Chapter Text
In the end, it’s Kathleen Stabler who is responsible for getting her laid, and boy is that ever a phrase Olivia never thought she’d say.
She wants to believe—she and Elliot are pretending, for everyone’s sanity—that it was a coincidence, that Kathleen was doing exactly as she claimed and just trying to do something nice for Olivia. That when she’d called and asked if Noah could come for a sleepover, it had really only been to give Olivia a kid-free night to enjoy in the quiet of her empty apartment.
“You work too hard, Liv,” Kathleen had told her. “You deserve to spend a night by yourself, drinking wine in the bath, and not answering anybody’s calls.”
“The others don’t mind—Eli, and Bernie, and your dad?”
“It’ll be good for Eli—he’s mad I keep kicking his ass in Mario Kart anyway,” she’d said. “And Grandma can’t wait. She’s wanted to meet him for years; she kept all your Christmas cards, you know.”
Olivia had smiled, shaking her head. The cards have been coming since the Christmas after Kathleen’s trial. She’d never given Bernie her home address, just her business card (with the same assurance she’d given all the Stablers—to call anytime, for any need), but she’d gotten it somehow. Kathy, Olivia has always figured. After all, why would Kathy have called to tell her about Bernie in the first place if she hadn’t been expecting her to do exactly what she had done—whatever it took to fix things for Elliot and his family. They’d never really talked about it, after, aside from a two-word text that came once everyone had left the courthouse: Thank you.
Still, she imagines Bernie had asked, and Kathy had provided, and that first card had shown up on a particularly miserable, sleet-filled December day, a festive red envelope at the top of her stack of mail as she’d trudged toward her apartment on aching feet. She’d frowned at it the whole way up in the elevator, waiting to thumb it open until she’d dropped her keys in the bowl by the door, hung her damp coat, and toed off her boots.
Thank you for taking care of my Katie, Bernie’s loopy script had been scrawled below MERRY CHRIST-MOUSE! (The cover had been a family of illustrated mice decorating a pinecone in their little hole-in-the-wall.) I’m glad we finally got to meet. Take care.
She’d signed it, Love and kisses, Bernie, and it had made Olivia’s eyes burn for reasons she couldn’t quite name. They’d met once. Once, only. There had been no reason, she’d thought, for Bernadette Stabler to have any love or affection for her, to spare her a thought at Christmas, but she had, and she’d sent a card, and it had hit some lonely, orphaned part of her chest and choked her with feelings she can only describe as vulnerable.
She’d gone back out into the sleet that very night, shoved her feet back in those godawful boots, and shrugged back into that damp jacket, and walked two blocks to the 24-hour RiteAid to find the most whimsical Christmas card on the shelves. It had been a goofy reindeer with Christmas lights tangled in his antlers, and she’s taken it home, written Thank you for the card. It meant a lot. Had wanted to add, Thank you for bringing Elliot into this world, but had instead scrawled, I hope you have a wonderful holiday. xo Olivia
She’d stamped it and left it by the door, dropped it in the mail in the morning, and they hadn’t missed a holiday or a birthday since. She’d started including photos of Noah after he was officially hers, much to Bernie’s utter delight, but she’d never had a chance to actually meet Olivia’s son, thanks to the Christmas-that-wasn’t.
So, it should come as no surprise, Olivia supposes, that Bernie is eager to spend an overnight getting to know Noah.
And she wants him to get to know the Stablers better, she does, because if things keep going the way they’re going, if things keep going well, Olivia is sure they will be… spending a lot of time together in the future. She doesn’t want to jinx herself by thinking anything more than that, even if her heart has ideas. Fanciful, silly ideas, of blended families, and big holidays.
