrassment.

“You close?” he asks, his voice quiet, private.

Olivia nods and shuts her eyes, takes a deep breath in, out. He drops a peck against her chin, her jaw, her cheek. Soft, barely-there kisses, like the first few they’d traded earlier. “Then why are we stopping?” he whispers close to her ear, and Olivia swallows hard.

“No sex,” she reminds him.

“This isn’t sex,” he points out, adding, “Trust me, I’m a good Catholic. I’m well versed in what’s not sex.”

Olivia snickers at that, feels his shoulders shaking too before he presses another warm kiss to the side of her neck. “You don’t think it’s crossing a line?” she wonders, and he kisses his way back to her mouth, presses another soft smooch there before she opens her eyes to meet his.

Elliot shakes his head and tells her, “I think dry humping on the couch still counts as taking it slow,” earning another snort of amusement. His smile fades into something more serious, more sultry, his gaze dropping to her lips as he adds, “And I want to make you feel good.” He kisses her again, slow and devastating, and then asks, “Can I make you feel good, Olivia?”

A little voice in her head whispers There’s nothing stopping you, and Olivia feels herself nodding before she’s even made the decision to acquiesce.

But Elliot needs more, urges, “Yeah?” so that she answers, Yes.

Maybe it’s the way she can still feel the blood pumping in her veins, or maybe it’s the way he’s looking at her, or maybe it’s just that he did her the courtesy of asking, but she wants this, and she’s going to let herself have it.

And just so there’s not a hint of confusion, she drags her hands up the backs of his shoulder blades and breathes, “Make me come, El.”

Her request absolutely breaks him, his brow furrowing as he moans, one hand reaching down to hike her knee up against his hip as he drags his erection hard over her, reigniting the fire she’d been trying to quench. Olivia gasps, her head tipping back, and all of a sudden he’s everywhere at once again. Grinding against her, quick and rough, his hand streaking up to grasp her breast again, finding her nipple and giving it a firm roll, his mouth on her neck, sucking kisses against that spot that drives her wild.

Now that he has permission, he is determined, and she is a live wire. It takes embarrassingly little time for him to ratchet her back up to the edge, her breath shaking as she feels everything draw tight, a trembling, “Oh God, El…” spilling from her lips.

He lifts his head then, and she’s sure he’s watching her but her eyes are squeezed tight, all her focus on the way bliss is looping from his tight grip on her nipple to the hot friction against her clit. “That’s it, baby,” he coaxes and oh, wow, did she not expect the impact of Elliot’s voice urging her on when she’s seconds from climax. She whimpers as he groans, “Let go, just come for me…”

And she does, fuck, she does, blinking her eyes open in time to see him give her an encouraging nod and breathe another, “Come for me, Liv,” before she slams them back shut as her orgasm rises up like a tidal wave and crashes over her. She feels it from the tips of her toes to the ends of her fingers, and suddenly there’s a hand in her hair again, tucking her face into his neck as she moans not-at-all quietly. He doesn’t let up, rutting down against her harder, quicker, drawing it out, making it last, until she’s fisting hard at the back of his shirt and whining at the oversensitivity between her thighs.

He pushes against her hard, one last time, a low groan ripping from his throat, his hips jerking once, twice, and then he goes still.

They’re both panting, gasping, sweaty underneath their clothes as their bellies press against each other again, again, again as they struggle to catch their breath.

Olivia feels golden. Like there’s stardust in her veins, sparkling and shimmering. Elliot presses his lips to her shoulder, the side of her neck, her cheek, her lips. She opens for him, licks her tongue out to tease his and moans quietly when he takes the bait and kisses her thoroughly.

That was… fuck. If that’s what a little grinding accomplished, the sex is going to be incredible.

When the kiss breaks, he drags his thumb over her bottom lip, then kisses it again for good measure, and lets his brow rest against hers.

“Did you…?” she asks, fairly certain that he’d managed to pop off at the end there, but not wanting to leave him hanging if he didn’t.

