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Olivia strides down the hall of OCCB headquarters, heels clicking sharply against the polished floor, each step punctuating the barely-contained fury thrumming beneath her skin. She needs to get out. The walls are closing in, suffocating her, and every glance she feels on her back—his glance—only fuels her anger more.
What a fucking asshole.
“Liv, wait!”
She isn’t going to give him the satisfaction of turning around. Let him fucking stew. Let him chase after her and sputter excuses. See how far that gets him. The nerve—after everything—to think she’ll stand there and listen while he tries to justify—
She quickens her pace, fists tightening at her sides. The elevator doors ahead begin to close, mocking her haste, but she catches them just in time, jabbing the button repeatedly.
“Olivia!”
God, she needs out of here. Away from him, away from his stupid, clueless apologies, away from every reminder of just how deep Elliot fucking Stabler crawled under her skin—how deeply she allowed him to.
Damn him.
The doors reopen, revealing Elliot standing there, breathless, blue eyes wide and desperate for her to stop.
“What do you want, Detective?” she snaps, voice dripping with icy disdain.
He steps into the elevator, hesitant yet determined. The doors slide shut, trapping them in silence for an agonizing heartbeat.
“Liv, talk to me.”
“About what? Your stellar undercover tactics?” she shoots back sharply. Her gaze pierces him, cold and unyielding. “I didn’t realize OCCB took such a flexible approach to professionalism.”
Elliot flinches, taking a deep breath as he meets her eyes. “That’s not fair.”
“Fair?” Olivia scoffs, eyes flashing dangerously. “Tell me, Detective, was it fair to all the people counting on you to maintain some semblance of dignity? Or was dignity just collateral damage in your... undercover work?”
His jaw tightens. “Olivia, you don't understand—”
“You’re right,” she cuts him off sharply, folding her arms defensively across her chest. “I clearly don’t.” Her voice drops to a bitter whisper, heavy with barely restrained anger. “And frankly, I don’t want to.”
“Olivia—”
“Enough,” she says harshly, eyes blazing with fury she refuses to explain, refuses to admit—not here, not now. She fixes him with a cold glare, voice brittle and tight. “I don't owe you an audience, Detective. Go back to your operation. I'm sure someone else needs your attention.”
The elevator dings softly as it reaches the ground floor. Olivia steps out swiftly, hoping this could be a final punctuation mark on a conversation they both know isn’t remotely over.
But of course it isn’t.
“Olivia, will you just stop.”
He’s stubborn, she’ll give him that, trailing her like a shadow out of the building and into the bitter evening air, apparently oblivious to the curious stares of onlookers.
“For fuck’s sake, Liv, just let me explain—”
She whirls sharply toward him, eyes flashing dangerously. “Keep your fucking voice down, Detective,” she hisses, scanning around to ensure no one else is overhearing this humiliating spectacle. She’s Captain Benson, for Christ’s sake, and he’s making this infinitely worse with every passing second.
Elliot lowers his voice, but stays close, matching her hurried strides as they weave through the parking lot toward her car. “Can we just talk about this for a second? Please.”
She scoffs, not breaking stride. “Talk? About what, exactly? Your personal life?” Her tone is sharp, detached. “You don’t owe me anything, Elliot.”
“Liv—come on, don’t do that—”
Her heels scuff hard against the pavement as she spins toward him, keys clutched tight in one fist. Her voice is sharp, cold. “It’s Captain Benson, Detective.”
He blinks, caught off guard by the formal slap, but she’s already turning back to her car.
“Who you sleep with is none of my business,” she tosses over her shoulder, voice clipped and fast. “You can screw whoever you want, do whatever you want—it’s got nothing to do with me.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s accurate.”
“It’s not!”
She stops abruptly beside her car, turning to face him, the keys trembling in her grasp. Her voice drops to something low and lethal. “Oh, so you’re telling me you didn’t fuck Flutura?”
He freezes. Just—stops. No words. No denial. Just that look—wide-eyed, caught—and the silence that stretches between them is confirmation enough. Her chest tightens, heat flushing her cheeks, fury welling up until it tastes like blood in her mouth.
“That’s what I thought.”
She turns back toward the driver’s door of her SUV, her fingers fumbling over the keys longer than she wants to admit before she finds the remote and unlocks it. She grabs the handle—pulls—and suddenly his hand is there, pressing the door closed with one strong, steady motion.
