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There’s no statute of limitations on kidnapping, and Bill Harris would be going away for a long time. That knowledge is a comfort to Olivia, but she knows it’s a life-altering revelation for Vicki. Olivia watched her slide the cell door shut with a fiery confidence that law students, brain surgeons, and astronauts only dream about.
SVU helped her, but really, in the end Vicki sought justice for herself, and succeeded. Olivia was proud of her. Proud of her for having the bravery to face her attacker, not just in the courtroom, but in public; cornering him on the rooftop in the middle of a social gathering and calling out above the din of conversation, “Do you see that man? Yes, him . He stalked and raped me four times since I was sixteen.”
It was Vicki’s words, her courage, that gave Olivia the extra boost she needed to crowd Bill Harris’ space, lean in until she was inches from his face, and whisper, “You’re my bitch now.”
Saying it made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. It made a chill run down her spine. If she was being completely honest, which she wouldn’t be with anyone except for maybe Elliot, it turned her on a little bit.
No, I wouldn’t even say that to Elliot.
But I might think it.
Because as she murmured that threat to Bill Harris, she experienced a rush of adrenaline and arousal that hit her square between the legs. And the first thought she had after the words left her mouth were—
Damn, I wish Elliot had been here to see that.
Now, as she’s saying goodbye to Vicki and listening to the desperate pleas and whines of an evil man who’s finally been put in the cage he deserves, she experiences the same surge again. A sweeping warmth and tingling that she swears travels so far down she can feel the pricks of electricity in the soles of her feet.
He might not literally be her bitch now, but he certainly will be someone else’s.
She knows because of her job and who she is, that she should try and feel at least a modicum of sympathy towards someone who will be in that position soon enough. But she doesn’t. She doesn’t feel anything but disdain for the monster that Bill Harris is, and for the things he put Vicki and the other women through. The years of physical and mental torment. Whatever treatment he gets in prison won’t be even a fraction of the hell he deserves.
Heat and satisfaction pump through her veins, she feels her face flush, and the light blazer she has on suddenly feels like a sub-zero sleeping bag. She shrugs it off and holds it in her hand, watching as Vicki walks away and enters the elevators at the end of the hall. She turns, an unburdened smile spreading across her face, one that suggests a kind of closure many survivors never get.
She tosses the blazer onto the back of her chair and sinks into it tapping on the keyboard to wake up her computer. Elliot is already seated across from her tapping away on his report.
“Nice work. Detective.” His eyes flick up to meet hers, “You good?” He asks it like he sees something in her expression that suggests otherwise.
“Yeah, I’m—uh—I’m fucking great.” She huffs out a laugh, and feels her cheeks burning again under his steady gaze. Elliot’s eyes are taking her apart piece by piece, no matter how subtle she tries to be, he can sense her internal turmoil and he’s honing in on her like a beacon in the night.
You’re my bitch now.
“You sure about that, Benson?”
Her mouth feels like sandpaper and she swallows hard, trying to force down the lump that’s stuck in her throat.
“Well, I’m here if you want to talk about it.” He catches her eyes one more time. They are so fucking blue. So unshakable. Her stomach turns over on itself.
“Yeah. Thanks,” she mumbles, wondering if the bead of sweat she feels running down between her breasts is real or imagined.
Elliot reaches up to his neck and loosens his tie just a fraction. It’s not enough to signal he’s totally done for the day, but it’s enough to tell her he’s settling into his desk and relaxing a bit. He will probably do a couple more hours of paperwork and then hit the weight bench and the showers.
The vision slams into her:
Elliot in a sleeveless shirt, biceps and deltoids flexed, veins near bursting with the strain, a sheen of moisture glistening on his forehead and the dip of his clavicle.
She’s seen it enough times for real that it’s easy to imagine. It could be any day. It could be today, two hours from now.
Something about Elliot the last several months has her hyper aware of every movement he makes, every shift of his muscles under his button-down shirt, every step up a flight of stairs that has his ass clenching in his slacks. She half wonders if it’s a hormonal shift in her own body; some kind of last-ditch effort her subconscious is making at procreation.