Elliot nods, swallows, and murmurs, “Couldn’t help myself when you did. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to—”

“Yes, I do,” she cuts him off, because she’s wanted it just as long.

“Right,” he breathes, kissing her again, before clearing his throat softly and muttering, “I, uh… I need to get out of these pants…”

Olivia snickers, nodding, and taking one final opportunity to draw her palms up and down his broad, muscled back.

“Do you wanna stay?” he asks her, and she looks up to meet his gaze, so close it almost makes her cross-eyed, and so hopeful she can’t bear it.

She thinks of Noah, snug in his bed, and Lucy, sacked out on her sofa. Thinks of the pancakes she’d promised and the embarrassment she’s trying to avoid. Thinks of all the reasons she’d wanted to take things slow. Of the conversations they’ve yet to have, and the resolve she’d sworn she’d stick to when it came to Elliot and whatever this is between them.

“Yes,” she whispers to him, and then she lets them both down by adding, “But I should go. Noah either sleeps til ten or gets up at seven, there’s no telling on a Saturday, and I don’t want to have to explain sneaking back into my own house in the morning.”

Elliot pouts, but his eyes are warm, and it breaks into a smile almost immediately. “Alright,” he concedes. “I won’t force you into that conversation with your kid.” He kisses her again, adding, “I want him to like me,” before he draws back, slowly. She feels untethered for a moment, without the heavy, comforting weight of him on her, the sudden loss of his body heat making her shiver.

He must see it, or maybe he just can’t resist one last taste, because he pulls her in close and captures her mouth again, sliding his arms around her middle, his hands spanning her back. They kiss until she’s dizzy with it, until she turns her head away to suck in some much needed oxygen and his lips come to rest at her temple.

For a moment, they both just breathe, and then he presses his lips to her skin and murmurs, “Okay, my friend Olivia...” She grins, both at the memory and at him calling her a friend right after giving her a bone-shaking orgasm. “Let’s get you home.”

Chapter Text

She doesn’t usually do this. In fact, she has never done this.

She’s not even sure how they ended up like this.

She’d been stuck at the precinct, up to her eyeballs in paperwork as the squad room emptied out. There had been almost nobody left when Elliot had shown up with an easy smile and take-out containers from Golden Dragon.

It had felt like the old days, sitting together in the loft at the old precinct, swapping an egg roll for two dumplings and stealing sesame chicken from his carton while they talked about their case.

And then suddenly they weren’t talking anymore.

Suddenly it was his mouth on hers, and his hands in her hair, and she’d been worried someone might see them, but there’s nobody left. She could hear Nick and Amanda in interrogation—the speaker was off, but she could hear their muffled voices through the wall. They were close by, they could walk in at any moment, but they won’t, she would hear them, they won’t come in. And the blinds were closed, all the blinds were closed, nobody could see into her office. So if she wanted to kiss Elliot Stabler on her sofa, who was going to know? Who was going to get hurt?

The only one with potential to get hurt here is her, and if she’s going to get hurt, she might as well get her hands on him first.

That’s what she’d thought when she’d let him kiss her mouth, his tongue hot and eager against her own. She loves the way he kisses, can’t get enough of it (doesn’t have nearly enough chances to experience it, they need to make more time for each other…). So she’d let him kiss her mouth, and then she’d let him kiss her throat, and then Elliot’s mouth had been on that spot that makes her tremble, makes her wet, and she’d yanked the jacket of his stupid, sexy three-piece suit off his shoulders so that she could slide her hands over the muscles there unimpeded. Less impeded, anyway.

He was still wearing too many clothes.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” she’d gasped, his teeth biting down against that spot behind her ear. She’d felt her skin go hot and her nipples go hard. She’d wanted him to touch her. To put his mouth on her, to fuck her. Right here, now, in her office at the precinct with her detectives on the other side of the wall.

But he was still wearing too many clothes.

