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She wants to have sex with Elliot Stabler.

She’s wanted to for weeks (months, years, decades), but right now, tonight, while he has her once again pressed into soft sofa cushions, his long, broad body covering her, his thigh wedged tightly between both of hers as they rock, and grind, and kiss, she really, really wants to have sex with Elliot Stabler.

There’s just one problem: her son is asleep just a few yards away behind his closed bedroom door.

Her son, who doesn’t know she and Elliot are dating.

Her son, who has no memory of her actually dating anyone.

The last man she’d dated was Ed, and thankfully Noah had been so young that he’d had no idea what sex was, so she hadn’t had to worry quite so much. If once or twice she’d gotten loud enough to be heard through the thin apartment walls, he wouldn’t have known what he was hearing anyway. But he isn’t a toddler anymore; he is old enough now to know what sex is, and old enough for them both to need therapy if he hears her moaning and groaning, and Olivia doesn’t want to have to be quiet the first time she has sex with Elliot Stabler.

She has a feeling (an informed opinion, based on the few times they’ve ended up just like this and worked themselves into a gasping, moaning, orgasmic frenzy) that the first time they have sex, it’s going to be earth-shaking and she can’t bear the idea of having to hold herself back in any way.

Elliot knows this; they’ve discussed it. Have decided that they’ll save themselves for a night when they can get Noah out of the house (it’s easier to pawn off her one roommate than his three, after all). The problem is, they haven’t really been able to do that. Asking Lucy to take him would require coming up with some kind of excuse for Noah, and she doesn’t want to lie to him. With the latest COVID surge still waning, she’s reluctant to pack him off to a sleepover with anyone outside of their immediate bubble. Last week, she’d made arrangements with Amanda to have him spend the night with her and the girls (Amanda had given her a smirking side-eye, seeing right through Liv’s excuse that she feels bad he hasn’t really been able to socialize with other kids in weeks), but Jesse had come down with a 24-hour stomach bug and they’d had to cancel.

So.

Here they are.

Making out on her couch like a couple of horny teenagers again, Elliot’s hand up her shirt, cupping her breast and thumbing her bra out of the way to stroke over a firm nipple as they trade deep, wet kisses. Doomed to spend another night grinding it out until they can’t take it anymore. The last time, she’d reached between them after she came, tugging at his button and fly, slipping her hand in to wrap around him (he was thick, and hot, and it had made her mouth water and her belly clench). He’d been close already, so it had only taken a few firm strokes to have him spilling onto the soft skin of her belly, a greedy groan ripping from him and a look of rapture on his face that she doesn’t think she’ll forget as long as she lives.

He’d reached above her head to grab a tissue from the box on the end table and thanked her for sparing him another pair of pants; she’d snorted and wiped his semen off of her, frowning at the few drops that had smeared against the bottom hem of her rucked-up blouse.

She wants to get her hands on him again—and knows she can’t let him come in his pants tonight. He has to drive home, after all. The last time they’d done this here, he’d ducked into the bathroom to finish himself off after she’d come, and she’d immediately regretted not following. She’s not letting that happen again. But giving him a handjob in the living room is a risky proposition. As mortifying as it would be to be caught by Kathleen or Bernie (Eli sleeps like the dead, thank God), Noah stumbling sleepily into the living room to find his mother with a dick in her hand would send every single one of them to an early grave, she’s sure of it.

Elliot lifts his head suddenly, teeth dragging over her bottom lip as he pulls away. He frowns down at her and her brow knits. They’re both breathless as he tells her, “I can hear you thinking. Which means I’m not doing my job very well.”

Olivia chuckles warmly and shakes her head, admitting, “I’m just getting ahead of myself.” Elliot tilts his head, questioning. “Trying to come up with a solution to our problem.”

“Our problem?”

“Mhmm,” she nods. “I don’t want to stop, and I don’t want you to escape to the bathroom, and I definitely can’t let you whip it out in my living room with my son home. But I also want you to be able to walk through my lobby and not have to drive home… damp.”

Elliot smirks, nose nuzzling against hers for a moment, his lips close to hers when he murmurs, “Good thing I came prepared, then.”

“Oh?”

“There’s a fresh pair of underwear in my jacket pocket,” he admits, and Olivia snorts a little laugh.