He knows Elliot, now, and he’s spent time with Kathleen already—Olivia had called her two weeks ago in a moment of desperation when Lucy had phoned at lunchtime on Monday to say she’d just found out that she’d been exposed to COVID over the weekend and didn’t think she should come in until she’d quarantined and tested. Olivia had, of course, agreed wholeheartedly (and said a silent prayer of thanks that she’d been home to bring Noah to school herself that morning), but that left her with nobody to pick Noah up from school and with the case they’d caught that morning there was no way she could be out of here by dinner, much less pick-up. She’d called Kathleen, remembering that she’d mentioned her job was remote on Mondays and Fridays, and asked if she could maybe, just maybe, just for tonight, grab Noah from school and get him home, and fed, and make sure he did his math homework? She’d been apologetic, had insisted she’d pay Kathleen for her time, that she’d be home as soon as she possibly could. Kathleen had been almost offended, scoffing and telling her it was the very least she could do after everything Olivia had done for them, and not to worry about paying her, or about getting home late.
“Just catch the bad guys,” she’d said. “Noah and I will be fine.”
Fine had been an understatement—they’d gotten on famously, had spent the night making homemade pizzas and playing Mario on Noah’s Switch, homework done and on the breakfast bar when Olivia had arrived home just before bedtime (a little after bedtime, if they were being honest, but Noah had still been up, had wanted to wait for her, and she wouldn’t fault Kathleen for letting him).
In fact, Noah liked her so much that he’d turned those big blue eyes on her and asked if please pretty please could Kathleen pick him up all week while Lucy had to stay home. Olivia had been quick to insist they couldn’t impose on her like that, but Kathleen had cut her off and told her she’d already made arrangements with her job to work remotely for the rest of the week and she could totally pick Noah up (plus something about needing to regain her dignity in Super Mario Bros.).
“This goes both ways, Liv,” she’d told her, smiling softly and reaching out to grab Olivia’s hand. “Whatever you need.”
Olivia had squeezed back and swallowed down a lump of gratitude and feeling, and that had been that. Noah had had “the coolest babysitter ever” for a whole week and a half. When she’d suggested the sleepover to him, he’d jumped at the chance, telling her that Kathleen had brought a plate of cookies she’d made with Bernie one afternoon, but they were a “super secret family recipe,” and he thought that maybe if he asked really nicely he could talk her and Bernie into making them with him if he stayed the night.
“I’m raising a recipe thief, huh?” Olivia had teased him, but she’d had one of the aforementioned cookies the other night, and they had been very good, so if he wants to pilfer the recipe (or at the very least, another plate full of said cookies), she’s not going to complain.
And so it is that she finds herself with an empty apartment on a Friday evening, and a date with Elliot Stabler. An actual honest-to-God date—one she wears a dress for, and her good perfume, and heels that make her ankle ache. It’s worth it to see him go slightly dumbstruck when she walks into the restaurant, an Asian fusion place that she likes and had chosen for the evening. It’s nice enough to clearly be a date restaurant but not so nice that it feels overbearing, busy enough that there’s a pleasant anonymity but not so loud that they can’t hear each other talk.
They split appetizers, and steal food from each other’s entrees, and it reminds her of the way they’d swapped sandwich halves across their desks years ago, the way she’d always steal some of his sesame chicken and him some of her lo mein while they chowed down up in the loft of the old precinct. Except this time, the flirting had been blatant and pointed, not understated and repressed. He was going home with her tonight, not to his wife and kids, and there was nothing illicit about it. Nothing wrong.
They’d been given a new beginning and done their best not to squander it, and now here they were. Dating. And going home, for sex. Real, honest to God, sex, without the risk of an accidental audience to traumatize. She’s been antsy and aroused since she slipped on those painful pumps in her office, blushing at the wolf whistle Fin had teased her with as she’d insisted on her way out the door that he not call her except in the case of an absolute emergency.
So far, the city hasn't conspired against them, but she doesn’t want to test her luck, so when they’re offered a dessert menu, she opens her mouth to decline it. She doesn’t get the chance; Elliot is already insisting they’ll just take the check, slipping his credit card to the waiter to save him a trip.
Well, at least they’re both on the same page, then.
She smiles at him across the table, lets her arm fall across the dark wooden surface, palm up, in the hope that he’ll take the bait and weave his fingers with hers.