She’d yanked at the buttons of his vest, shivering at the way his beard tickled against her throat as he murmured, “I want to see all of you, Liv. Want you so much.”

She’d nodded, and then, well.

Things had changed.

All of a sudden, he’d been naked to the waist, and so had she, their shirts and his vest, and her bra discarded God knows where. That hot mouth had been on her nipple, sucking and sucking and swirling his tongue, and she’d been moaning and gasping and cradling the back of his bald head in her palm.

She doesn’t usually do this, she has never done this, but she is about to do this. She knows she is, there’s no stopping it now.

She’s about to have sex with Elliot Stabler, in her office.

She is a professional, and she does not do things like this, but his tongue is on her other nipple now and his hand is down the front of her pants, and she is wet, and eager, and she wants him, and there’s no stopping it.

“El, please, I need…”

He looks up from her breast, one full mound cupped in his palm, the tip of his tongue flicking against the hard peak once before he asks, “What do you need, Liv? What can I do?”

She feels like she’s burning up, feels hot, everywhere he touches her. She doesn’t know how to answer his question, because she needs everything. Needs his fingers deep inside her to the knuckle, and his tongue licking her clit in tight little circles, and cock inside her, making her feel full and satisfied until she breaks for him.

He sucks her nipple again, slow and hot.

Olivia lets out a desperate little whine, then tells him, “On your knees.”

Elliot grins at her. Cocky and sure and eager.

And then her pants are gone.

She’s bareassed on the sofa in her office, naked as the day she was born, her legs spread wide. One foot on the coffee table, one foot planted in the sofa cushions and her head tilting back on a moan as Elliot does to her clit what he’d just been doing to her breasts. He sucks slow, and hard, and she quakes, feels it flash through her in a brilliant wave of heat and she’s not even coming yet, God, she’s not even close. He holds onto her thighs the way she likes, grips them firmly and holds her open for him, and she feels powerless to stop him but so safe she’d never want to.

She arches her hips toward him, moaning (his beard tickles there too; she likes it), but he shakes his head, his “Mm-mm,” muffled by her slick flesh in his mouth. One arm moves to hold her hips down, hold her still, his fingers tightening on her other thigh right before he switches to hard flicks of his tongue against her sensitive bud.

Olivia shrieks at the sudden onslaught of sharper pleasure, her hips trying to jerk but the iron bar of his arm across her hips keeps her restrained. God, he’s so fucking strong, it’s so fucking sexy, she feels like she’s going to overheat.

She gasps his name, “El!” and then, “Fingers!” and then they’re in her. Two fingers, deep and quick, his left arm still pinning her waist while his right hand finds her g-spot with expert precision and fucks her just the way she needs.

“I’m gonna come!” she gasps, because she feels it, feels close, feels pleasure radiating out from every hard thump of his fingers in just the right spot.

Elliot grins up at her from between her thighs and tells her, “I know, Liv. You feel so good. So close. Is this what you like?”

It’s three fingers then, thick and stretching her just enough, and Olivia shakes with the pleasure, nods quickly and sucks in a breath and lets it out on a moan, and tells him “Yesss, I like this.”

“I wanna learn everything you like,” Elliot tells her, his voice like gravel, low and rough, and aroused. He wants her just as much as she wants him, and it’s thrilling. “Tell me what else you like, Liv.”

“You in me,” she gasps. “Fucking me—please, El, I’m close.”

“How would you know you like that?” he asks her. “You’ve never had it.”

And that can’t be right (it’s right, it is, but it doesn’t feel right now, with his fingers taking her apart bit by bit).

She meets his gaze, brown on blue, both heated and a little too far gone as she challenges, “So show me.”

He’s inside her in seconds, his knee on the sofa between her spread thighs, his cock so hard and so thick, pressing into her slowly so she can feel every single inch of him as he buries himself to the hilt. He kisses her, hard and hot, all that tongue and the taste of them mingled together in her mouth. And then he’s moving, thrusting fast and deep and asking her if she loves it like she thought she would.