“Presumptuous,” she accuses; he just shrugs.

“Figured if I didn’t need ‘em tonight, I can leave them for next time,” he tells her, and she can’t argue with that. “Now, stop thinking.”

Crisis averted, she vows to do just that, especially when he slides his fingers into her hair and uses his grip to tug her head to the side, dropping his mouth to the sensitive spot behind her ear. Olivia drags her crotch up against the firm muscle of his thigh, gasping quietly at the firm friction. His other hand drops down to her hip, slides around to her ass and holds her against him as he rocks, and rocks, and rocks, and Olivia feels her skin go hot.

God, she wants him.

Wants more than this, wants everything, but for tonight this will have to be enough. Tonight, she’ll have to be satisfied with reaching down to grab his ass in kind, both of them holding tight as they move together.

She feels like she’s burning up. Always does, with him, like this. With their bodies pressed close, his like a furnace, his mouth, his hands, his torso all hot against her. She loves it.

He makes her feel sexy, and wanted, and wanton. Makes her ache.

She breathes his name as the hand in her hair wanders down again, delving beneath her shirt to seek out her nipple again. He tugs the cup of her bra all the way down, palms her breast (his hand is warm, and a little rough, and she arches into the touch), and squeezes gently. She wants to feel him everywhere. Wants his mouth on her. He hasn’t kissed her anywhere lower than the open vee of her button-down blouse yet (it’s one thing to get caught necking, it’s another to get caught half-dressed), and she wants him to, desperately. Wants to feel him suck and lick at her nipples the way he’s sucking and licking at her neck.

The thought makes her hitch her hips against his again, a low moan breaking free. Jesus, God, they have to find a free night soon or she’s gonna lose her mind.

She wants to touch him, wants to feel the dips and ridges of his muscled torso, so she lets go of his ass and skims her hand up under the front of his t-shirt. (He’d shown up in a dark blue zip-up hoodie, but that’s long gone, discarded to the floor around the same time he’d gone wandering under her top.) She gets greedy, running her palm up over his waist, his ribs, up to his pectoral. That cotton t-shirt bunches up, up, up, and then his bare belly is pressed against hers, and that’s it.

She can’t take this anymore. They’re not having sex tonight, she’s adamant about that, but if she doesn’t get more of her skin against his soon she might combust.

She breathes, “Fuck, I can’t do this anymore, El,” and he nips at her throat, presses a soft kiss there, and lifts his head to frown down at her.

“What d’you mean?”

She lets her palm descend again in a slow caress, murmuring, “We have to take this to the bedroom; I can’t spend another night not touching you, it’s driving me crazy.”

His frown blooms into a smug smirk, his gaze raking down to the space between them (how he can make her feel so naked when she’s fully clothed and pressed snugly against him from the belly down is beyond her, but he looks at her like he’s imagining every bare inch of her).

“What about Noah?” he asks; it warms her that he cares. “Thought you wanted to wait.”

“I do,” she tells him. “For sex. But if we take this behind closed doors, we can at least get rid of all of these damn clothes.”

His teeth sink into his bottom lip and he’s looking at her like he thinks that’s a very good idea.

Thank God.

He presses into her, and she can feel him hard and easy against her hip.

His voice is low—his bedroom voice, she knows now (and God, she loves that she knows that now)—when he teases, “Gonna let me get to third base, Benson?”

Her lips curve, hands stroking along his hips to his lower back. She pitches her own voice lower when she tells him, “Yes, I am, Detective.”

He swallows heavily at that, a little bit of his swagger fading. She’s not sure if he hadn’t actually expected her to say yes or if the idea of actually getting to go there with Olivia makes him as excitedly anxious as it makes her.

Either way, he dips his head down to steal another kiss from her lips, brief and bruising, before he pulls back and levers up onto his knee, announcing, “Right. Let’s go,” and rising to his feet.

As always, his absence makes her shiver. He reaches out a hand for her and she takes it eagerly, letting him pull her to her feet as her belly starts to somersault with nervous anticipation. She keeps their fingers locked together as she leads him to the bedroom, pausing by Noah’s door for a moment just to peek in on him. He’s sound asleep, one arm flung over his head, his mouth hanging open as he snores softly.

