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Olivia is still breathless from her first orgasm when Elliot’s lips find her neck. His forearms cage her head, and the bulk of him settles on her like he intends to stay awhile. He rocks slowly against her dripping cunt, teasing her until she groans. She’s overstimulated by the sight of him, the smell of him, the pressure of him draped over her like a weighted blanket.
“Don’t tease me,” she tries to demand, but it comes out needy, pathetic.
Elliot chuckles into the curve of her shoulder, and she feels the vibration of it through her chest, warm and soothing. She melts under the feel of him, his hold, the solid throbbing promise pressing between her legs. She pushes the air from her lungs, and his weight shifts, pinning her tighter to the mattress.
She’s breathless beneath him, and she likes it.
He runs his tongue along her jugular, mumbling filth as he traces each inch. He likes to talk when she’s naked, to tell her how tight she feels, how wet, how beautiful. He likes to ask how he got so lucky, how he managed to get the most perfect woman in his bed.
He talks and talks, and she never tells him to stop.
He tells her that she is his and his alone, because he knows those words kindle something deep within her, something primal - an almost thirty-year longing to be claimed by him.
Then he whispers like a prayer that he is hers too, and she cracks wide open. He offers himself to her as a promise, “all yours, Liv”, and she feels whole in a way she’s never felt.
Olivia wraps her quivering legs around his hips, locking her ankles so she can grind against him. She’s needy for his cock more than anything, more than the thick fingers he’d fucked her with first, or the tongue he’d used after.
But she’s denied yet again by the boxers he refuses to pull down.
“I’ll stop if you ask nicely,” he breathes into her ear, tracing the lobe with his tongue before sucking it into his mouth.
She grips the back of his neck and pulls his face back to the curve of her shoulder, to the spot that makes her see God when he sinks his teeth there.
If he wants to tease her, if he wants to torture her, she’ll let him do it right.
“Don’t stop.”
She feels his stupid grin against her skin, and spares only a flicker of annoyance before his lips attach again, and he's sucking at her neck with the same hungry, greedy tongue that just feasted between her legs.
Pinpricks of hot pleasure ripple along her scalp, her shoulders, her back, licking along the base of her spine. He’s marking her, she knows, sucking maroon and purple patches along her collarbone, nipping them tender, layering teeth marks over his handiwork. He’s marking her like the world will get to see, like he wants them to see, like he wants them to know that her bed is warm, that her body is filled, that Olivia Benson loves someone enough to let them stake their claim on her.
And when they’re finished, when she’s sated and sweat-soaked and boneless in his arms, he’ll study her neck like a canvas, and each mark like a coveted work of art.
And she will let him.
She moans when his tongue slides over the base of her throat and presses her heels into his ass in retaliation, grinding her clit against him again. He’s rock hard, and she’s uncomfortably wet, and her desire is starting to feel a lot like desperation.
“Elliot…”
He releases her neck with a pop, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes. He offers a crooked, boyish smile, but there is nothing innocent about the man, or the constellation of spots that he’s left on her.
“Yes?”
She sighs.
“I need you.”
She’s not sure she’s ever said that to him before, and even she is surprised at how raw it sounds. She watches the words land, and the mirth in his eyes melts away into softness.
“You have me, Liv.”
He breathes it like a vow, and she believes him.
Then he drops his weight to one forearm, dips his head to hers, and steals a kiss along with all the breath from her lungs.
Something shifts with that kiss, and Elliot becomes greedy. He cups the back of her head, pulling her face up to his, chasing her lips for more before she has a chance to breathe. He kisses her like he’s starved, like he’ll die if he stops, and she’s never felt more desired, more devoured in her life. He tastes of her and him, traces of rose-scented perfume and wintermint gum, and her tongue searches for more on his.
Olivia wants him inside of her while he kisses her like that, wants to be so full of him that she can’t tell where she ends and Elliot begins. She hooks her toe under the waistband of his boxers and tries to inch them down his hip, to ensure on the next thrust that there are no barriers between them.
The hand holding her head up pulls away, and she falls back against the pillow. She stares at him in confusion, and Elliot grins, grasping the meat of her thigh to pull her foot away from his boxers.
“You’re being impatient,” he mumbles against her lips. “I like you like this.”
“Really? Because I hate you like this,” she lies, pressing her mouth to his for another searing kiss. She wants him to shut up, which he does, finally, but she forgets that’s why she’s kissing him, and their tongues start the dance all over again.
He drops back down and his massive chest crushes against her breasts, her belly, forcing the air from her lungs like a hydraulic press. She has the fleeting thought that she wouldn’t mind dying that way.