She can’t think, she’s so close, so fucking close, just a little more and she’ll come.

He’s bent over her, his arms wound beneath hers, hands curled around her shoulders, holding her steady as he pounds into her, and it’s divine, it’s so good, she gasps More! and Elliot! and Fuck, deeper, get deeper, and he does, Jesus, he does, she can feel him everywhere, can hear him grunting and panting in her ear. Her name, and how much he loves her and that he’s always wanted this and how good she feels and—

Her phone rings, the familiar trill of her ringtone echoing from the coffee table and she turns her head toward it, but Elliot grinds out a firm, “No, Olivia,” and ups his pace, tightens his grip on her shoulders. “Not til you come for me.”

It slaps heat right through the middle of her, makes her feel even closer, even hotter, God, she’s so close, and she tells him, hears herself tell him, “Close, oh God, El, I’m—”

“I know,” he gruffs into her ear. “Just come.”

Her phone rings again, is still ringing, and Olivia squeezes her eyes shut, focusing on the feel of him, on the pleasure sparking hot and shocking between her thighs, she’s so close.

She opens her eyes again, and everything is dark.

Her phone rings, loud and shrill, and she’s panting, and sweating, and—fuck, alone.

She’s in her bed, sheets twisted, heart pounding, and her fucking phone is ringing.

She rolls, groping for it, disoriented both by the sudden shift from dream to reality and by the way her body is very much still in that dream. She’s hot and slick between her thighs, throbbing, aching, clenching, she’d been so close to coming.

If the person on the other end of that ringing line isn’t Elliot Stabler, she’s going to commit a murder. (Even if it is, what’s she supposed to do about it? She can’t tell him, they’re supposed to be working on their friendship.)

She squints into the dark, sees Chief McGrath on her phone and scowls.

Murder is definitely sounding like a good option.

Olivia clears her throat, tries not to sound like she’s as breathless as she is, and answers, “Benson.”

Chapter Text

“I like this bra,” Elliot murmurs to her as his broad palms cup her breasts, and Olivia scoffs quietly. There is, as far as she’s concerned, nothing much for him to like about this particular piece of underwear. “Is it new?”

It is, coincidentally, but that’s not why he’s never seen it before. He’s never seen it before because they’ve only been doing this—sex, dating, whatever this is (they’ve yet to define it, now that they’ve redefined it)—for a few months and they’d learned quickly that if they were going to carve out time together, they were going to have to schedule it in advance. Work it around dance classes, and tutoring, and indoor soccer practices, and parent-teacher night—not to mention the long hours of SVU and OCCB. And because they schedule all of their dates (even the ones that could only loosely be called such, the ones where the only things being eaten are, well, them), she schedules all of her lingerie.

She doesn’t need to impress him, but she wants to. Wears soft lace or temping sheers. Things that make her feel sexy. Things that make his breath catch. Once, when they’d planned to meet at the end of a day she’d known would be very long and very tiring, she’d worn simple black cotton—but it’d had an underwire, and demi-cut cups that framed her tits nicely.

She has never, not once, worn something like this.

But he wasn’t supposed to be here tonight—had stopped by, just because. Because she’d been texting him all day (whenever she could spare a minute) to gripe about McGrath, and because he’d been dealing with a particularly sticky assignment this week that had turned out fine—but just barely. He’d wanted to see her, had wanted them to see each other.

So he’d shown up at her apartment at quarter-to-eleven, unannounced, and Olivia hadn’t had a chance to plan her underwear. Hadn’t had a chance to plan anything, because her doorman knows him by now and had let Elliot up without calling to let her know; he’d insisted he wanted to surprise her with the bouquet of bodega carnations currently soaking up water in a souvenir Yankees cup on her countertop and Arturo had obliged him.