Perfect.

“He a heavy sleeper?” Elliot asks her quietly after she’s eased the door shut.

“Enough,” she tells him. “He’s not Eli.”

“Pretty sure we could have sex on top of Eli and he wouldn’t wake up,” Elliot jokes, and Olivia grimaces, telling him that’s not an image anybody needs.

Elliot snorts, his fingers squeezing against hers as they step into the dark of her bedroom. She flips the light on, then immediately wishes she hadn’t. The ceiling light isn’t too bright, but it’s brighter than she wants for the mood she’s in. So she flips it off and lets go of Elliot’s hand, urging, “Lock the door.”

He waits, letting her rely on the spill of light from the hallway to guide her as she crosses to her bedside table and switches the light on there. It’s softer, more forgiving. More romantic.

She hears the click of the door a second later, the soft sound of Elliot settling both their phones on her dresser just after that. (He’d pocketed them both right after she stood—keeping them close by a hazard of the job that they’re both more than used to by now.)

It’s quiet, almost too quiet, and she thinks they need a buffer. Something to distract her from the racing gallop of her own heart and to muffle the sound of them in case Noah does wake up. She gestures for her phone, and he hands it over with a raised brow, his skepticism melting away as she taps the screen a few times, hitting shuffle on her Fleetwood Mac playlist and punching the volume up just enough that whatever sounds they make will be hidden beneath it as long as they don’t get too wild.

As she sets the phone on her nightstand, his hands brush against her shoulders and she jumps slightly; she hadn’t realized he’d gotten so close.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, his voice low as he steps even closer and presses up against her back, his fingertips skimming down her biceps, her elbows, toward her wrists.

The touch makes her breath catch, and she has to clear her throat and try again when she tells him, “It’s okay.” Her first attempt had come out as little more than a rasp. Their fingers weave and tangle and close around each other, and then his arms are wrapping around her waist, holding her to him, and Olivia lets her weight sink back against the sturdy pillar of him.

She’s still getting used to this—to being held by him. To the freedom and safety of it.

She lets out a little sigh, and then another as he presses a kiss to her hair, skims his nose along the shell of her ear, nuzzles into the side of her neck to graze his lips there, too. She tilts her head to give him better access, closing her eyes to drink in the feel of him.

They’d been eager and too hot on the sofa, but the change in venue seems to have shifted them into a lower gear, extended their patience.

She still wants to touch all of him, to feel him pressed against her, both of them naked from tip to toe, but it doesn’t feel as urgent now. They have all night.

He’s still pressing gentle kisses along the sensitive skin of her neck, nosing her hair out of the way, raising goosebumps in his wake. Olivia sighs, again, shivering at the tickle of his lips when he murmurs, “Have I told you tonight how good you smell?”

Her lips quirk up into a satisfied smirk, her voice equally low as she all but whispers, “No, you haven’t.”

She’d changed her go-to scent a few times in the years he’d been gone, and a few weeks ago, he’d mentioned it. Told her that whatever she was wearing now smelled amazing. No, sultry. That’s the word he’d used—a word that had made her toes curl and her belly go warm. She wasn’t used to Elliot Stabler calling her sultry.

But she liked it, and she liked knowing that he wanted her—that she could do things to make him want her even more—so she’d taken to reapplying every time she knew she was about to see him.

It’s paying off, if the way he bites gently at the crook of her neck and shoulder is any indication. His teeth don’t even sink in, just press against her skin and then graze shut. The sensation streaks through her, a shiver racing along her skin, her nipples going tight and hard instantly.

She moans, and he chuckles quietly, and then he’s reaching their joined hands down to the bottom hem of her top and drawing it up, up, asking her softly, “Is this okay?”

Olivia nods, breathes, “God, yes,” and together they draw the soft material up and over her head. It puddles at the floor by her feet and their fingers break apart, one of his hands drawing her hair over her shoulder to bare one side of her neck (she shivers, again, more goosebumps flaring over the skin of her neck, her chest, her arms), the other cupping her shoulder gently, then tracing feather-light down the strap of her bra.

It’s nothing fancy. Simple white cotton, soft to the touch and unlined, her hard nipples obvious beneath the thin material.