“Get your fucking hand off my car.”
He doesn’t move. Holds her gaze with a look that's equal parts defiant and desperate, jaw locked, knuckles pale. “You’re being unreasonable.”
“Unreasonable?” She laughs—short, sharp, dangerous. Her voice shakes, her rage bubbling over. She steps in close, nose almost brushing his. “Move. Or I swear to God, I will physically remove you.”
He doesn’t blink. “You wouldn’t.”
She leans in, voice a whisper now—deadly and shaking. “Try me.”
For a long, taut moment, they’re frozen, suspended in the heat of something too old and too raw. Finally—finally—Elliot pulls his hand back and takes a single step away.
She yanks the door open before he can change his mind.
But he moves fast.
As soon as she drops into the driver’s seat and reaches for the lock, he’s already circling around the front of the car. She tries to hit the button, but she’s too slow. The passenger door rips open and slams shut again in one clean motion.
He’s in.
The sound of the door snapping shut makes her flinch. Her pulse slams in her throat. She grips the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping her from launching herself across the center console.
She turns slowly to glare at him. “I swear to God, I am two seconds away from drawing my weapon and shooting you point blank.”
Elliot exhales hard, bracing his elbows on his knees, hands clenched. “At least now no one will hear us talk.”
“They won’t,” she spits, turning sharply toward him. “Because there will be no talking. Get the fuck out.”
But he barrels ahead anyway, like she didn’t say a goddamn word.
“It meant nothing, Olivia. Sleeping with her—it wasn’t personal. It was about establishing trust. About proving Eddie Wagner was legit, that he had access, that he could play the game.”
“Oh, for the love of God, Elliot—stop talking.”
“It wasn’t about her! It wasn’t about anyone! It was a necessary move.”
She stares at him, jaw clenched so tight she feels it in her ears. Her pulse is pounding, her throat dry, her fists white-knuckled against the steering wheel.
“It meant nothing,” he says again, quieter now.
“Fuck. You.”
Silence.
Thick. Breathless. Radiating off her in waves as they stare each other down in the claustrophobic heat of the SUV. Elliot looks at her like he’s desperate—eyes wide, jaw tight, the kind of look he used to give her when they were in danger, or when he knew he’d gone too far and didn’t know how to fix it.
She sees it—that look—and her fury spikes. How dare he.
How fucking dare he to look hurt?
“It meant nothing,” he says again.
“I don’t care.”
“Bullshit.”
Her head snaps toward him, affronted.
“Bullshit, Liv,” he repeats, firmer now, eyes locked on hers. “You do care. And so would I, if the tables were turned.”
She goes completely still.
No words. No breath. Just pressure building behind her eyes and somewhere beneath her ribs. She almost laughs—bitter, sharp, cutting—but to laugh she’d have to breathe, and she doesn’t think she can.
He shifts beside her, body turning fully in his seat, knees angled toward hers. There’s tension in every inch of him, like it’s physically hurting him not to reach out across the console and touch her.
“C’mon, Liv,” he says, voice soft now. “Talk to me.”
Her eyes snap to his, wide, wet, furious. “Talk to you?”
And this time she does laugh—loud, unhinged, pain spiking through every note.
Tears are brimming now, her vision warping, but her voice is razor-sharp. “Are you fucking serious right now?”
“Liv—”
“No. No. Don’t you dare, Elliot. Don’t you fucking dare pretend like I’m the one with a communication problem here.”
He recoils slightly, guilt flashing across his face. Good. Good.
But she’s nowhere near done.
“What do you want to talk about, huh? About today? About you fucking Flutura?” Her voice breaks over the name like it’s glass in her mouth. “You think that’s the fucking problem?”
Elliot flinches at her outburst, but to his credit, he doesn’t try to cut her off. Doesn’t rush to an excuse. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough, quiet. “I know it’s not just about today. I know I screwed up. I’ve been screwing up for months now—”
“Months?” she snaps, incredulous. Her voice spikes in volume, sharp and unrestrained. “You think this has been going on for months? You don’t know shit, Elliot. And I don’t even think you want to.”
“I do! Fuck, Liv, I do!” He shifts toward her again, his voice raw with something close to pleading. “I want to understand. I want to fix this. I want to be better here, I swear—”
“Better for who, Elliot?”
“For you!” he fires back, voice cracking. “Fuck, Liv—for you. For me. For my kids. I know I haven’t been on my axis here—”
“Understatement,” she bites.