She’d answered the door in leggings and a cardigan, in a messy bun with her glasses perched on top of her head, and she’s not embarrassed about that (he’s certainly seen her look worse, back when they were partners), but she doesn’t feel particularly sexy.

And there is nothing—absolutely nothing—sexy about her bra.

She’d put it on after her post-work shower, because it’s comfortable and supportive. Because it feels like she’s wearing nothing, doesn’t dig into her shoulders or press against her ribs. It is cotton. It is beige. It is unlined, and soft, and pulls on over her head rather than clasping at her spine—a racerback with cups that cross over each other in the front. A bralette more than a bra (but bralettes sound like something worn by twenty-somethings whose breasts are still perky, who haven’t had to deal with things like menopause and the weight gain that comes with months spent with uncooperative limbs).

She loves this bra, but she loves it for herself. Loves that it’s surprisingly supportive, loves that it’s soft, loves that it is comfortable. It is the warm, cozy blanket of bras, and she loves it so much that she’d ordered three more (black, dove grey, emerald green) after the first one arrived. But she cannot fathom a single reason why Elliot would like it.

They’re on her sofa, Olivia straddling his lap, that cardigan she’d been wearing long discarded on the floor, the two bottles of beer she’s shocked she’d even had in the back of the fridge sitting half-empty on her coffee table. They’re too busy drinking each other in to bother with them. Warm, unhurried kisses, and languid, grazing touches. He smells like faded cologne, and tastes like cinnamon gum and pumpkin ale (she’s pretty sure that beer was from Thanksgiving). His hands are warm and soft against her, and his erection is hard and tempting beneath her, but despite the hour, neither one of them is in a particular hurry tonight.

Tonight, they’re just enjoying each other. Just winding down after a long day.

Tonight, Elliot has been skimming his palms underneath her tank top, up her spine, tracing his thumbs over the heavy curves of her breasts through that comfy cotton bralette. She’s been kissing his neck, enjoying the way it makes him gasp softly, grazing her nails across the back of his neck because she’s learned it makes him grind his hips up against hers and press his hard cock against her sensitive clit.

And moments ago, he’d lifted that tank top, intent on drawing it off and losing it to the floor with her cardigan, but Olivia had stopped him, reminding him: “Noah.”

He’s sound asleep, but she’s not taking any chances. She’s not risking him waking up with a bellyache or wandering into the kitchen in search of water and finding his mother topless on the couch.

Elliot had frowned, but he hadn’t argued, had just pressed it up into her armpits and let his fingers graze gently over the cups of her sensible bra, his touch whispering over her hard nipples before he palmed her and told her that he liked it. Asked if it was new.

She swallows and tells him, “Yes, actually, but it’s… nothing special.”

Elliot’s brows rise slightly, doubting her, but his attention never strays from where his thumbs are grazing over her nipples again. Maybe that is what he likes about it. That it’s thin enough her stiff nipples are poking beneath the fabric. That he can feel how much she’s enjoying this, that he can see it. His thumbs caress her in tight circles, focused on the sensitive tips until she gasps softly, toes curling in her fuzzy socks.

And then he looks up at her, mischievous and sly. One of those thumbs reaches over, hooking around soft material and dragging one of the cups effortlessly to the side, baring her breast as his other hand slides around to her spine and presses her closer as he ducks his head.

“I think it’s great,” he tells her, just before his hot mouth covers her stiff nipple and oh… His tongue swirls against her, and then his lips are sucking languidly, giving her long, slow pulls that have her breath stuttering in her throat.

Easy access, she realizes. That is what he likes.

It had never occurred to her just how easy it would be for a lover to get her tits out, to get his mouth on her—and just how easy it will be to cover herself again quickly if the need arises. She adds it to the long list of reasons she loves this bra, and sinks into his attention with an indulgent sigh, her palm cupping the back of his head.