He doesn’t.
Instead his hand slips just over hers, his middle finger grazing over the center of her palm, the teasing touch making her breath catch and her nipples go tight. Their gazes lock and there’s heat there, anticipation and promise and suddenly the check cannot come fast enough, they cannot hail a cab fast enough.
They’re quiet, the tension palpable between them in the back seat of the taxi. Elliot’s hand finds her knee, and his skin is hot, warmer than usual (and he’s always warm), the contact making her lick her lips and shut her eyes for a moment. She wants his hands on her everywhere.
As if he can hear her thoughts, that hand on her knee starts moving, dragging slowly up her thigh. Olivia’s eyes pop open, sliding cautiously to catch a glimpse of him. She expects to find him smirking, mischievous, but he’s not even looking at her, his attention seemingly on the city that rolls by outside the cab window. Oh, is that how they’re playing this?
She should stop him, they can’t get handsy in the back of a cab, they’re both decorated cops in their 50s, they can’t just… do that. But Olivia does not stop him. In fact, all she does is turn her own attention to the street signs zooming by, not noticing a single one as his touch creeps higher and higher, baring more and more of her leg as she breathes slowly, carefully. He stops high on her thigh, his fingers drawing lazy swirls against the inside of it. She feels the muscle twitch under his touch, feels how very aware her lower half is of the proximity of his hand.
By the time the cab pulls up in front of her building, her skin feels like it’s vibrating, the soft tickling touches making her feel hypersensitive. She pays for the cab, Elliot hopping out and moving around to open the door for her, taking her hand as she steps out onto the curb. Their fingers stay linked as they cross her lobby, his thumb stroking hers as they wait for the elevator that seems to take forever tonight. Or maybe they’re just impatient, maybe it’s just that.
When the elevator finally arrives, their fingers untangle, his hand falling to the base of her spine as he guides her inside, lets her press the button for her floor. As soon as the doors close, they’re on each other, Elliot boxing her in against the elevator wall, tugging open the buttons of her long coat until he can get his hands on her ass, his mouth on her lips and then her throat.
She gasps softly, fisting the pockets of his jacket and tilting her head to give him more room.
“That was not appropriate behavior for a taxi cab, detective,” she breathes, and she can feel his lips curve, the huff of his chuckle against her skin.
“Didn’t hear you complaining, Captain.”
He’s got her there, so she doesn’t argue, just laughs softly and drags his mouth back to hers. He tastes like Asahi and spices, and he’s kissing her the way he sometimes does, devastating, devouring. Her knees go weak and she can’t breathe, she’s reaching for those pockets again to anchor herself until the elevator dings as it reaches her floor.
They separate with a wet smack, and Olivia’s skin feels hot, her cheeks and chest flushed as she steps around him and heads down the hallway. He’s right behind her, so close she can feel the heat of him, and it takes her two tries to get her keys into the lock because he crowds her there, too, drawing her hair to one side of her neck so he can plant kisses up the other.
She gets them inside, finally, and he has her coat off in seconds, puddling around their feet. She toes out of her heels to give her ankle some sweet relief, and then his jacket is gone, and they’re kissing, stumbling, her fingers working his buttons as they make their way toward her bedroom, impatient and eager. His hands are on her hips, her ass, her breasts, in her hair, steadying her as she guides them blindly through the darkness.
She has his shirt off and his belt open by the time they breach the bedroom, but he hasn’t bothered to loosen her zipper. She wonders if maybe he can’t find it in the dark, and she wants to see him, so she gropes for the bedside lamp, blinking against the soft glow when it comes to life. As it turns out, he just isn’t done admiring her yet.
He sits on the bed, drawing her between his knees and looking her up and down hungrily. “You look incredible in this dress. Have I told you that tonight?” He had, when he first saw her, and she reminds him. Elliot hums and tells her, “Well, it bears repeating.”