She swallows, thickly, the barely-there touches sending all her nerve endings into overdrive. It feels wonderful to be caressed like this. Soft touches, and soft kisses that fall on her shoulder now, her neck, the soft exhale of his breath as she watches his fingertips trail down across a trio of faded, circular scars that are half-hidden by her bra strap. They’ve had The Talk, he knows what happened to her, knows to expect the evidence of it on her skin. He hasn’t seen her yet, but he’d promised not to make A Thing of it, and he doesn’t, his touch unwavering as it descends until he can cup her in his palms. His other hand has caught up, both thumbs circling lazily over her stiff peaks; Olivia exhales and bites her lip at the subtle pleasure of the teasing touches.

His fingers close around them and he squeezes lightly, his name falling from her lips on a hitching breath. He does it again and her head drops back to his shoulder for a second, her hands reaching back to grip at his denim-covered hips.

He’s wearing too many clothes. They’re both wearing too many clothes.

Olivia lets him give her nipples one more languid tug, then she turns in his arms, shoving his shirt up his ribs, murmuring, “Need this off, I wanna feel you.” He nods, swallowing heavily, and letting her yank it up and off, his broad palms finding their way to her back and swooping up along her spine as their noses bump and their mouths fuse. It’s one of those devastating kisses, one of the toe-curling ones, with plenty of tongue and gasping breaths, and then he’s fiddling with the clasp of her bra, giving it a little tug. Asking permission, she thinks, so she nods and moans softly into the kiss; he pops the clasp easily, the kiss never faltering as he tugs it down, off, discards it somewhere on the floor with the rest of their clothes, and then, finally, god, finally, she can feel him.

His warm skin against her breasts, the smattering of hair on his chest tickling her nipples, and she lets out a noise that’s high and desperate, surging against him, arms winding around his neck as she plasters herself against him, his belly breathing into hers, and God, God, he feels so good.

She’s not the only one affected, he’s moaning quietly, too, their bodies swaying, rocking back and forth. She doesn’t realize he’s turning them until he sinks onto the mattress, the cool air of her bedroom feeling stark and shocking in the wake of his heat as the move separates their torsos for just a minute before he parts his knees and draws her in close again.

They never stop kissing, mouths rending and sewing, tongues tangling, lips wet.

She presses herself all up against him again, and then his hands are full of her, groping, cupping, squeezing, and his mouth breaks away from hers on a groan of her name, hot kisses streaking down her neck, her collar, the top of her chest as he grinds out, “I gotta…”

His mouth covers her nipple, and they both react—Olivia gasping her pleasure, Elliot groaning his satisfaction. He licks her, and his tongue is magic, even here, swiping over one stiff peak and then laving his way to the other, leaving a damp strip to cool on her heated skin. Her breath is heaving, his fingers cradling her full breasts again, feeling the weight of them; he sucks at her right nipple and she whines. God, she wants his mouth everywhere. Everywhere.

Wants him to kiss every fucking inch of her. She feels desperate again, urgent again, needy again.

Fuck. God.

He sucks at her nipple and she sucks in a deep breath through her nose, and one thing is perfectly clear: They cannot have sex right now. She’ll scream.

It’s not just her; Elliot isn’t faring any better.

He’s panting, hard, circling her with his tongue again, his voice thick as he tells her, “God, Liv, I’ve wanted to do this for so long. Too long. I always tried not to be a creep about it when you’d wear those low-cut tops, but—” He moans, cups her breasts in his hands until her cleavage swells and then he sucks kisses into the generous swells like he’s been dying to do it for two decades.

She rakes her teeth over her bottom lip, tempted to tell him not to leave marks, but screw it—it’s cold enough out that she can wear a turtleneck or just button herself up a little higher. She wants him to mark her, to suck a little red mark into her skin like he’s doing right now, so she can see it in the morning and remember the feel of his mouth on her.

Then he’s sucking at her nipple again, she’s letting out a quiet, high moan, one hand clutching his shoulder, the other cupping the back of his head and holding him to her. “Keep doing that,” she gasps; he moans his agreement and she feels it vibrate against her sensitive skin. Her knees go a little weak, and then his tongue is swirling, his lips pulling, his tongue again, and, God, she thinks she could come just from this if he kept it up long enough.