Whatever it is, it doesn’t really matter, because there’s nothing to be done about it. Elliot is married—maybe not blissfully so from what she overhears of their conversations and from his sighs of exasperation every time his phone rings—but still married nonetheless. She knows deep down Elliot and she are both thinking the same thing.
They should have dissolved the marriage five years ago when they both wanted to.
She returns to her computer and is so wrapped up in finishing her report, she doesn’t notice that Elliot is no longer at his desk anymore. She vaguely recalls him saying something while she was working, and she replied with a low hum of acknowledgment, but isn’t completely sure what she responded to. He could have already gone to lift weights, shower off, and be halfway to his home by now.
She stands to gather her things and the cool air of the precinct catches her armpits and she feels how moist her t-shirt is. She remembers she already changed her clothes several hours ago, and realizes she needs to take a bag of stuff home to swap it so she has some fresh things in her locker.
The movements she makes are automatic. She checks in with Cragen who is still reading and signing off on reports from Vicki’s case, she turns off her computer and files away any sensitive materials that she shouldn’t leave out on her desk. She preps her bag to go home, and makes her way to the locker room to get her duffle.
The locker room is empty, save for an unzipped bag in front of Elliot’s locker which is standing open.
Guess he hasn’t gone home yet.
Her body stills for a moment, unsure if she should proceed forward, and then she rebukes herself for even questioning it. They’ve crossed paths a thousand times in this locker room, in various states of undress, this is just another work day. Just another turn around the sun where they might cross paths with her in her bra or him in… nothing.
She marches to her locker and enters the code to open it, pulling out her duffle and pile of clothes that she haphazardly thrust in there earlier. She has one last clean t-shirt folded on the upper shelf and jerks her pitted-out shirt off, tossing it into the duffle with the rest of the soiled clothes. As she’s sliding her arms into the sleeve holes, she hears the hinges of the door to the showers protest as it swings open. She glances over her shoulder and suddenly wishes she hadn’t.
Elliot is pushing through the door, followed by a small puff of steam. He’s got a white towel secured around his waist, but it barely reaches his knees, and even through the scratchy terry cloth she can make out the bulge between his legs. There’s another hanging over his shoulders. His chest is pink from the hot water, and he still has some droplets clinging to his face and arms.
Her pulse skyrockets and she quickly looks away, focusing on the darkness of the locker in front of her. There’s a pair of sneakers sitting at the bottom. They’re well-loved. It’s probably time to replace them.
“You headed out?” Elliot asks, moving around the bench to beside her as he reaches for his spare jeans and t-shirt.
She swallows, “Yeah. Was just getting my stuff that needs to be washed.”
He hums low, an acknowledgement that yeah, that’s a thing we need to do periodically. But he offers nothing more. Her gaze is like a tractor beam, the pull is magnetic. She lets her eyes skim over his hips and his abs as he stands there motionless, like he’s waiting for her to say something.
“What?” She croaks, trying to mask the spiral occurring in her brain.
He raises his hands, palms up. “You just… you seem a little off.”
She snorts, shaking her head. But her eyes, her fucking eyes , like she has zero control over them, they drift down, down, down.
Fuck.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
“I guess I’m just tired,” she mutters, turning back to the dark cave of her locker.
From the corner of her eye, she sees Elliot scrub his hand between his legs, drying the excess moisture that’s collected between his upper thighs and his testicles, and then the towel drops. She stops breathing, pulling down the hem of her shirt with a bit too much force as she fumbles to collect her things.
She can see the shape of his back, all sinew and strength, and the curve of his ass where it meets his toned thighs as he bends over to pull his briefs up.
I have to get out of here.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, El.” She slings the duffle over her shoulder and spins on her heel, probably leaving skid marks from her shoes on the floor.
“Hey, Liv.” His voice passes through her and coils around her chest, and lower in her core where warmth has been stewing for the last hour.
She keeps walking.
“You forgot something,” He calls out.
She is almost at the door. Arm outstretched, ready to pull the handle, but she glances over her shoulder. He’s got briefs on now—
Fuck him.
Fitted black briefs that are barely more than underwear. He’s holding something in his hand, something dark and bunched up in a ball, gripped loosely in his fingertip
She debates whether it’s important enough to go back, or if it would be easier to just claim it’s not hers, but something in his earnest expressions pulls her back towards him.