His hands coast over her hips, her waist, up to cup her breasts before he leans in to mouth his way across her cleavage. The dress is red, and just snug enough, with a deep vee that makes her feel sexy, desirable. The way his gaze had strayed south again and again throughout dinner had made her absolutely certain she’d chosen the right dress for the evening. The way he can’t keep his hands off her now just solidifies her certainty.
But they’ve done enough of this—of touching over clothes, groping and caressing and kissing whatever skin they can reach. She wants the rest of it, wants all of him, finally, so she grasps his shoulder and squeezes, her voice low and teasing as she tells him, “You should see what I have on under the dress.”
Elliot groans, and Olivia grins.
He nods, hands sliding up her back, tugging her zipper down. Olivia shrugs the soft fabric from her shoulders, lets it slip down to her waist to reveal the bra she’d bought just for tonight. Champagne-colored satin under black lace, the matching panties coming into view as Elliot drags her dress down the rest of the way. They’re high-waisted in a way that feels sexy, not matronly, and Elliot clearly agrees, his gaze darkening as he takes her in, trailing his fingers over the delicate material.
“Yeah, this is… this is better,” he breathes, and Olivia chuckles warmly, leaning in to kiss him again, climbing into his lap. Elliot flips them almost immediately, pressing her down into the mattress, kissing deeply, hips rocking together. She can feel how hard he is, how ready, but his belt buckle is digging sharply into her belly in a way that is decidedly uncomfortable.
Olivia pushes him away just enough so that she can scoot up the bed, stretching a little to give him what she hopes is a nice view, before she urges, “Take your pants off and come here.”
Elliot smirks, doing as he’s told. He’d lost his shoes somewhere between here and the door, but he shoves down his pants and underwear in one go, shucks his socks and climbs into her bed in his birthday suit.
He looks so good naked, it’s really unfair. Nobody their age should look that good. But he does, and he’s hers, so she’s not complaining, especially not when he crawls between her thighs, parting her knees and stroking his hands up to her hips. She itches to tug him back down to her, to cover herself in all that muscle and get him inside of her as soon as possible, but he’s still looking at her. His gaze dragging over her torso, his tongue peeking out to wet his lips before he tells her, “I can’t believe I get to see you like this. Sometimes I wanna pinch myself.”
Olivia smiles, shaking her head at him, and letting her hands drop to the pillow on either side of her head. She’d worried, before she told him about Lewis, that he wouldn’t be able to see past her scars—she’d had years to get used to them, to watch them fade, to stop seeing them every time she saw herself naked, but she knew Elliot and she’d been sure that he wouldn’t be able to look away, that he’d see them as marks of his own guilt for leaving her unprotected. And he does, she thinks, sometimes, but not when they’re like this. When they’re together, and aroused, and touching, and close, he drinks in the sight of her like she is perfect, like he’s been waiting two decades to look at her like this, and it makes her feel confident and unbothered.
He leans over her now, kissing her, his hands covering her wrists and pressing them into the pillow as he settles his body between her thighs, his erection sliding against the soft silk. Olivia plants her feet on the mattress and rocks her hips up against his, the friction welcome and divine. She knows, logically, that she needs foreplay, that this won’t be nearly as good without it, but she’s antsy, aching for him, has half a mind to yank her panties to the side and just take him in now.
But with her wrists pinned, she can’t do that anyway, so she relaxes underneath him, keeps grinding their hips together, nipping at Elliot’s lower lip, sucking it softly between her own. He lets out a little breath, squeezing her wrists once before pressing his forehead to hers, and muttering, “As nice as the lingerie is, Liv—and believe me, it’s… fantastic…”
She grins, and finishes for him, “It’s gotta go?”
“Mmhmm,” he nods, and that is just fine with her. He releases her wrists and she twists them beneath her back, unhooking her bra while he skims his hands down her torso and drags her panties off. And then they’re both naked, and sex is very much on the horizon, and Olivia feels nervous excitement twist in her belly.
She doesn’t know why, exactly; they have been this naked with each other before, several times now. They’ve touched and kissed and brought each other to gasping, blissful orgasms, but there’s something about having him inside of her, really truly inside of her that has them both anxious and smiling, Olivia letting out a nervous chuckle as Elliot’s naked body presses to hers.