He sucks at her again, hard this time, his teeth dragging against her skin as he pulls her in, opening his mouth to take her deeper. She gasps sharply, her belly shaking with pleasure, her grip tightening, another whine breaking free as he draws back, sucking harder, and shit, God, pleasure sparks a straight line down to her clit. He does the same thing to her other breast and her head drops back, her voice raspy and rough. “Oh God, El…”

She needs him. Needs more. Needs him to never stop doing this.

One of his hands leaves her chest to skate down and grope her ass, squeezing, kneading, his fingers sliding in toward the crack of her ass. They swoop down just low enough to tease along the crease where her rear meets her upper thigh, and she’s sensitive there. Ticklish, but in the best way. A shiver races up her spine, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end; he draws his fingers back and forth lightly, and Jesus, how does he know? She feels her thigh quiver, feels her insides clench, feels wet. She’d been torn between wanting him to stay exactly where he was and wanting to hurry things along, but that teasing touch has made the decision for her.

Her palms find his jaw, drawing him away from her breast, tilting his head back until she can plunder his mouth, kissing him deep, and hard, and desperate, as she climbs into his lap. He grips her knees and gives them a tug, pulling her flush against him. He’s stone hard, and she’s needy and sensitive, her breath hitching again when they grind together. Fuck, she’s going to come soon. She rolls her hips against his, can’t help it, she needs friction. Needs something, anything, against her clit.

But she doesn’t want to come like this, with her pants on, dry humping him yet again. It’s good, don’t get her wrong, it’s been fantastic, but she’s been making do with mostly indirect contact since that first night on his sofa, and she wants his fingers against her (in her), his tongue on her (in her).

He’s palming her ass again, squeezing, kneading, and then his fingers wander again, in, down, skimming her sit spots on both sides, and she bites. Digs her teeth into his bottom lip, and drags her clit over his length, letting go just to whine, “Elliot…

Their brows press and he strokes along that crease again, a little bit harder this time. Olivia lets out a high, breathy sound in the back of her throat.

“That feel good?” he asks, his voice private, and low, and deep. It does things to her.

She nods, and swallows, and he drags his fingers along her again (she wants to feel it on her bare skin, wants him to stroke, and tickle, and tease until she loses her damn mind).

“I can tell,” he says, and she doesn’t have to open her eyes to know he’s got that shit-eating grin on his face. He’s earned it, though, so she doesn’t pay it any mind, especially when he grazes the tip of his nose along the bridge of hers and then tells her, “I want to lick…right… here…” and drags his fingertips over her again.

Okay. Alright. That’s enough.

She shakes, her hands trembling as she nods and hisses, “Get my fucking pants off.”

Elliot chuckles, their hands bumping as the both reach between them to do exactly that. He tells her to let him, then grabs her by the ass again and stands, turning around and plopping her onto the mattress. She bounces a little, but then he’s yanking her pants and underwear down, adding them to the pile on the floor; she scoots back on the bed as he sheds his jeans, his hands finding her knees, stroking their way up her thighs.

Olivia frowns a little, noticing, “You still have your underwear on.”

He’s wearing grey boxer-briefs, his hard cock tenting the material, a dark damp spot near the head of his cock where he’s already leaking for her. She wants them off, wants to see him again, wrap her fingers around him again and feel the silky hardness of him.

Elliot gives her a lopsided smile and tells her, “I wanna do you first. Need a little restraint.”

Olivia sucks her bottom lip between her teeth, seeing his point, but still ready to protest. She never gets the chance; he squeezes her hips and urges, “Roll over, I’m on a mission.”

Right. Fuck. Right.

His underwear can wait, she decides, rolling onto her belly and enjoying the way his hands slide along her skin, never leaving as she shifts under him.

“So beautiful,” he sighs, and she flushes, presses her forehead into the mattress and clenches her fists in the comforter. She doesn’t always feel so beautiful naked these days—she’s not as fit as she once was. Her thighs are thicker and her belly is softer, and some days she doesn’t mind, but some days, she does. She’s wondered, a little, if he will. If she’ll live up to twenty-three years of fantasy, when she knows his fantasies didn’t include cellulite or stretch marks or scars. But he skims his fingertips down her spine and hums softly, touches her like she’s precious, dots wet, tongue-filled kisses down the column of her back, and Olivia feels gorgeous. Wanted. Sexy.