Then he leans his forehead against hers, and his hands ghost her sides, down, down, then he shifts again, and-
“Oh, god.”
He thrusts forward, finally filling her like she’s been begging him to all night. She gasps into his mouth, and Elliot swallows it down with a groan.
His cock is thick, and impossibly hard, and no amount of foreplay has ever made her body take him without a fight, but she sighs into the burn. It’s a good kind of pain, the kind she’ll think back on later and press her thighs together, the kind that rides the line of pleasure.
“Fuck…” Elliot grits out between sloppy kisses to her jaw, “You feel so fucking good.”
He presses her thigh down into the mattress, opening her up even more, then grinds his hips down until there isn’t anywhere else to go, until she is as full of him as she can be. Her hands wrap around his solid back and she claws at his trapezius, leaving half-moons there to find later.
“Fuck me,” she begs, because she wants it, and because she knows it makes him crazy when she does. He obliges with a punishing pace, chasing her second orgasm while another storybook of filth falls from his lips. Olivia yanks his head down to hers, cutting him off with a messy kiss. His tongue wastes no time finding hers.
Every thrust ghosts her g-spot, tightening the knot in her lower belly, but it’s not enough. She angles her hips up toward him, urging, and he reaches down to thumb her clit.
“You’re gonna cum for me.”
It's not a question, but she nods anyway, sucking his lower lip into her mouth as her pleasure notches upward. His thumb and cock find a rhythm so perfect, so relentless that it almost feels like punishment. Her mouth drops open and away from his, and Elliot wastes no time burying his face in the crook of her neck once more.
“Let go, baby,” he groans.
Then his mouth latches onto that spot, and she soars. Her orgasm rolls over her in waves, one after the other, an unrelenting, all-consuming heat. Elliot chases more. His thumb and cock and mouth work at her, conducting her pleasure, drawing it out for as long as she can take it. She nearly begs him to stop, it’s too much, but his devotion is heady, and she wants him to drink his fill.
Her hands reach for something to hold onto, to ground her. One finds the sheet, the other the back of his head, and she swallows a scream.
She feels him stutter at her collarbone, his hips jerking with frantic, shallow thrusts as he takes his pleasure from her cunt. He wraps his arm around her thigh like it weighs nothing, opening her to reach the deepest part of her. Then he sinks his teeth into her throat, and cums with a moan that she feels all the way through her chest.
“Fuck.”
They find their breaths in tandem. He rests his head on her breasts as she runs her nails over the back of his neck. She’s damp head to toe, and Elliot’s breath is much too hot, but she can’t stand the thought of peeling herself away from him yet.
He’s soft inside of her now, but he presses his pelvis flush against hers, making no move to break their connection. They’ve been here enough times now that she knows he likes to linger in the afterglow, to fuse himself to her as long as she will allow.
He lifts his head from her breasts to smile up at her, and she laughs, euphoria bubbling over from the longest orgasm she thinks she’s ever had.
“You were loud, Liv.”
She huffs.
“I wasn’t.”
He plants a kiss on her sternum. “You were. You’re lucky mama’s not home. She would have commentary.”
Her cheeks flush at the thought.
“She wouldn’t… I wasn’t loud.”
He pulls out of her slowly, and she winces at the sudden gush of fluids coating her upper thighs and ass.
Elliot’s lips brush hers and he smirks. “I’ll clean you up in a sec, I just need to…”
He flicks on the bedside lamp, and she watches his eyes light up, scanning over her nape. She wants to ask about the damage, though she already knows. She can feel bruises forming all along her throat and shoulders, skin sucked raw, bitemarks that will likely blacken. He looks pleased with himself, but she sees a flicker of doubt there too, and that bruises her somewhere he cannot see.
“Don’t…” she warns, “I told you not to stop.”
He tilts her jaw up to expose her throat to the light, blue eyes inspecting his work.
“I know… It’s just… They’re darker than usual.” He looks from her neck to her eyes, then away. “Did I hurt you, Liv?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure… I liked it,” she insists through gritted teeth, and her chest feels lighter when he grins that stupid fucking smug grin back at her.
“Is that why you were so loud, Captain?”
She palms the solid rock of his chest and shoves, barely moving him an inch.
“Didn’t you say something about cleaning me up?”
He eases down to steal another kiss before separating himself from her. Olivia watches him walk to the bathroom, naked as the day he was born and looking carved from stone in the lamp light. She runs her fingers along the most tender part of her neck, and wonders what she’ll see the next time she passes a mirror.
—
Her first thought the next morning is that she can’t walk, and maybe she will never walk again.