“You sure about this?” Elliot asks her, and the question is so ridiculous, she almost laughs at him. They’d made these plans specifically for this; his adult daughter had very intentionally given them alone time knowing damn well it was going to be used for this. Of course she is sure about this. But she likes that he asks, that he gives her a chance to back out if she wants to, to wait a little longer if she needs to. It’s sweet.
She nods, her palms rubbing up his chest, over his shoulders. “Definitely,” she tells him, asking, “You?”
“Never been more sure about anything,” Elliot promises, and Olivia grins and yanks him down for another kiss, their bodies pressing, sliding, his cock sliding against her clit now with nothing between them. She moans softly, spreading her thighs wider, the friction firmer, fuller. She likes this—the rocking, the grinding—it does things for her, and he knows that, so he drags himself against her in slow, firm passes, the friction getting slicker, smoother, the wetter she gets for him.
He has one elbow planted in the mattress, taking most of his weight as he uses his other hand to cup her breast, to thumb her nipple, rubbing back and forth over it, tracing soft circles around the stiffened peak. She sighs his name, groaning softly when he abandons her breast to reach down and tug her knee up higher, his hand coasting down her calf and urging her ankle around his waist. Olivia brings the other up to join it, locking her heels around his waist. It shifts the angle of everything, lets him draw his length all the way through her folds. She can feel every hard inch of him drag across her clit, through her wetness, then roll back up until his balls press against her.
God, this is torture. Having him so close but not inside her is driving her insane, and she can’t handle the slow pace anymore, can’t go another minute without taking him. She’s been waiting twenty-three years and she is not willing to wait a second longer.
They’ve been sharing breath, mouths close, lips brushing, but too focused on the building friction between them to keep up with proper kisses. So her mouth is free to whisper, “El, now. I need you inside me.”
He moans, surging hard against her and sucking in a breath (she gasps, moans). “You wet enough?” he asks, reaching down to grasp his cock, dragging the head of it through her folds.
She’s not sure she is, honestly, but she nods anyway. She’ll adjust after a few seconds, she just wants him inside her now.
But Elliot is Elliot, ever attentive to her body, to her comfort. He frowns, sliding his tip up and down again and then he asks, “Do you have any—?”
Olivia sighs, nods, and wriggles to the side, groping in her nightstand for the bottle of lube she keeps there and popping the cap. Elliot tries to reach for it, but she shakes her head, insisting, “Let me.” She doesn’t want him to get overzealous with it, doesn’t want things too slick, too sloppy. So she squirts out a dollop and dips her hand between them, lubing up and then dropping the bottle unceremoniously to the mattress.
Elliot’s smiling down at her when she drags her hand back up his arms, wiping her fingers off on his skin. She bounces her brows at him, a silent question: satisfied? He runs his cock through her folds again and nods, tells her, “Much better,” and then, “I want it to feel as good for you as it will for me.” His nose bumps gently against hers, and she thinks again that he’s sweet, that shadow of annoyance that he’d delayed this for even a moment despite her insistence that she was fine flickering away into nothing. He’s right, she thinks—they’ve been waiting for too long to let this be anything less than wonderful, no matter how impatient they might be feeling.
“It will,” she promises, smirking and adding, “if you ever get to it.”
Elliot scoffs a laugh, shaking his head at her and letting his cock drag down, pressing against her entrance. She sucks in a breath and he meets her eyes, gazes locking and holding as he presses into her. He sinks in slowly, a pleasant stretch, and her breath catches at the knowledge that this is Elliot, that they’re here, together, fully, finally. She can’t inhale, can’t exhale, can’t do anything but look into his eyes and feel him invade her carefully, until he’s buried deep, all the way, their hips pressed snugly. Olivia tightens her ankles around his waist, presses her palms to his ribs, his name tumbling from her in a hallowed whisper.
He moans, low and quiet, his eyes dropping shut as he breathes, “You feel so good.”
