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The taxi feels more intimate than the bar in some strange way. He can still taste the bourbon in Liv's mouth as her tongue slides against his. He's warm--almost too hot--with her on his lap, her knees deep in the taxi's backseat cushions as she straddles him. Her fingers are firm on his jaw, tilting his chin so she can suck at his lower lip.
When he opens his eyes, he sees the driver glancing at them in his rear view mirror. He meets the man's gaze for one brief moment, furrowing his brow, ready to get angry, and then Olivia's hands are sliding along the stubble on his jaw, bringing him back to her.
Eleven years as partners. Fucking on and off for ten. And he's still amazed at his enthusiasm for her. It's been an odd year really. The power between them is always shifting, but ever since she untied him from the chair in Dale Stucky's lab, he's been feeling like she's outpacing him. It's been patronizing in a way, how she's been working around him, trying to push him into a corner out of the way so she takes all the risk.
He used to be her protector. These days he's been relegated to shoving lab boys into walls when they unconsciously stare at her cleavage. Still... his dedication flusters her, and he relishes that. He's intimidating, he knows, but not to her. Her uneasiness is in his softness toward her.
She pulls her mouth from his, wetly, and he runs his hands up the back of her thighs. She looks down at him, a little smirk on her lips, her hair falling in her eyes, and it makes his whole body tighten up. She isn't about falling into any man's arms. She needs to have control over her emotions and he's her weakness. They didn't fuck at all during the years he was separated from Kathy, and he doesn't want to think about what that means. He doesn't want to know who she's fucking when he's home with his wife. He couldn't give her up anyway, so it doesn't matter.
She kisses him again, bites at his lips, tugs at his hair, and he thinks, really, if she had a dick she'd want to fuck him. It's a burning thought in his mind. And a sharp sizzle somewhere lower.
"You want to fuck me," he says, a little breathless, as she backs off a little.
She snorts, softly. "It took you ten years of fucking to figure that out, Detective?"
He grabs the belt loops on her hips and pulls down, forcing her to sit on his lap and bringing her face level with his. "No," he says, quietly. Quiet enough so the driver can't hear. "You want to fuck... me."
She stares at him, and he watches her try to figure it all out. The way she swallows tells him he's on the right track. Sometimes it's about power with them. Can't walk down the fucking hall without battling for personal space, their elbows hitting because neither of them will give an inch.
Fucking shouldn't be about power. That's the one thing they know--know--from doing the job they do everyday.
She's staring intently into his eyes and he hears her fingers curl into the vinyl of the car seat next to his ears. She puts her mouth close to his and when she speaks, he can taste that bourbon on her breath. "Do you want to be fucked?"
His mouth runs dry and his heart pounds. He never thought about shit like this before he met her. "Uh..." he says, and his voice gives out. It sounds like a groan, even to his own ears.
It's Olivia though, and she knows him, knows how he thinks. Those insecurities that cling to his Catholic ribs deep inside despite everything he sees, everything he knows. She rubs gently at his nape and rephrases the question. "Do you want me to fuck you?"
She's serious. She's not laughing, and that more than anything is what makes him press his mouth to hers and groan "Uh-huh" against her lips.
He's suddenly so hard he can barely think straight.
[]
In her apartment, they strip out of their coats and shoes, and she pulls him into the bathroom and starts the shower. It's been a long day of riding in the squad and walking around Manhattan.
He isn't sure what to do, what she wants to do. He suddenly isn't sure of anything. 'Fucking' has suddenly gained a hundred different definitions, and what the hell was he thinking?
The heat of the water is good against his back. He lets it hit right between his shoulder blades, and Olivia kisses him in the rising steam. Her skin is soft and slick and he can run his hands, uninterrupted, all over her. She curls one hand behind his head and presses her mouth to his throat. In the hot water, her tongue feels cool. She sucks slowly and it makes his eyelids weaken and slide closed. He exhales, and her free hand slides between his legs. He's already hard, and her palm slips down until she cups him almost possessively. She just holds him then, and he hangs there on the edge, wanting to move against her hand, wanting to grab her around the waist and haul her up against the wall and get inside of her.
Enthusiasm, like he said.
She looks at him and then her fingers are curling around his cock and sliding, slipping, tight and then loose, and he braces a hand against the side of her shower. Ten years, and she knows what he likes. That she can be a little rough. That she can brush her fingertips over the most sensitive part of him and he'll tighten up and suck in his breath, but she can't stay there too long. She runs her free hand down his back and over the curve of his ass. Her undivided attention always puts him in a bit of a haze.
He's panting in the languorous heat of it. A little mind-fucked by the way she's stroking him, keeping him on the edge. He almost forgets until he feels her mouth on his, and then she's doing a cross-arm grab, just the way she handles perps when she wants to cuff them, and she's pushing him up against the wall, face first, gently, and she comes in, warm and wet, against him, her breasts soft and slippery against his back. Her mouth against the back of his shoulder.
