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The snow sends everyone home early and keeps them there late, and although she wants to go, Elliot stays.
Like a tether, he keeps her there.
When she turns the light off on her desk and goes into the crib, Elliot is stretched out in one of the bottom bunk beds, and it feels strange.
New building, new crib, old beds, old partner.
He is still and breathing silently and that means he’s awake.
She walks in the darkness to the set of beds next to him. Turns her back. Puts her hands in the scratchy blanket of the top bunk. Rests her head in her arms.
Bedsprings squeak behind her.
“You should sleep,” he says.
“So should you.”
It is silent for a while. Still. Muted like they are lying in the snow, flakes settling down.
He comes up behind her. Heat and weight. He doesn’t lean in, he just stands against her. And she can feel him, from knees to chin.
He puts his arms next to hers on the bed, caging her. He puts his open mouth by her ear.
“It’s me,” he says, voice low. Raspy.
It’s a throwback to all the years before. She remembers how they used to do this, still do this, maybe always will. They used to be unable to look at each other, and she needed to know it was him.
She exhales slowly.
He leans now. In. Against. And it’s heat. Pressure.
She pushes back and he inhales.
He slides one hand down around her waist. The other tangles in her hair, tilts her head forward. His lips touch her nape just before his tongue. Teeth.
His hand goes under her shirt, his fingers splayed across her navel. He has big hands. Warm. She watches them sometimes, late, when they stay to do paperwork.
He slides the hand higher and cups her breast. Thumbs her nipple. He knows how much. Just how much. How much twist can cause the pain that makes her wet. Never too much, because her pain is the one hurt he can’t take.
His mouth is a slow pleasure on her nape and makes her feel her own pulse between her legs.
She reaches for her belt, struggles with the buckle. He breathes faster at the clink of the metal, works his own with one hand. She hears his zipper and all she wants is that heat inside her.
He pushes her forward against the bunk, and she closes her eyes, presses her forehead against the meager mattress, grabs handfuls of the blanket until the wool feels like sandpaper.
He’s putting his knee between her legs, forcing them apart, and his cock brushes against her. She arches her back, just enough, and then he’s sliding inside of her, and he’s pushing her hard against the bunk and she’s up on her toes holding her breath.
She makes a wordless sound of surprise, and she doesn’t know why he can still do that to her.
He breathes heavily, in and out, and he just stands there for a moment, inside of her. It’s maybe their one moment to feel regret. Resignation. That they can’t stop.
Then his hands hold her hips, and he thrusts, and she just uses all her strength to hold on and push back and feel him moving.
He never pulls out and she’s always full and never empty and he rocks them together until she starts seeing stars behind her eyelids. Or snowflakes.
He uses his strength to keep her up on her toes. He uses his weight to keep her pinned to the side of the bunk. If he could, she thinks, he’d probably tie her down. He’s never asked, but she feels it there, inside of him.
She’s thinking, on his next birthday, of throwing her cuffs down on his desk in front of him. Letting him do what he wants. She’s already visualizing the look he’ll give her. The heat that will be there in his eyes. She wonders if he’ll get hard right there at his desk, during the middle of the day, when she does it.
He’s rocking against her and she’s winding tighter and it’s feeling so good that she can’t think anymore, and he’s starting to falter and break. His arms go around her waist and pull her closer, and maybe she’s not even touching the floor anymore.
Her face is against the blanket, and she breathes into it, hard, and she likes it like this. When she can hide from him and react at the same time.
“Liv,” he says, into the back of her neck, and his voice is gravel.
She reaches down to touch her own clit, and he slides deep, stays there, moves against her, with her, and wraps his arms around her like he’ll be ripped away if he doesn’t hold on tight.
She comes with a breathless rush, lights exploding behind her eyelids, the heavy weight of him making her muscles burn with pleasure.
He comes right after her, panting against her nape, teeth scraping her skin, and she feels his warm semen running down her thighs. They never use a condom, and yet it’s (probably) safe. Because he uses one with his wife, and she uses one with her dates. And she tries not to think about how fucked up that is.
He slides his arms under hers, holds her against the bed. Holds her up so he can rest against her. She wonders if he’d like to tie her to the ceiling. Hands together, hanging, up on her toes. He wants to see her vulnerable, she thinks, but doesn’t want it at the same time. He wants to protect her, and he wants to ruin her.
He’s so fucked.
She tries to move, feeling the wetness between her legs, knowing it’s soaking into her jeans where they hang on her thighs. He makes a sound of protest and leans more heavily on her, his hands closing over her wrists, pinning them.
When she can’t move, he says, “Olivia… stay.”
So she does, because she can’t do anything else.
She thinks that’s exactly the way he wants it.