“Keep doing that,” she breathes, and he stops—that bastard. Lets her nipple go with a soft, wet sound to look up at her and ask if it feels good—like he doesn’t already know, like he can’t tell. She scowls down at him, but there’s no heat in it, one side of her mouth curving up in a smirk as she asks him, “What part of ‘keep doing that’ did you take to mean ‘stop and ask me questions’?”

Elliot snorts, mutters, “Bossy,” and dips his head to her breast again, the tip of his tongue flicking softly against her.

“Comes with being the boss,” she sighs, her thumb stroking against the back of his head, his short hair tickling against her skin.

“Nah,” he tells her, giving her a quick, firm suck. “You were always bossy.”

Olivia scoffs and whaps the back of his head gently, the breath of his answering laugh making goosebumps rise on her skin. She’s about to think of a suitably acerbic retort when he snags the other cup and pulls it to the side, too, covering her neglected nipple with his mouth while his fingers find the one he’d left spit-splicked and aching. He sucks and squeezes in tandem and Olivia has to fight not to moan loudly.

She manages a low, needy, “Ohhh…” instead, her fingers finding Elliot’s shoulders and fisting in the material of his shirt, her hips pressing down against his and grinding over the solid length of him.

They should move this to the bedroom so they can get out of all these clothes.

And she’ll suggest that in just a minute, she thinks, but right now—Jesus—right now his mouth is doing things that make her head spin. Right now, she’s going to let him keep doing this, keep rolling her nipple firmly between his thumb and forefinger while his tongue dances and flicks against the other. Going to keep grinding on him and drawing soft moans out of each of them, his hips working against hers now, one strong hand anchored on her hip and holding her steady as he presses up harder, his hips moving in steady, tantalizing rolls that drag him over where she’s so sensitive again and again.

If they keep this up, she’s going to come on his lap, and the thought makes her cheeks flush with heat. It’s been a while since they’ve settled for grinding each other off—not since they finally fell into bed together and discovered how well he fits inside her, how well they move together. Tonight feels like those early days, when there was so much want. When they were taking things slow and discovering each other one kiss, one touch at a time.

Maybe they’ll stay here on the couch a little longer.

Olivia moans and moves against him, acutely aware of how slick she’s gotten, of how sensitive her clit is, of the way her nipples are aching now, of how the way he’s swirling the flat of his tongue around her peak in slow circles is enough to make her clench.

He presses a soft kiss to one nipple, then the other, switching his attentions—licking where he’d been squeezing, tugging where he’d been sucking.

Olivia whines. It’s an undignified sound, high and needy, but she can’t help it.

Elliot drags his tongue over her again and then tips his head up, his hand rising to cup the back of her head and draw her lips down to his for one of those hot, tongue-filled kisses that makes her belly go molten.

Her nipples feel cold in the absence of his heat, and the rough timbre of his voice does things to her when he murmurs against her lips, “Love how sensitive you get when I play with your nipples.” He kisses her again, adds, “Love the sounds you make. Drives me crazy.”

Her cheeks flush hot again, half-embarrassment, half-flattery. She’s been trying to be quiet, but she knows she hasn’t been silent. Has been letting out little moans and sighs and sounds of pleasure. She feels hot everywhere, sensitive everywhere, and the pleasure has to go somewhere. She can’t possibly hold it all inside her, not when they’re together like this.

Not when she’s confessing, “I’m close,” and he’s running his hands back to her breasts, cupping them in his palms, kneading them gently before he promises that he’s got her, he’ll take care of her.

And then his mouth is on her breast again, giving her quick, pulsing sucks while he uses both hands to hold her hips tight to his and grind up into her hard and quick. She feels goosebumps flare on her skin, the hair prickling at her nape, and then it rises up in her like a wave. Olivia has to cover her mouth with her own hand to muffle the moan that breaks free as pleasure swoops through her; Elliot moans, too, a low appreciative sound that she barely notices as she tries to breathe, as she rocks her hips against his and presses her breast against him, trying to draw every drop of pleasure she can from him.