He makes a sound, surprised, but her arm curls around and her hand slides back on his dick, and he rests his forehead against the wall instead, still breathing hard.
"Alright?" she asks, against his skin, and he nods, wordlessly.
She keeps lazily playing with his dick, and he widens his stance, and then she runs a hand over his ass again. And again. And a prickle of apprehension threads through him as he realizes exactly what she's doing. He swallows, and shifts, and she says, "It's okay." Against his shoulder, and then her teeth brush his skin. Her fingers ease down, over the curve of his ass, into the cleft, and she doesn't press in, but she strokes, and he's weirdly nervous and turned on at the same time. It's not a familiar state for him.
And it isn't as if he's never stuck a finger up his own ass, when he was younger and exploring; it's just something he'd never… gotten into. Never thought about. Until her. And it's a ball of fire and lust and desperation in his gut. That this maybe isn't about sex at all, but about her and him and what there is between them and what he wants from her.
Jesus. He's ridiculous.
She whispers to him though, and hearing her voice, just knowing it's her… When he looks down he can see her hand on his cock, moving. The pleasure is pooling hard between his legs, washing out, making him want to move his hips. He brings his arms up and braces them on the wall, using them as a cushion for his forehead. She presses against him for a quick moment, her whole body flush against his, her hand sliding over his hip, across his stomach, his chest, back to the curved cheek of his ass. He's waiting, breathlessly, and the thought makes him want to come.
Maybe that's what she's waiting for. Her fingers drag through his cleft again and then press in a bit, and he stops breathing. She dips in and out and then in further, and he can feel that she's using two fingers and then his head spins and his breath bursts out of him in one big huff. She lets go of his dick and slides her arm around his waist, holding him. "You wanna stop?" she asks, and even as she's asking, her fingers are sliding so incredibly slowly, in and out of him, shallowly but gaining depth.
He doesn't feel like he can speak. She's fucking inside of him. It's the whole idea really, that sends his nerves into overdrive. He shakes his head, and it's all he can manage. The steam from the hot water feels heavy in his lungs, and his head is spinning a bit, and she gets as far in as her fingers will allow and presses hard enough to force his hips forward, and it's a slow-falling, heavy wave of heat. He groans. Don't stop. Don't.
She's breathing faster too, and he can hear how turned on she is. She presses him further against the wall, holding him there, her hand dropping back to his cock, fingers moving in and out, always slowly, always pressing harder at the end, and it feels so good he just moves with her hand and pants against the wall. And she says, "God, Elliot…" In an agonized, soft voice that sends ripples of pleasure right to his dick.
Really, he's lost then. He balls his hands into fists because the world is tilting a bit, and he can feel how hard he's going to come, and he only has time to swear, breathlessly, once, before he falls right into it. Each rapid jet feels good enough to kill him, and he just lets it take him, aware, dimly, that he's groaning repeatedly but unable to stop.
Her hands coax him through it and then simply rest easily on him as he leans heavily on the wall, breathing. Fuck.
"Jesus," Olivia whispers, as she leans against him and presses her mouth to his back. "That was amazing."
He isn't sure what to think. Even as his mind clears a bit, his head is still spinning. He can still feel the ghost of her fingers inside of him, and he knows he came harder than she's probably ever seen him. All of it… the way she pressed him to the wall, the way she moved, the way she… fucked. He thinks the heat is getting to him, and he eases down onto his heels in the bottom of the tub, grabbing the side to keep himself from falling. He closes his eyes, tilting his head forward so she can't see him, and he just… He just isn't sure.
She turns the heat of the water down. He feels the temperature change on his skin, and it's better. He breathes easier. Then her arms slide around his shoulders and her mouth is at his ear, and she says, "El, are you okay?"
He nods, because he doesn't know what to tell her. Not yet. There are too many thoughts swirling in his head.
"It's just sex," she says, pressing a kiss against his temple. "We don't have to do this again if you didn't like it."
Except it's not. Not to them, and he thinks she must know that. That despite being the Sex Police, the two of them have more issues than most of the perps they send away. "I love you," he says suddenly, because he needs to hear her say it back.
"I love you too." And she turns off the water and pulls him out, and he realizes she hasn't come at all as they dry off. But she just leads him into the bedroom and curls up against his back as he lies there in the dark trying, and failing, to sleep. He thinks about the night, and the day, and the week and the whole damn year, and what it all means and how he's ever going to work the knots out of his life. Olivia's breath tickles against his nape, and her skin is warm and soft against his, and he feels that desperate wave of emotion she always creates in him, and really, he's always known.
He's just plain fucked.