He moans softly, tells her he could look at her all day, and she inhales deeply—and then he nips her ass cheek, palms both in his broad hands, gives her a squeeze and then his tongue is on her and good God.

He laves it flat over that crease between ass and thigh, one broad stripe from inner thigh clear out toward her hip and Olivia groans, muffling it into the covers. And then he sucks his way back, a devastating row of kisses, his tongue swirling in the middle of each one. It makes her toes curl, makes her sex clench, she’s close and he’s barely touched her where it counts. This is insane.

He does the same thing on the other side, and she feels like she can’t get air (to be fair, that might have something to do with the way she’s crushed her face into the covers to absorb the mewling little moans she can’t help spilling as he runs the tip of his tongue along her again. Jesus).

She turns her head, pleads, “El…” not sure what she’s asking for, just, anything, anything…

“I’ve got you, baby,” he rumbles, pushing her thighs apart and settling right in between them. He hikes her hips up a little, grabs one of the pillows from the head of the bed and shoves it beneath her hips. She’s not sure she likes that, not sure she wants him to have that particular up-close-and-personal view. She’s not a prude, but her asshole is right there in his face and he’s barely gotten a good look at everything else.

Olivia squirms beneath him, breathes “Wait—” and wriggles from her belly to her back. Elliot moves back so she has the space to move, and she yanks the pillow from under her butt, wedging it beneath her head so she can look down at him. Much better, she thinks. Much sexier.

Less… pornographic.

He’s so fucking broad, she thinks, as he settles back down between her legs with an appreciative moan. His shoulders splay her thighs open, spreading them wide—she still feels very much on display, as it turns out, especially when he wraps one strong arm around her thigh and uses his fingers to spread her folds. The air feels cold where she’s hot and slick, and Olivia watches him lick his lips before he marvels, “God, you’re wet.”

Olivia nods, moaning her, “Mmhmm.” She doesn’t always get wet like this lately. She used to, a decade ago. Half a decade ago, even, she was hot and ready with relatively little stimulation, but for the last year or two things have felt different. Inconsistent. She blames stress, sometimes (between her job and a global pandemic, there’s been plenty of that), or boredom, sometimes (after all, it’s been just her and a couple of high-end, rechargeable sex toys since Ed), but she knows at the end of the day that part of it is time.

Her body doesn’t always listen to her, and she’s spent more than one night with her hand down her own pants trying and failing to ease her own tension.

But tonight? With him? Jesus, everything is working. She feels like she’s twenty-five again, raring and ready to go. When he drags his middle finger down to feel her, it drags over her clit and she jerks, pleasure zinging from his touch.

Please,” she breathes, not above begging him. “I’m close already.”

She’s done waiting, she cannot wait any longer. She needs this man to put his mouth on her before she expires.

She’s looking up at the ceiling now, curling her fingers in the covers again, and he’s pressing a kiss to the inside of each thigh, murmuring that he knows, and that he’ll take care of her, and then he drags his tongue right up the middle of her and she damn near shouts.

It’s a loud, “Oh!”, a cry of relief and intense, shocking pleasure.

Olivia is clutching the pillow, turning her face into it even before Elliot snickers and shushes her. She nods into the faux-down, and wriggles her hips a little to encourage him. Elliot hikes her thighs over his shoulders and bends his head back down to her, just licking her again, and God, has his tongue always been this wide? He flattens it against her, rubs it up and down over her clit and it feels divine. Olivia rocks her hips against it, against him, and his hands squeeze encouragingly at her thighs as he moans. He feels incredible, this feels incredible, and it takes a minute for her to realize he’s pretty much stopped moving and she’s just grinding on his face, riding his tongue, chasing her pleasure. The hand not holding the pillow close to muffle her litany of little, gasping moans is cupped against the back of his head again, holding him to her.

She gives him a little tug, panting and whining and pressing him closer (he cannot possibly get closer unless he gets that tongue inside her, and that’s not what she wants—not right now, anyway). Elliot squeezes her thighs again and starts to move in counterpoint to her rolling hips. His tongue feels like it’s fucking everywhere, and all he’s really doing is letting her work herself against him.

How is it this good?