They’re still grinding slowly when he drags her back to his mouth again, sweeping his tongue into her mouth with a needy groan. She’s a little breathless, but she manages to keep up, manages to breathe a single word into the space between kisses: “Bedroom.”

He nods into the kiss, tugging the soft fabric of her bra back over her breasts and before he grabs her beneath her ass and rises to his feet in one fluid motion. Olivia squeaks with surprise—she’s still not used to how fucking strong he is these days. She’d expected to crawl off his lap and walk him back to her bedroom, not to be locking her ankles behind his hips as he stumbles them blindly in the right direction. She holds tight to his shoulders and prays he doesn’t drop her or trip over something, breathing a sigh of relief when her back hits the mattress.

She’s feeling languid and floaty, post-orgasmic, but he’s needy now, his hands reaching for her leggings and tugging them down past her rear before she’s even let go of him. She lets him strip the snug material off her legs, wriggles out of that tank top and that bra they’re both so fond of while Elliot makes quick work of his pants, and then he’s leaning over her, pressing into her, tugging her hips right to the edge of the mattress and hooking her knees over his elbows as he sinks in deep.

They moan in tandem—he feels big like this (he is big, always), and she’s still sensitive from her orgasm, still wet and hot. When he starts moving in her, every stroke drags him right over her g-spot, and it’s good. Exactly what she’s needed, what she’d wanted since they were grinding on the sofa.

Elliot,” she moans, the force of his cock knocking the breath out of her for a second.

“Feels so fucking good,” he breathes, in that reverent tone he sometimes uses when they’re together like this. Like he can’t quite believe it. (She knows the feeling.)

She sighs, “Mmhmm,” and drags her palms up his forearms, over his biceps, her head tipping back as he starts to move faster, speeds up, presses deep and starts giving her short, sharp thrusts. She gasps, pleasure coiling low in her belly. He’s close already—she can see it in the furrow of his brow, in the way he digs his teeth into his bottom lip, the way his breath rushes out and holds and rushes out. She knows his tells now, and that knowledge thrills her just as much as the relentless pleasure of him inside of her.

It doesn’t take long for either of them after that. Olivia sneaks a hand in between them and rubs her clit in tight, firm circles, and Elliot moans and speeds up in response. The tips of his ears go red, his neck flushes, and he gasps her name desperately. Elliot spills over first, but only just, her orgasm chasing his by seconds. It’s not as intense as the first, but the feel of him inside her as she clenches and trembles makes it sweeter, more intimate, and by the time the waves of pleasure have receded, they’re locked in breathless, wet kisses.

When he starts to go soft, they finally separate, trading one last, gentle kiss before Elliot pulls out of her, and Olivia scurries off to the bathroom to pee and clean up. When she comes back to the bedroom, he’s stretched out on her mattress, slacks pulled up to his waist again but still undone, and something about the sight of him in her bed hits her right in the chest.

There are words on the tip of her tongue—words she hasn’t said yet, words she’s pretty sure he’s waiting for her to say first after the disastrous way he’d let them slip right after his return. She swallows them down one more time, tells herself it’s too soon (reminds herself it’s been twenty-odd years), and tugs her t-shirt back on, fishes her underwear from her leggings and slips those on too before she climbs into bed.

“Can you stay?” she asks. He doesn’t always, but she usually knows beforehand whether she’s going to have to let him go at the end of the night. His unexpected arrival tonight had left everything up in the air.

“I don’t have clothes,” he points out, rolling to face her and draping an arm over her belly. “But I can stay til morning and go home to change.”

It’s good enough, she decides, and before long, they’re wrapped up together in the dark, his slacks and shirt folded neatly on her dresser, his body pressed warmly against her back. She’s hovering somewhere just above sleep, lulled by the steady wash of his breath against her shoulder, when she decides maybe she should clear out some space for him here. A few hangers in her closet for a clean suit, and half a drawer for some underwear and socks.

They’ll nestle in nicely right next to her sensible bras.