She stretches out her hand, unfurling her fingers and opening her palm to take whatever it is that he’s holding.
Elliot drops the soft item of clothing into her grasp, brushing his fingers against the heel of her hand as he lets go. It takes her a moment to realize what he’s handing her. She looks down at it, confused at first by the texture, and then it hits her.
It’s a pair of lace trimmed panties.
Her dirty underwear that she put on over twenty four hours ago and wore as she followed Bill Harris around New York. She sweat in them. She suppressed her anxiety while wearing them. She got hot and bothered thinking about Elliot in them. Sure, they’re dry now, but that’s not the point. He must know that she wore them, that they are part of the dirty laundry haul she pulled from the locker.
“Oh,” She feels like she might pass out. “Sorry—thanks.”
He shrugs but his cheeks are bright red, whether from the shower or a sudden rush of blood she isn’t sure. He makes a small sniffing sound and waves a hand in the air nonchalantly before dragging it down his face.
Wait, was that the same hand that—
She doesn’t have time to finish the thought before he hits her with another psychological sucker punch.
“All good. I thought you were more of a thong-woman actually.”
She almost chokes and has to remind herself that breathing and swallowing are two different functions of the human body. He’s still looking at her with those eyes, so deep and present—the only person in the entire world who knows her better than she knows herself.
“Sometimes,” she manages. “Depends on the pants.”
He laughs then, seemingly pleased at her willingness to play along and not shut him down instantly.
“I’ll be done here in a few minutes. Can I give you a ride home? Kathy is at a school event with the twins and told me to take my time.” He walks back to his locker and she follows the undulating sway of his ass cheeks until he stops to pull a t-shirt on over his head.
They only have one NYPD sedan to share between the two of them at the moment, and she isn’t really in the mood to take the subway. She could take a cab—
This is not good. The answer is no.
“Sure. I’ll take a ride home.” She sucks in a lungful of the stale locker room air and turns to go, thinking that if she can at least escape this room, maybe she will find some sanity on the other side of the door.
There’s nothing on the other side but more uncertainty and heat. Heat in her cheeks, heat in between her legs, heat ringing in her ears. She can’t escape from it. She knows sitting in a car with Elliot will only prolong her agony, will only be another exercise in restraint and a test of her ability to deny the desire that’s on the verge of wrecking them.
She hears him approaching behind her as she’s finishing up a call with the District Attorney’s office.
“Yeah, please call me when he’s through arraignment. I don’t care what time it is,” she flicks her gaze to Elliot as he stops to lean against her desk, arms folded tight across his chest. “Uh huh, thanks. You too.” She hangs up the phone and tries to decipher the look on his face. It’s thoughtful, but decisive too. Like he’s made up his mind about something that only he knows.
Is he going to tease me about the underwear?
She wouldn’t be surprised if he brought it up again months from now. At some moment when there’s a relevant connection to a case, or maybe just to be a jerk. He will raise his eyebrows conspiratorially and make some smartass remark. It will embarrass her but at the same time send a thrill through her because she’ll know he was thinking about them—thinking about her goddamn underwear .
“Ready to go?” He pushes off her desk and slings his duffle and work bag over one shoulder, reaching to offer her a hand with one of hers like he’s a fucking pack mule.
She just shakes her head once,“I got it, thanks,” and she slides into step beside him.
“Any plans for tonight?” He asks as he punches the call button for the elevator.
The small snort that escapes her makes him pause and glance sideways, “No. I mean, not unless you count an hour-long shower and two glasses of wine as plans.” She adjusts the strap of her duffle that’s digging into her bra strap.
“I don’t know, that doesn’t sound too bad to me.”
They exit at the garage level and walk through the empty lot with nothing but the scrape of their shoes echoing off the walls. The silence between them is deafening, she feels it in her bones. There’s something unspoken and dangerous that’s been tugging at her, taking control like a parasite overpowering its host.
He pops the trunk and tosses his things in, waiting for her to follow suit. She does, placing her bags next to his and stepping away as he slams the trunk closed.
It’s dark when he pulls the car out and turns onto the avenue, both of them silent, her vibrating with tension and him brooding and thoughtful.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” He finally asks, probably confused by her uncharacteristic lack of things to say.