“I’m trying!”
“No, you’re running,” she spits. “From Kathy’s death. From your guilt. From your family. From me. You’re not showing up, Elliot. You’re hiding. And I’m done. I’m fucking done.”
She’s breathing hard now, every inhale feels like a stab to the chest. Now that the floodgates have opened, now that the cracks have splintered all the way through, the words just pour out—hot, ragged, unrelenting.
“Olivia, please. You gotta hear me out—”
“I don’t ‘get to’ nothing, you selfish son of a bitch. I owe you nothing.” She breathes, enraged. “You think showing up is enough? You think you get a gold star for crashing back into my life like a wrecking ball and acting like that counts for something?”
“I know it doesn’t—”
“You came to my apartment in the middle of the goddamn night—like that was normal—while my son was asleep down the hall. Have you even thought about how that scared me?”
He looks stricken now, eyes wide in regret.
“Liv—”
“Talking about that goddamn letter. Making me realize that you were weak enough—cruel enough—to give me a piece of paper you knew would rip my heart to fucking pieces. A piece of paper that, according to you, you didn’t even write?”
She sees it then; the moment the realization strikes him. The moment he realizes what transpired that night. A night he was so out of himself he probably didn’t even remember.
Elliot’s face crumples, his mouth parting like he’s about to say something—anything—but nothing comes out. He looks at her like she just cut him off at the knees.
But Olivia can’t stop now.
“And don’t—don’t give me that look,” she spits, voice cracking. “Don’t dare sit there like you’re the victim in this. You haven’t asked one thing about my life since you came back,” she says, trembling. “Not one. Did you even notice?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. He didn’t.
“So I think it’s pretty clear where I stand.”
“Liv, that’s—”
“You called me and left me a voicemail saying I was your rock,” she says, voice trembling again. “Mentioning about the time you told me you loved me. And I played it back, like a goddamn idiot, like maybe that meant something.”
“Liv—”
“No. You listen now.” Her voice is hoarse, trembling, relentless. “You’ve been back for what, two years? And you’ve done nothing but take. You’ve demanded my time, my trust, my presence. You demanded I let you back into an investigation. You demanded I believe you still had good intentions.” Her laugh is short, breathless, vicious. “And like a fool, I did. I gave. And gave. And gave.”
Her eyes glint through the tears, burning.
“But have you wondered, Elliot—for even one goddamn minute—what these past few years have costed me?”
“I never meant to hurt you—”
“Well, you did!” she screams, her hands shaking now.
She’s crying now, tears spilling unchecked down her face, but her tone never softens.
“Olivia—”
“You left me.” she screams, her hands shaking now. “You left everything. And now you want to talk about meaning and mistakes and how Flutura didn’t matter—”
“She didn’t matter!”
“Fuck you, Elliot!”
“She didn’t! God, Olivia… it was just a meaningless fuck—”
“I’ve fucked people too,” she says coldly. “Men who treated me better than you ever did.”
He stiffens.
“Brian Cassidy,” she says. “We’ve dated for about two years after you left. He made me come in every single room of my old place. I used to scream so loud I got complaints from the neighbors.”
He winces, eyes widening, but doesn’t say anything. And she doesn’t stop.
“And then we moved in together, and we fucked in every room of that place, too.”
“Olivia—"
“Ed Tucker.”
Elliot reels like she’s punched him. His whole body goes rigid, eyes wide, lips parted like he’s forgotten how to breathe.
And Olivia sees it—that raw, wounded look in his eyes—and she feels it land. Good.
She presses in, ruthless now. “Remember him? The guy you couldn’t stand? The one you used to spit bile about every time his name came up in a case?”
She leans back in her seat, crosses her arms like she’s telling a bedtime story, voice calm—too calm.
“He used to read Noah bedtime stories. Help with homework. Brush his teeth in the morning. We would put my son to bed and then he would make me come with his mouth, before asking me how my day went.”
He inhales hard, as if he’s been punched. Good.
“He took us to France, Elliot. All three of us. It wasn’t some affair or fling—I brought him into my life. We were a family.”
Elliot looks like she’s ripped something straight out of his chest, but she doesn't slow down.
“We walked the Seine together. Ate too much cheese. Took pictures outside Notre Dame.” Her voice sharpens. “And we fucked every single night after Noah went to bed. And after, we would laugh. Fall asleep naked and tangled up in hotel sheets. I let him see me—all of me—and he never once flinched. He wanted me. He loved me.”