Olivia nods, squeezes her legs around him and answers, “You, too. God… El—” Whatever she was about to say gets lost as his mouth falls on hers again, his elbows settling on either side of her biceps, her body covered by him, wrapped around him. Her heart is pounding, hard, her hands restless on his warm skin. She wants to feel him, all of him, can feel him, all of him. They’re so close, finally, and it feels like coming home.
For one long minute, they stay just like that, tongues tangling, bodies joined, and then he starts to move, slow at first, giving her a few long, languid strokes, before he picks up speed, their mouths separating with a smack as he starts to take her deep and quick.
She flares hot, fast, overwhelmed by the finally of it all, by the scent of his cologne and the feel of his strong arms bracketing her, the way his muscles shift under her hands and slide against her belly, and the feel of him—of Elliot, God, God, Elliot—inside of her. Filling her up, thick and hard, and perfect, everything about this is perfect. She’s wanted it—him—them—this—for so long and finally having it is staggering. Every thrust is a heady rush, and she feels her orgasm coalesce in seconds, balling hot in her belly and bursting out through her limbs, chasing bliss all the way to her fingertips as she cries out for him and comes hard.
It’s as intense as it is sudden, her head tipping back and eyes squeezing shut as her nails dig into his back and she shouts again, wordless and shattered. He keeps thrusting inside her and he feels huge now, all-encompassing, like the place where they’re joined is the only place that exists, the only place that matters.
She has room for only one thought in her brain: It has never been like this.
She’s mindless, levitating, at once wholly inside her body and hovering just outside of it, and she can hear him, feel him, his thrusts going slightly erratic as he moans her name desperately, his mouth just by her ear, his breath hot on her neck.
She hears, “Oh, God,” and “Shit” and “Liv, I—” and then he presses into her hard, deep, groaning in relief or dismay, she’s too far gone to know for sure. She just knows he’s as caught up as she is, swallowed under this heady passion, spilling deep inside of her—and the idea of it, the thought that Elliot is coming inside of her, leaving himself behind for her to hold, has her tightening her ankles around his hips, locking him in deep, close, hers.
She hisses, “Yessss,” and presses her hips up into his, wanting to get closer even though closer is impossible. Wanting to keep him here, with her, safe, cradled in her thighs, forever.
They go lax at the same moment, breath falling heavy out of both their lungs, a weak moan falling from Elliot’s lips as a soft sigh breaks from Olivia’s. Her touch goes from biting to soft, fingertips sweeping reverently along his shoulders, and her thighs relax, ankles slipping down until her feet land on the bed. There’s not a breath of space between their bodies, but he’s not pressed hard into her anymore, just resting, nestled into her warm center. She hooks one of her ankles over his knee to keep him with her and turns her head to find his mouth for a kiss that’s as breathless as it is deep and slow.
When it ends, their lips are wet and their lungs are burning, their noses bump, mouths brushing, not a kiss, really, just contact, just sharing breath.
She breathes him in, the beer on his breath from dinner, and the sweat they’ve just worked up, and that cologne. His skin. God, she is so in love with him. Devastatingly, dangerously so.
Her hands swoop slowly down his back, and up again, as Elliot catches his breath and has the audacity to apologize.
“Sorry, that was—” He swallows. “When you came, I couldn’t hold back.” His lips press just to the side of hers, soft, sweet. “Felt so good, and the sound of you—I tried—”
“Shhhh,” she hushes him, turning her face just enough to silence him with her lips. She kisses him gently, lingering, and then assures him, “It was fantastic.”
Phenomenal. Earth-shaking.
“Yeah,” he huffs, grinning, agreeing. “But—quick.”
Olivia shrugs beneath him, runs her heel down his calf and back up. “We have all night. We can go again. That was…” She licks her lips, glances down at his, then meets his gaze, summoning her courage and baring her soul, whispering, “It’s never been like that.”
He nods, so close their noses bump, breathes, “Never,” and then their mouths meet again for more languid kisses. Her heart trips in her chest, somersaults and stumbles at that one simple word. Never.