She turns to look at his profile, his eyes are fixed on the street ahead of them, nostrils flaring slightly as he pulls in a breath.
“I think so,” she mutters before she can stop herself.
“Is there anything I can do… to help? Do you want to talk, or?...” He shrugs, small and uncertain.
Yeah, or…
“Honestly, El—” she bites her lip, trying to decide exactly what the next words out of her mouth should be, maybe trying to stop them before they fall out. “I don’t know anymore.” She finishes.
“I get it,” he mutters back, “This job, this city. Twelve years is a long time to exist with both—”
“It’s not the job.” She interrupts, and she watches as he blinks in confusion at the street light as it turns from green to red in front of him. He slows the car to a stop and flexes his hands on the wheel, turning his head to meet her gaze. She doesn’t bother masking her poker face, too exhausted, or maybe just fucking sick of playing the game they’ve been playing for over a decade now. “I mean, maybe part of it is. I do sometimes wonder if there will ever be a break in the endless supply of sadistic monsters like Bill Harris, or if it’ll just continue on until I’m dead.”
“It’ll continue on if you stay with SVU. Assholes like him have always existed, and always will.”
She nods, “Yeah. I know this.” She shrugs, feeling the familiar burn of rage mixed with desire that has begun to plague her lately. “I thought maybe after we cornered him—humiliated him—I’d get a little relief from the hate. I am tired of hating and being so helpless to do anything about it.”
He reaches another red light and drags his hands down the tops of his jeans. “What did you and Vicki say to him anyway, when you cornered him on the rooftop? You both seemed pretty keyed up after that.” She realizes that she didn’t tell Elliot about their conversation, and a flicker of excitement ignites in her gut.
“Vicki called him out in front of everyone there. She said that he stalked and raped her four times since she was 16. He tried to say he was going to sue for slander,” she smiles at that, at the memory of his expression when she told him you can’t sue for slander unless it’s a lie.
Elliot smirks, “I would have liked to watch him squirm through that.”
She nods, picturing her next words like a movie playing in her head. “You would have liked the next bit even more.”
“Oh yeah? Please, do share .” He chuckles softly.
She takes a breath, waiting for the car to glide to a stop at another light before speaking. “I got up real close to his face, I could smell the goddamn whiskey on his breath, and told him—” Elliot glances at her, eyes wide. “I told him, you’re my bitch now.”
Olivia swears she sees a spark in his gaze. His entire expression shifts, grows harder, darker, hungrier.
“I would have liked to see that.” He murmurs, even the hint of a smile gone from his voice.
The warmth coursing through her coalesces in her core and pulses steady and unrelenting.
Oh, God.
This is bad. This is really bad.
Her heart is pounding so violently she can feel it in her throat and hear it in her ears. She licks her lips and blinks slowly like maybe she can wipe away the fog from her vision and see clearly again; see that she needs to backtrack, deescalate, turn the car (metaphorically) around.
It’s too late though, and she knows it the second her gaze slips down to his lap, and he shifts uncomfortably, clearly rearranging himself as he succumbs to the same rush of blood she’s futilely combating.
Fuck. Fuck.
“Fuck,” she whispers, looking away quickly at the street signs overhead. They are passing 45th street on the west side, cruising through the heart of Hell’s Kitchen. “I think I should get out here, El. I can catch the C the last few stops and save you—”
He cuts her off, “Olivia. Stop it.” He’s shaking his head now, and as if to make a point, he pushes down on the accelerator, speeding through the next light as it turns from yellow to red right as they pass underneath.
“Elliot, this is…” She swallows hard, watching as he does the same and his Adam's apple plummets.
He sucks his lower lip into his mouth and begins worrying it again with his teeth, rolling it and kneading it over and over as he flies through another yellow light. “Tell me again what you said to him.”
Her stomach drops suddenly like she’s cresting over the peak of an amusement park ride. It’s not a plunge of dread, but one of excitement.
She does her best to keep the quiver out of her voice but can’t entirely hide it, “You’re my bitch now .”
Elliot clears his throat, “Mhm.” His hum makes her breath catch, and she slowly eases her left hand over the center console, stopping when she’s a couple inches from his leg. His eyes remain fixed on the road, but his knee twitches ever so slightly, bouncing a little bit closer in her direction.