She pauses, just long enough to let it sink in.
“You want honesty?” she says, voice steady now, unforgiving. “He made me feel like I was safe. Like I was wanted. And when he touched me, it wasn’t out of guilt or confusion. It was because he loved me. And because I let him.”
Elliot’s knuckles are white now, fists clenched against his thighs. His breath is uneven. His jaw pulses.
“You think I’ve been sitting around, frozen in time, just waiting for you to come back and…” She shakes her head, disgusted. “What? Pick up where we left off? Elliot, we never had anything to pick up. You were married. And even when you weren’t, you never even looked at me like I was a possibility.”
He shakes his head then, violently, but she cuts him off before he can speak.
“You think I’m so pitiful I would stay here, waiting for someone else’s husband? Crying over the fact that he would never—had never—spared me a second thought?” Her voice wavers, fury and humiliation twisting together in her throat. “It took a while, Elliot. But I learned my fucking lesson.”
She glares at him, voice suddenly colder than it’s ever been.
“How little I mattered to you. How much you just saw me as an accessory. Something you could carry around when it was convenient.”
“That’s not true,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “Liv, that’s not true.”
“It’s always been true!” she explodes. “Always. Dani Beck. Flutura. Nothing ever changes with you.”
Silence.
Thick and suffocating—the kind that settles between two people like smoke after an explosion. They stare at each other, breathing hard. Eyes glassy. Chests heaving.
There’s fury. There’s grief. And something worse: recognition. The sick, quiet awareness that they’ve both always known it would come to this.
She looks away first, but only for a second.
Then her voice cuts through the stillness, low and steady, like a blade dragged across skin.
“You wanted me loyal,” she says, “but not loved.”
Elliot flinches again—visibly. Like the words hit something vital.
“But you wanna know something?” she goes on, unrelenting now. “I was loved. Fully. Completely.”
Her voice tightens with emotion, and she tries not to stumble with her words.
“I lived, Elliot. I thrived. I didn’t build some shrine to your memory—I didn’t sit around waiting for a man who never even looked back. I needed something. I needed someone. And I found it. And guess what?”
She stares at him, eyes blazing.
“It wasn’t fucking you.”
“Olivia—”
“Get the fuck out of my car.”
Her hand grips the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded.
She doesn’t look at him again. Just stares straight ahead, hands gripping the wheel like it’s the only thing holding her together.
There’s a beat of silence, thick and final. She thinks he might argue. Apologize. Beg. Plead.
But then the door opens.
Closes.
The second it latches, she turns the key and drives.
The tears come before the first turn, and she doesn’t wipe them away.
And she doesn’t look back, either.
Elliot takes the stairs two at a time, heart slamming in his chest, pulse hammering behind his eyes. His hands are shaking, his breath ragged. Each step echoes loudly in the stairwell, anger rolling off him in waves, blurring his vision, tightening his chest. He feels sick—twisted up with rage and grief, and something else he refuses to name.
He’d spent minutes frozen on the sidewalk outside OCCB, the echo of Olivia’s words ringing through his mind, branding themselves permanently into his memory. Every syllable cutting, ruthless, unbearably honest.
I lived. I thrived.
It wasn’t fucking you.
Flutura. Dani Beck. Cassidy. Ed fucking Tucker.
Each name hits him again and again like a punch, makes his blood burn hot beneath his skin. Tucker especially. Tucker, with Olivia in France. Tucker with Olivia and Noah, being the man Elliot never allowed himself to be.
He clenches his fists at his sides as he rounds the landing, continuing upward. Every step pounds with fury and regret. His mind reels, caught between the sickening image of Olivia in Tucker’s arms, Cassidy’s bed, and his own catastrophic inability to show up and be there. How long had she waited? How long had he wanted her to?
He’d rushed straight from OCCB to SVU headquarters, nearly frantic, only to see the look in Fin’s eyes—the judgment, the disappointment, the quiet disgust. “She took the rest of the day off. What the fuck did you do this time, Stabler?”
But Elliot was already gone, racing toward her apartment, driven by an anger so fierce, so raw, it almost feels like grief. Maybe it is grief. Grief for everything he’d lost—everything he’d willingly given away.
Everything he feels like he’s losing now.
