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Dinner Can Wait

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Three weeks.


He’s not seen her in three weeks, except in short bursts to bring her coffee before a meeting, or on Channel 1 giving a press release.


He’s not seen her.


But tonight he’s supposed to.


Gone will be the tight slacks he’s enjoyed watching her shimmy out of, thick heeled black boots to be replaced with strappy heels that nearly make her his height. She’ll put gloss on that’ll smear across his lips when he kisses her good evening. The dark maroon dress he’d asked her to wear — the one from their first date — that settles just above the knee so when her legs cross, the skin of her thighs teases his eyes. It dips just enough to wear a small pendant necklace that leads the gaze to the swells of her breasts. He wonders if she’ll put her hair in a fancy pony with the strands framing her face, or if she’ll leave it down in the gentle waves because it’s less work.


Too anxious to be wandering around his apartment waiting to pick her up, he heads over early. He’s been off work since three p.m.; stopped in at the gym to burn the extra energy for an hour, showered and dressed in record time even though there was no hurry, had a beer and a finger of whiskey to slow him down. It’s barely six p.m. and he’s not due at her door until eight.


But it’s been three weeks.


So here he is, knocking and rocking back on his heels impatiently. He could use his key, the one she shakily placed in his hand a month ago. But he vowed to go slow, at her pace, and she’s not ready for him to unlock the bolt and stroll in like it’s home.


The door swings open and she’s not dressed. Her face is bare of makeup, hair twisted and clipped in at the back of her head, and she’s wearing her pajama shorts, the soft silky ones, pink with a black drawstring and the matching camisole.


She looks homey.


But not in the way of insult. She looks like a hot cup of coffee sauntering out of the kitchen on a lazy Saturday morning with nothing to do. Like curled up on the couch for hours watching trash tv, mid-day snuggles and slow kisses, and he forgets how to breathe.


Olivia is staring at him, waiting for him to say something, and he knows she’s greeted him with a soft ‘hello’ but his response is left by the wayside and instead he’s moving. Moving into her space, hands curling around her waist and dragging her towards him in a tight hug, one that pulls their bodies flush together, where her nose nuzzles into the hollow of his throat and his arms overlap as they encircle her.


He feels the tense muscles of her back relax into his embrace with a contented sigh, and his lips press to the top of her head. Suddenly dinner isn’t as exciting, watching her strut in high heels isn’t as alluring.


He wants this.


“Fuck dinner.” He rumbles into her hair and she giggles.




The claw clip is discarded on the floor by his feet along with her shorts, her tight camisole pulled down underneath her breasts, thin straps barely intact, and he considers tearing the tank top away completely.


Her nails are digging into his shoulders, fingers wrinkling the fabric of the button down he’d ironed for ten minutes. Palming her ass, he guides her up then down, his hips meeting her downstroke halfway. He can feel her feet pressing into the backs of his knees for leverage, the sting of her teeth on his pulse point each time he thrusts up.


He hadn’t even shoved his slacks down past his hips. He’s fully dressed with just his zipper undone, and she’s disheveled, bouncing in his lap with her thong pulled to the side, breasts spilling over the neckline of the flimsy camisole. 


There are two dark hickeys marking his claim under her collarbones, the flush in her cheeks has spread down her neck, mixing with the burn from his beard and coloring her chest. The sight alone is enough to push him over the edge but he’s missed this.


Missed the fullness of her hips in his palms, the whispery sighs and throaty groans as he teases her nipples with his teeth. 


Longed for the taste of her on his tongue and smearing the evidence of his effect on her thighs. 


Dreamt of her hair brushing against his cheeks as she leans down to kiss him and the feel of it now, soft and tickling, is surreal. For a moment, the anxiety pulses through his veins that he might wake up. That this might be just that, a dream, and he still has days before their dinner date.


The curse is muffled, but he hears it and he blinks his eyes open. Olivia’s head has fallen back, her neck extended and throat bared to him, her mouth dropped open in a delicate ‘oh,’ eyes rolled back under fluttering lids. She’s gripping his wrists tight enough that her nails are leaving half-moon indents in the sensitive skin and her hips are undulating in a perfect circle that flexes her stomach and bounces the relaxed muscle of her ass cheeks.


“Fuck, Elliot. Harder.” The heels of her palms press against the backs of his hands and it takes him a moment to realize he’s clawing at her. But he listens and watches, the tips of his fingers curling into the flesh of her outer thighs and dragging down towards her knees, leaving uneven red lines in their wake. Her breath hitches, the roll of her hips stutters and his name leaves her throat on a long moan.


The warmth of her clenches around him the second time his nails dig in and drag, this time starting at the curve of her ass, down between the first set of lines. He smooths his palms back up her legs, soothing the slight burn. His hands climb and climb until they flatten on her shoulder blades, the very tips of his fingers holding onto the tops of her shoulders.


God he’s missed this.


This uninhibited version of her. 


Sitting in a space with no chance of interruption because shifts are covered and kids are out for movies and sleepovers. 


The tousled hair and full volume moans for more, so close, faster. 


She’s a vision above him: back arching until her tits are close enough for him to suck and bite, the ends of her hair brushing his forearms each time her head falls back; there’s a sheen of sweat on her chest and her throat and he licks, tasting the salt of her once more.


Bracing a hand on her lower back and the other between her shoulder blades, pressing her down against his chest, he begs her, “Come for me. That’s it. Good girl, let me feel you.”


He curses as she shivers in his arms, hips thrusting, chasing release. He finds his just before she finds hers, with their foreheads pressed together, staring into each other’s eyes, heavy breaths mixing together. He holds her face in his palms, thumbs smoothing over the apple of her cheeks and whispers a breathless, ‘I love you’ while she rides out the aftershocks of her own pleasure.


Later, when the shower is complete and his clothes are neatly folded on the chair by the door, he sprawls out on the couch and drapes the throw blanket over the both of them. Her cheek pressed against his left pec, arm draped across his waist holding him tight, she giggles. “We could still make the reservation if you’re hungry.”