“Olivia ,” he whispers. The tone of his voice catches her off guard, it’s cautious and vulnerable. Her name is more of a question, and she feels the moment the switch is flicked. The exact Second she succumbs to the devil on her shoulder.
“You like it, don’t you?” She begins. “You like it when I rough up perps? Talk down to them?” She doesn’t even recognize her own voice anymore. Like someone else is inhabiting her; maybe the version of herself she’s been fighting for twelve years. The one who is sick and tired of pretending she doesn’t want him.
“I do.” He sighs and moves his hips slightly from side to side, easing into their conversation.
The twist of desire in her belly is overwhelming, stronger than any attraction she’s ever felt towards him or anyone else. She’s never wanted someone as badly as she wants Elliot right now.
Right. Now.
Her fingertips close the remaining distance and make contact with the denim covering his thighs. Her touch is featherlight, barely skimming the fabric, but the heat travelling in between them is electric.
“I have a confession to make.” He says it right as she lets her hand come to settle on his upper thigh.
“Do I look like a priest?” It comes out harsher than she intended and he freezes, hands curled over the steering wheel like he’s trying to strangle it. It occurs to her that reminding him of his faith at a time like this might have been a blunder. She watches as the red flush spreads up his neck and into his cheeks.
“Right —yeah. Never—never mind.” He stumbles over his words as her fingers slide one inch higher toward where the crotch of his pants is starting to look tight.
He turns suddenly and she glances up to see a sign for 49th Street. They are deep in the heart of Hell's Kitchen now, definitely not the fastest route to the Upper West Side. Either he’s not paying attention ( likely ) or he’s stretching out the drive ( very likely ).
“El,” she’s watching him closely, and as someone who knows him better than anyone else, she can tell that he’s squirming. “I’m fucking with you. What did you want to tell me?”
He blinks hard, still trying to focus on the road ahead as he turns onto 10th Avenue.
“It—it doesn’t matter. Really. Forget it.” He gulps when she digs her fingernails into the meat of his upper leg, dangerously close to where his growing erection is straining against the zipper of his pants.
“I’m not asking you, Elliot.” Her voice is flat, zero emotion behind the words.
He exhales loudly, abruptly twisting the wheel and turning onto a darkened block. They are somewhere in the 50s, parked next to a windowless office building and a row of unoccupied AT&T vans that line half the block on their left.
Elliot is breathing heavily, even in the dim light of the dashboard she can make out the flutter of his pulse beating erratically at his throat.
“I just need a second,” he mutters. His gaze flicks down to where her hand is still resting on his leg.
“Tell me what you were going to say before you got spooked.” She’s insisting, the uneasiness in the set of his jaw and the flex of his hands is too much for her to ignore.
It’s gotta be something good.
“Okay,” he licks his lips, “ Okay .”
She knows that she has him. He’s going to tell her whatever it was that he was trying so pitifully to withhold, but she thinks maybe it’ll help grease the gears a bit if she gives him some more encouragement. She’s already crossed the line now—no, it’s not even a line. It’s a fucking castle wall that they painstakingly constructed over the last decade, and she just took a goddamn trebuchet to it.
She’s already breached the wall and it’s too late to turn back.
And if she’s being perfectly honest, she doesn’t want to stop now.
You’re my bitch now.
The words echo in her head and the distinct gush of arousal spills into her underwear.
She leans over him, deftly flicking his belt open and unhooking his pants. His hands are still glued to the steering wheel, his eyes are wide, mouth hanging open in a look of bewilderment as she slides the zipper down.
The first thing she feels is heat. His briefs do little to separate the palm of her hand from the feverish temperature of his cock as she flattens her hand over it and strokes him through his underwear.
“Fuck,” he whimpers, his head snapping up to attention.
“That’s what I thought,” she murmurs, feeling as the length of him twitches in the loose grip of her hand. He’s terribly hard already. She thinks he probably started getting turned on when she told him what she said to Harris on the rooftop.
He likes when I take charge.
“If you want me to keep going, you’ll tell me what your confession is.” Her hand pauses near the elastic of his underwear where there’s a damp spot from his pre cum leaking through. She drags her thumb over it and he makes a choking sound.