The ache between her thighs is rivaled only by the burning in her hips and lower back, and a mass presses into her left side, warm deadweight draped over her like a chain. She tries to roll away, but her body refuses, so she pushes up against the mattress instead. A moan equal parts pleasure and misery rumbles from her chest, and the arm draped over her belly tightens.
“Go back to sleep, Liv.”
His voice is low and soft, and her eyes droop for a second, almost lulled by him. But the sun is already peeking through the blinds, and she has responsibilities beyond this man and his bed and his greedy mouth.
“It’s almost eight, I have to pick up Noah soon.”
He grumbles, removing his arm from her waist without urgency. Just when she thinks she’s free, the bed shifts, and he’s pulled her even closer, nuzzling her with a prickly cheek, fingers dancing at her tender throat. “You feel okay this morning?”
She turns toward him and answers with a brush of her lips against his. He returns the kiss, deeper, longer, one after the other, until she has to pull away to catch her breath.
“I feel,” she stretches the word, grimacing at the tightness in every limb, “like I need a hot bath.”
Her words activate Elliot. He rises effortlessly, as if contorting her like a pretzel all night made no difference to him at all. He likes to cater to her when she’s in his space, she knows - baths drawn at the perfect temperature, mugs of expensive coffee with extra cream, blankets fresh from the dryer when she’s reading on his couch. Noah calls it the “princess treatment”, but Olivia knows it’s just Elliot.
He’s stark naked before her, and her eyes drink in his toned back and ass in the lowlight. It feels obscene in a way, even after months of this, to see him in such a light, in the most quiet parts of his day, in his home, with no barriers between them but a blanket.
“I can make my own bath, El. Lay back down,” she laughs, though she knows it’s pointless.
“Only if you can beat me there.”
He throws a wink over his shoulder, then he’s off. Olivia lays back against the pillow, grinning at nothing and nobody, and wonders not for the first time how she and Elliot finally managed to figure this thing out, and why they hadn’t done it sooner.
–
When he returns 20 minutes later, she’s curled up in his spot. His side of the bed is softer somehow, and holds his heat like insulation, so when she finds her way there, surrounded by the warmth and scent of him, she feels sedated.
“Captain, your bath is ready,” he announces, and she laughs despite herself. She tosses the blanket away and lets him lead her into the bathroom. Her legs barely cooperate, and her brain is still suspended in a state of half-sleep…
Until they stop in front of the mirror.
“Oh my God,” she gasps at her reflection, blinking the sleep from her eyes as she trails a finger along her neck. Elliot presses up against her backside and reaches over to swipe steam from the mirror, to give a clearer view of what he’d left behind.
It was as bad as she’d expected, bitemarks and bruises scattered over most of her neck and shoulders. No amount of color-corrector, foundation, powder or miracle makeup in the world would cover the evidence.
“Are you happy with yourself?” she asks him, almost playfully.
He smirks back at her in the mirror, reaching up to run his thumb over the darkest mark, the one outlined with a bite, the one he’d given her while he was spilling inside of her.
“I am.”
The words come from low in his chest, and she feels his cock press harder against her as he fingers the bruise. For a passing moment, she grieves for her younger self, for the woman who would have bent over that sink and let him take her again in front of the mirror, the woman whose hips and thigh muscles would have welcomed round two there and maybe round three in the bath.
But she’s older now, and she’s sore. Her son needs to be retrieved soon, and the steam dancing off of the tub is tantalizing. She sighs and straightens her back against his chest, and his hands pull at her hips.
“Bath,” he mumbles.
He guides her to the tub, then without a word of warning, scoops her up and sets her in the water.
She laughs harder than she’s laughed in a long time, because he’s too much, and he’s ridiculous, and he’s all hers. She settles into the bubbles that she knows he keeps in the apartment specially for her, and Elliot hands her a cup of coffee, looking pleased with himself.
“Don’t fall asleep in there.”
“It was one time.”
“One time too many,” he warns, then exits the bathroom after one more long, lingering glance in her direction.
She sips her coffee and tries not to think about how she’s going to hide her neck from Noah when she picks him up in an hour.
–
She sits on his bed after her bath, one towel wrapped around her body, another her hair. Elliot kneels in front of her, running lotion-covered hands up and down her calves, thumbs expertly digging into tight muscle.
She enjoys it, but she’s preoccupied now. Her son called during her bath, asking to extend his sleepover another night. She tries not to be disappointed that he isn’t as eager to see her as she is to see him.
“He’s growing up too fast.”
“They always do,” Elliot laments, squeezing lotion onto his palm and massaging it into her knees. “It gets easier.”
“Does it?”
The silence between them breathes, and he offers a crooked smile as he works his fingers up her thighs.