She’s had a string of lovers, but no Big Loves. No one but him, the one she wasn’t allowed to love, should never have loved, could never have had. But Elliot, Elliot had forty years of marriage with his high school sweetheart, and while she knows it wasn’t perfect, she also knows without a doubt, with absolute certainty, that he had loved Kathy. That he had made love to her, many many times. That what they’d had had been intimate, and strong, and true, even with its problems.
It takes her breath away that after all that, he could feel the way she does. That this—them—being together, finally—was as good for him, as new for him, as it was for her.
One of her hands rises to cup his jaw, her thumb stroking his cheek, and then she uses it to ease him away so she can just look at him. She wants to see him, look into those blue eyes, trace her thumb over his damp bottom lip and feel him kiss the pad of it softly.
Emotion swells in her chest, raw and choking, filling up her lungs, her throat, until it has to spill out of her in a shaky whisper: “I love you.”
She shares it like a secret, and he takes it in like a benediction, bowing his head until their foreheads meet, his shoulders sagging like he’s just let go of a heavy weight. His lips press to hers, hard, and then soft, and then he’s whispering against her lips, “I have loved you for so long.” Another kiss. “Too long.”
She knows what he means—too long, far longer than it had been appropriate for either of them to feel what they felt—and so she nods, and winds her arms around his neck and holds him close. He shifts, working his arms closer, under her shoulders, one hand tangling into her hair as he buries his face into her neck and holds on. The move jostles their lower halves just enough for his soft cock to slip out of her and she moans quietly at the loss even as she feels the slippery, liquid remnants of him between their bodies.
She wants him back inside her—irrationally, frantically, a reaction she recognizes as trauma skittering up her spine and digging in claws. As long as he is inside of her, he isn’t walking away from her, but the moment they part, they can be parted, and she recognizes how insane that is, how much it does not make sense, but the feeling is there nonetheless.
She presses her nose against his shoulder and breathes a quiet, vulnerable, “Don’t ever leave me like that again.”
Elliot tries to lift his head, but she stops him, one palm flying to the back of his skull and holding him there, close, where she doesn’t have to look him in the eyes. “Liv—” he tries, but she shakes her head, her nose brushing against his skin. He relents after a moment, sighing, and nuzzling in close to her ear, so she cannot miss a word he says: “I’m not going anywhere, ever again. I promise. You’re stuck with me.”
The reassurance chases that skittering panic a few rungs down her spine and she forces herself to breathe, to nod, her cheeks feeling hot with embarrassment as she murmurs, “I’m sorry, I don't know why I said that.”
Elliot tries to lift his head again and this time, she lets him, lets him draw back until he can look down on her, until he can use one fingertip to brush a lock of hair back from her brow as says, “Because I hurt you, and I’m sorry for that. It was selfish, and cruel, and cowardly, and I shouldn’t have done it—not like that. But I promise you—I promise you—that isn’t happening again. I wanna see this through.”
She wants to believe him—she thinks she does believe him—but she’d spent so long unsure of them, so long bruised, and hurt, that it’s hard to let it all go. Even now. Naked, underneath him, with his semen leaking out of her to stain her sheets and his sweat drying on her skin. But she wants to see this through, too, wants to give this relationship a chance, so she nods and tips her chin up to steal another kiss from him.
Elliot rolls off of her a moment later, pulling her with him, drawing her thigh up over his hip and tracing his fingertips along the outside of it. The combination of the soft touches and the cold air hitting her heated skin makes her shiver and press closer to him.
Elliot smiles, trailing his fingertips along the curve of her rear, in toward her sex, drawing them through her soaked folds and moaning softly at the feel of her.
“Come here,” he urges, dipping his head close to hers again. “We’ve got all night and I’ve got time to make up for.”
She’s not sure if he means the twenty years they’ve wanted this, or the ten years they were apart, or just the several minutes of sex that they’d both jumped the gun on. But whichever it is, she’s going to let him do his level best to make it up to her.