“Liv,” he closes his eyes, like he can’t look at her. “In the locker room before—before we left. Your panties that I handed you.” She rewards him with another firm pump through the thin fabric. She swears that he’s so hard she can actually feel the veins pulsing.
“Yeah, my dirty underwear that you picked up off the floor. What about them?” She urges.
He takes a shaky breath, eyes still squeezed shut. “I smelled them. Before I called your name, when your back was turned.” He makes another choking sound and she realizes she’s squeezing his cock harder than she intended. She releases him and moves her hand under his shirt, up his stomach and through the thatch of short coarse hairs there.
Elliot starts mumbling something about how sorry he is but she cuts him off.
“Open your eyes and look at me,” she commands. He does. His gaze meets hers and she holds it steadily. His pupils are blown wide open, the cool blue of his irises is barely visible anymore.
“And what did you think?” She asks.
He blinks slowly again, like he’s trying to make sure he understood the question correctly.
“When you smelled my underwear, what did you think?”
“I—I thought that you smelled so fucking good . Sweet. Fucking incredible.” He’s panting softly, acceptance giving way to anticipation as she glides her hand back down to his straining erection.
Inspiration suddenly strikes her as she raises her hips off the seat just enough to maneuver her hand into her own pants where she drags her fingers through the wetness that’s been collecting there.
He’s watching her like he can’t believe what’s happening as she lifts her fingers out glistening and brings them to his lips, dragging them over the seam of his mouth and down to his chin. That’s when he finally moves his hands for what seems like the first time in hours. One hand shoots out and grabs her wrist before she can pull away and he sucks her sex-slicked fingers into his mouth and licks them clean.
This time it’s her turn to groan, temporarily giving away the bossy exterior she was trying so hard to maintain.
She moves closer to him, slipping her wet hand underneath the elastic waistband of his briefs, as she crashes into him with a savage grunt. He replies with a smaller sound, and she sucks it into her chest, devouring every noise he makes with a hunger she’s never felt before.
She has her tongue in his mouth, the taste of herself and him mingling into something that makes her head spin. His cock is in her hand now and she’s working him steadily as he starts to become breathless.
“Not yet , El. I’m not finished.”
He pushes air out his nose and drops his head back onto the headrest, reaching a hand up to run his fingers over his scalp and pinch the bridge of his nose. His face and neck are red, small beads of perspiration cling to his upper lip and hairline.
She flicks the elastic of his briefs down, exposing the entirety of his manhood. It bounces out and up, saluting her with an enthusiasm that makes the blood in her veins burn.
For a moment she’s stunned. Enraptured by the sight of his smooth cock; almost purple and throbbing as the veins snaking over the surface traffic blood faster than his heart can keep up.
She licks her lips and it twitches.
“How long have you wanted me?” She whispers, bending over his lap to kiss the sensitive tip of his penis.
He jumps.
“Since—since the begin— fuck. Since the beginning.” She feels his fingers curling into her hair, caressing the side of her face, her neck, her jaw, and she leans into it. For a few moments she just revels in the softness of his touch, the reverence behind it. It feels good.
It feels like adoration.
She opens her mouth, drawing half of his cock into her in one go. It tastes like Elliot, with a hint of salt and the scent of the bar soap he uses in the showers at the precinct. She pulls back up, swirling her tongue around his head and letting the saliva gather on her lips before dropping back down and taking the rest of him into her throat. He knocks into the back near her tonsils and her gag reflex protests, but she reminds herself to breathe, and lifts back up.
“Jesus, Olivia.” His voice cracks and she just pumps her hand a few times, spreading her saliva and his precum along the shaft. She’s never really found herself in awe of the penis—for the most part, they all serve the same purpose.
But Elliot’s cock, now that’s a different story. It reminds her of the rest of him; sturdy and thick and familiar. She’s never seen it before but she feels like she already knows it. Already knows him and what’s going to make him moan.
She flattens her tongue and runs it from the base to the tip, sucking him back into her mouth and hollowing her cheeks as she lets him fill her up again.
“F–fuck. I—I’m not sure how much more of this—”
She glides off him with a slurping sound. “You’ll take it, Elliot. You’ll take it until I say you’re done.” She hums in satisfaction as he sighs deeply above her.