“Nah.”
She huffs, and he rubs the rest of the lotion into the highest point of her inner thigh, ghosting his knuckles over her lips before dragging his fingers back down to her knees. She gives him a look, and he smiles at her with all his teeth.
“I got you something.”
He braces his hands on either side of her and pulls himself off of the floor, hovering in her face long enough to plant a kiss along her jaw.
“Are you trying to convince me to stay another night?”
“God, yes.”
She laughs.
He retrieves a paper bag from the top shelf of the closet and waggles his brows as he hands it to her. It’s not the first gift she’s received from him since they started this, but it’s the only one that’s caught her off-guard.
She reaches in the bag and feels cloth against her fingertips. His face is all mischief, and she guesses the contents before she even pulls it out.
It is a cream-colored turtleneck sweater.
He chuckles, and her cheeks warm at the implication of such a gift. She inspects it closer, thumbs dragging over soft cashmere. She owns other turtlenecks in black, grey, navy blue and brown. For months she’s rotated through them, since the first night they’d spent in his bed, when he told her how much he liked her neck, and how he’d thought about kissing it since ‘98, and she’d begged him to do whatever he wanted to her.
And now he’s gifted her one for her collection, so she’ll have a cream-colored option to hide beneath the next time his wild mouth ruins her.
“Do you like it?”
There is creeping insecurity in his question, and her heart squeezes. She pictures him at the store, searching through racks of sweaters to pick out the perfect one for her. It’s sweet, and very him.
Then she thinks of the smattering of lovemarks on her neck, and she laughs.
“This counts as premeditation, I think.”
She gestures to her neck, and he nods in an entirely too cheerful way.
“But you like it?”
She presses the sweater to her chest and smiles.
“I love it.”
—
Monday arrives quickly, and Olivia’s at the precinct earlier than usual.
The collar of her new sweater covers the remnants of her weekend, but Fin is like a dog with a bone when it comes to her personal life, and she hopes she can avoid his scrutiny if she settles at her desk before he arrives.
Her heel clicks echo when she walks into the squadroom. There is not another soul in sight, and she lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.
She slips into her office quickly and closes the door. Almost everything is the same as she left it on Friday - papers piled high at one corner of her desk, an empty mug with a dried teabag next to her keyboard, a green file folder opened to a photo of a brownstone.
Except for the vase.
The vase which magically refills with fresh flowers before she arrives every Monday. She has no real proof that it’s Elliot who arranges the flowers, and he denies it when asked, but she can’t think of another person who would be so invested in the ambiance of her office.
These flowers are as close to a confession as she’s likely to get from him. The arrangement is twice as big as usual, light and dark red roses nestled between burgundy dahlias and purple orchids. It’s a spectacle of reds and purples all too familiar to her.
Someone knocks at the door. She waves them in distractedly, inspecting her flowers with a smile she can’t fully suppress.
“Mornin’, Liv.”
Dammit.
“Morning, Fin. How was your weekend?”
He shuts the door, and she knows she’s in for it.
“Not as good as yours.” He motions to the turtleneck with a shit-eating grin. “New sweater?”
She cocks a brow and shrugs.
“I’ve had this for years.”
He chuckles.
“The tags still on it, cap.”
Her face burns, and she fumbles for the hem, finding no tag there. She knows it’s not at her neck, because she’d rearranged the collar twenty times in the mirror before she left home.
Fin laughs harder, and she realizes she’s been played.
“Did Stabler buy it for you?”
“Sergeant.”
Fin knows her, and he knows that she and Elliot are finally more than “really good friends”, but he doesn’t get to know that her neck looks like a red and purple watercolor painting. She has to draw the line somewhere.
“Nice flowers, too. Must have been a great weekend.”
She flattens her palms against her desk and leans toward him, matching his smile inch for inch. She’s played this game with him before, and she always wins.
“You know what, Fin? Since you’re so perceptive today, I’m sending you to 1PP. Spend the day pulling cold cases.”
His grin falters.
“Are you serious?”
“Oh, yeah. Take Griff with you.”
“Liv-”
She plops down in her chair and waves him toward the door, all smiles.
“That’s an order, sergeant.”
He looks at her dumbly, and she shrugs, trying not to laugh. She slides her glasses on and opens her laptop, dismissing him again with her silence. When he slips back into the squadroom, she hears him calling out to Griffin, explaining their assignment as “a punishment.”
She likes starting the day with a win.
Then her phone vibrates with a new text, and she glances down to read it.
“Miss you already” scrolls along the top of her screen.
She reaches under her collar and presses her fingertip to one of the marks, picking up her phone to reply with the other.
Miss you too.