She feels it starting, feels the prickle under her skin, feels the flush of heat. She gasps, “Oh, El, I’m—I’m—” and his mouth closes over her, his hands sliding from her thighs to her hips, holding her tight as he starts to suck at her clit, deep and slow. Her orgasm is immediate and stunning; she bites her pillow as she lets out a deep, shaky moan, trying not to cry out as the pleasure swamps her in waves, each pull of his lips making it surge again. Her pillowcase absorbs an Ohhh! and a Mmmnaaah and an uhh-mm!, all of it undignified and base and fucking fantastic.

He only eases off when she pats urgently at the back of his head, and even then, it’s just to press more kisses along her inner thighs, to resituate himself and reach between her thighs and ease a finger into her. She’s tight from her orgasm, but she’s still slippery—wetter than ever—so it sinks in easily, he pumps once, twice, then withdraws and she feels him slide into her again, once, twice, and then—oh—she realizes he’d been slicking up his two middle fingers because he sinks them both into her together. His fingers are thick and she’s still snug and a little tense, so they feel even bigger, feel good. Olivia blows out a breath as he curls his fingers inside her, a little whimper of pleasure breaking free.

“You need a little more?” he asks, and she does, fuck, she does. She still feels needy, her first orgasm only taking the edge off, so she nods, and breathes, Yeah…

He leaves her clit alone for now (thank God, she doesn't think she could handle more of that), and just works those fingers inside her, keep them bent and pressing again and again into her until pleasure blooms deep in her belly and she gasps, “Right there!”

“Right there?” he asks (she nods, frantically). She looks down at him and he is watching, his gaze hot and wanting and trained on the place where he keeps plunging his fingers in and out of her. Jesus, that’s hotter than it has any right to be. He’s always been so intense—intense in his devotion, his anger, his caring—and now, this. His gaze is unerring, focused, and then he rolls his wrist just so, the bend of his fingers stretching near her opening in a way that makes her breath catch just before his fingertips thump hard against her g-spot and, Oh. Oh, God…

She flames up, goes hot again, suddenly. “El, I’m—” She swallows hard, her fingers gripping the pillow so tight they ache, the soft cotton of her pillowcase pressed against her cheek. “I’m gonna come again,” she gasps, feels it barreling toward her, fast.

“Yeah?” His voice is soft, but hot. Sexy. She wants him to talk to her like that every damn day.

Elliot looks up at her, then, pins her with all that blue, a smug, satisfied glint behind heat and love, and she has to squeeze her eyes shut against it. She can’t handle him looking at her like that, while his hand is doing that.

With her eyes closed, though, she misses the way he leans in, is wholly unprepared for the feel of his tongue on her clit again, can barely muffle her little yelp of surprised ecstasy. Her jaw drops, a shaky, breathy Ohhhhh tumbling from her, and she’s fisting the sheets with her free hand, her nails digging in hard, and Jesus, Jesus, she can hear him, can hear the wet sound of his fingers moving in her, the soft slurping sucks over her clit, and she feels like the top of her head is about to blow off.

She grinds her head back into the pillow, moans his name, again, tense, like a warning, and then she breaks, coming hard, biting the pillow as moans catch in her throat and his fingers rock and press and stretch over and over and over, drawing it out, prolonging her pleasure until she starts to feel lightheaded from the effort of holding back and she gasps, “Please!” and “I can’t—” and “Oh God, stop, I c-can’t be quiet!”

Elliot eases off with a low chuckle, moves his mouth back to her thighs and as he slows his fingers, and then stills them, pressing one last, soft kiss just above her clit as he eases from her.

Olivia’s thighs are trembling, her breath heaving, her heart hammering. She feels fucked, even though he has not been inside her, not really. She lets out a delirious little laugh at the thought of how much he’s going to wreck her when they finally get to have sex.

Elliot’s mouth is on her belly, her ribs, her sternum. She cracks her eyes open to watch his ascent, to admire the way her skin is flushed pink and dewy with sweat, her nipples still erect, her thighs splayed open. Elliot has been multitasking, she notices—those boxer briefs are gone and he has one hand—the hand that was in her, she realizes with a flush of appreciation— stroking his cock.