“Yes, detective .” His hand comes to rest on the back of her head. He isn’t pressing down, he isn’t pushing or guiding, he’s just holding on as she builds up a steady rhythm.
She ignores the dig of the center console in her stomach, and the dull cramp in her lower back, already knowing that she will ache tomorrow from the awkward angle, but that it will be the best kind of ache. The kind of ache that reminds you of the fever dream from the night before, the kind of ache that makes it real.
And the muscles of her torso bracing aren’t the only ones that are aching. Her clit is screaming out for attention, furious at being so turned on but neglected. In the back of her mind she knows she could slip off him, release his cock with a wet pop and flick the seat back until he’s reclined enough for her to climb on top and ride him until they both climax together.
She could do that, but she’s not going to.
Maybe another time.
Right now, she wants to own him with her mouth; feel him come undone at her will, under the mercy of her lips and her tongue.
“Sweetheart— Liv. Olivia. Please.”
Sweetheart surprises her. She didn’t expect to hear that from him and it sends a pulse of heat to her core.
“Mm,” she hums low and soft, and she feels his grip on her hair tighten. She lifts off him momentarily, slipping her fingers underneath him to cradle his testicles in her palm. They are contracted and firm, right on the edge of release.
“You can come now, let me taste you.” She relaxes her jaw and swallows him again, bobbing up and down a few times as his fingers coil into her hair and his breath begins to slip out in short puffs.
“Jesus. Oh— I’m going to come, Liv. I’m going to—”
His hips jerk up towards her and his groan fills the car as he spills into her mouth, ribbons of his wet release hitting the back of her throat and her lips as she slips off him to catch her breath. He’s not totally done though and his hips twitch again, more come spraying over her chin and her jaw, trickling down her neck, as he holds her hair back in the clutch of his hand.
“I’m sorry—sorry, Liv. I’m—”
She can’t help the sharp laugh that sounds more like a cough.
“Shut up, Elliot.” She sits up and flips open the glove compartment, thankful for the wad of napkins that’s crammed into it. She begins wiping her face and he reaches for it. At first she tilts away from him, chuckling at his attempt to clean her up, because she doesn’t need that shit from him.
She sucked him off, and she can wipe him off of herself too.
“Sweetheart,” He murmurs, and the word makes her freeze, because she kind of thought that was just something that slipped out in the throes of passion. She’s still trying to catch her breath, let her pulse return to a normal rate, but he reaches for her neck, curling his meaty hand around it and pulling her to his mouth.
He kisses her, slow and deep. She knows he’s tasting himself now, just like she did earlier, and that thought makes her insides clench around nothing. He sucks her lips clean and she feels the brush of cotton against her throat and realizes he’s using the front of his t-shirt to collect the mess. He drags it down as he continues his ministrations on her mouth, pausing for extra time at the dip where her breasts meet. She’s not even sure if his release made it that far, but she enjoys the sensation of him wiggling his shirt-clad fingers in between her breasts.
When they part his chest is heaving, but he still has her head braced in his other hand.
“Okay . I guess I’m your bitch now. You tell me what you want to do next.” He laughs then, startlingly loud and carefree considering what they just did. Her clit is aching for his touch, but she knows they’ve been parked here for too long and they should start driving.
“Do you want?...” He doesn’t finish the question, but they both know that she does.
“Yes, but not here. Not now.” She sinks back into the passenger seat and buckles the seatbelt. “Take me home, El.”
He tucks himself back into his pants, sheepishly glancing at her as he gets himself sorted and redoes his belt.
“For the record, I want to make you feel good, too.” He waits for a few moments, like he’s willing her to change her mind and make a request. “I want to touch you. I want to taste you firsthand. I want—”
She places a hand on his chest, “Take me home.”
He frowns, the lines in his face so defined she thinks for a second he’s going to protest. And he does—he tries again.
“It doesn’t feel right, me just taking from you—”
Olivia clears her throat, glaring back at him with a kind of finality he knows better than to mess with. “We are done here, for now. Take me home… Sweetheart.”
There’s a flicker of heat in his eyes but he doesn’t acknowledge it. He just starts the car again and guides it back out onto the street, this time headed towards the entrance to the West Side Highway and a more direct route to the Upper West Side where her home awaits them.