He has been so patient, and so absolutely phenomenal. He deserves a reward, she thinks, but she feels clumsy and leaden, the heavy post-coital satisfaction already slithering through her veins. So she reaches between them, down between her own legs, sinking her fingers into herself (she feels molten, and smooth, and silky, and God, she wishes they could just fuck right now, he deserves to enjoy the benefits of his handiwork). She hears him whisper a quiet, awed, Fuck, his head tipped down but level with her collarbone. He’s watching, she thinks with a smirk, watching as she works those fingers for a moment and then draws them back. They come away wet and she wraps them around his shaft, revelling in his quiet hiss, his low groan as she slicks him up with her own wetness. She grips him snugly, rolls her wrist, strokes across his head on every pass, her thumb swiping along the ridge beneath it and making his hips buck toward her.

She shifts a little, drags the head of his cock against her, through her slick folds, over her swollen, sensitive clit. They both moan, his cheekbone knocking against hers, his voice thick in her ear as he murmurs, “You felt so good… Can’t wait…”

“Soon,” she promises, because, Jesus, it better be soon. She’s not sure how much longer either of them can wait, now that they know how good the foreplay is.

She rolls him against her slick flesh one more time, teases them both with what they can’t quite have, then draws him away and starts to work him with long, satisfying strokes.

His heavy breaths wash against her throat, his biceps trembling just a little where they bracket her shoulders. He’s hard and hot in her hand, his hips chasing her grip, moving with her as she strokes a little faster, a little harder. Her throat is dry, it clicks when she swallows, but she wants him to feel as overwhelmed as she did, wants him to tumble over the edge, wants to be the one who pushes him over it, so she whispers, “You made me feel so good, El. I can’t remember the last time it was that good... Years ago… Maybe never…”

He moans a little at that, mutters something she thinks sounds a little like Liar, and she huffs a laugh.

“I couldn’t keep quiet,” she breathes, hears his breath hitch. “You gonna be able to keep quiet when you come on me?”

His breath rushes out, a low moan chasing it, hips bucking forward into her grip. She shifts her attention to the head of his cock, shortens her strokes, grips a little tighter, speeds up. Elliot whimpers, and it sends a triumphant flash of heat through her.

“That’s it,” she encourages, her voice like velvet, soft and private, just for them. “Let go, sweetheart, make me yours.”

His hips buck again, breath coming fast and uneven; Olivia smiles, knowing he’s close, knowing she’s the one who brought him there. “Give it to me, El,” she coaxes, and then he’s a goner, letting out a broken, desperate moan (it’s quieter than hers was, she’ll give him that) as she feels the wet warmth of his cum spurt onto her belly, coating her fingers as she gives the head another squeezing stroke, one more, then drags her fist all the way down to the base of his cock and back up, slowly, coating him in the both of them.

Elliot makes this noise, disbelieving and satisfied and vulnerable. Olivia turns her face into his bicep and sucks a kiss there, stills her hand at the base of his cock for a moment before drawing it from between them. As soon as her arm is free, he collapses down onto her and she oof!s, then chuckles, letting him pin her to the mattress. He lets out a deep, contented sigh, burrowing his nose into her neck as she cradles his hips between her thighs. She can feel the slick puddle on her belly as they breathe together, drags sticky fingers up his spine.

They’re going to need to shower, she thinks. (There’s no way she could explain that to Noah, though, so she might just have to send him home debauched.)

Just when she’s starting to think he feels awfully heavy, Elliot chuckles, once, and lifts his head, grinning down at her.

“What?” she smiles back, tilting her head, because there’s obviously something funny.

“I was just thinking how right you were that we can’t have sex with people at home,” he tells her; Olivia snickers and thinks, Understatement. Elliot is still giving her that fond, fond grin, and looking at her like she hangs the damn moon. Then he sighs, and declares, “The sex is gonna be fantastic.”

Olivia barks out a laugh before she can help it, then buries her face in his shoulder and snickers.

Neither of them is in a particular hurry to move, especially once they find each others’ mouths again and start trading slow, lazy kisses.

It’s late, and quiet, just Stevie Nicks serenading them and the sound of their own mouths meeting and parting, soft sighs, low moans.

She still wants to have sex with Elliot Stabler—maybe now more than ever—but this, she thinks, makes a pretty good substitute.