He reaches her door and knocks sharply, urgently, the echo loud enough to rattle the frame. He doesn’t care if the neighbors hear. He knows Noah’s at school—knows it’s just the two of them now. She can’t hide from this conversation. Neither can he.
“Liv!” he calls out roughly, anger laced with desperation. “Open the goddamn door!”
He braces a hand on the frame, breathing hard, pulse hammering painfully beneath his skin. They’re going to talk this through, one way or another, even if it’s the last fucking thing he does.
The door swings open sharply, mere seconds after he knocks, Olivia’s eyes flashing hot and dangerous, like she’d been standing right behind it—waiting for him.
She looks furious, exhausted, defiant. Her face is still slightly red, eyes raw, her guard fully up. “What the hell do you—”
He doesn’t wait. He can’t wait. Elliot shoulders past her, into the apartment without invitation, tension coiled in every muscle. She lets out a harsh breath, slamming the door shut behind them with a loud, resonating bang.
They’re facing each other now, breathing heavily, neither bothering to pretend this will be anything but ugly.
“You can’t just come barging—”
“You said your piece,” Elliot interrupts sharply. “Now it’s my turn.”
She scoffs, arms folded tight across her chest, defensive, rigid. “Oh, is that right? Twelve years later, and now you suddenly have something to say?”
“You think you’re the only one angry here, Liv?” he snaps, pacing a tight circle, hands shaking. “The only one hurting?”
“Oh, please—”
“I listened to every fucking word you said in that car,” he barrels on, voice tight and strained. “Every single goddamn word. About Cassidy. About fucking Tucker. And it made me sick—”
“Oh, grow up,” she bites back harshly. “What did you think? That I’d stay alone forever, waiting for someone who never once looked at me and saw anything worth—”
“You’re wrong!” he yells, his voice cracking sharply. “You’re fucking wrong, Olivia, and you know it. You’ve always known it.”
“Oh, I’ve known?” She laughs bitterly, anger vibrating through every word. “What have I known, Elliot? That you’d always choose someone else? That you’d run? That you’d leave me? That you’d walk away without a second thought?”
“You’re right—I left!” He steps closer now, voice raw and rough, eyes locked on hers with ferocious intensity. “I left because I was a coward. I left because I knew if I stayed, I’d break something—break everything. My family, my marriage, my goddamn soul—”
“Don’t you dare put that on me—”
“I’m not! It was on me. It was always on me. But don’t stand there and tell me I never wanted you. Don’t say I didn’t see you. Because that’s bullshit, and we both know it.”
She’s quiet now, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths, her eyes blazing, uncertain, furious.
“You weren’t an accessory, Olivia,” he rasps, softer now. “You were the whole fucking thing. And I know I fucked up. I know I lost you—I know I lost us. But don’t tell me I never looked back. Because looking back is all I’ve done since the day I walked away.”
He steps closer, dangerously close, crowding her until she’s backed against the hallway wall.
“You want the fucking truth, Olivia?” Elliot growls, voice ragged, stripped raw by desperation and fury and twelve years of longing. “Every second I spent away from you—every goddamn day—I thought about you.”
“Screw you, Elliot.”
“That’s the fucking truth, whether you want to hear it or not.” He knows he’s pushing it. He knows at any second, she could strike him, shove him, scream at his face—but he can’t stop. He’s already in way too deep.
So he keeps going.
“The night I shot Jenna, your precious Tucker interrogated me for three fucking hours,” he spits, voice low and bitter. “Told me—real clear—that whether they called it a good shoot or not, my career was finished. Said I’d never rise through the ranks again.”
She’s still staring at him, breath coming fast, chest rising and falling hard, eyes locked on his—burning with fury, yes, but something else, too. Something colder. Something wounded.
Elliot steps in closer, voice tightening.
“Told me that if I stayed? No one connected to me would move up either.”
Her eyes widen—just a little. Just enough.
Good. Good.
Let her remember what a vindictive, manipulative son of a bitch Ed Tucker really was. Let her sit with that.
And God, even now, she’s beautiful. Especially now—hair falling loose around her flushed face, lips parted, trembling slightly, fury etched in every line of her features.
“And you know what I did the second he let me go?” He leans in, just slightly, and stare straight at her lips. “I went straight to your apartment. I stood across the fucking street, staring up at your window like some obsessed lunatic, thinking about how badly I wanted to walk up those stairs, knock on your door, and fuck you right there against it. Nothing was in our way anymore, I wasn’t going to be your partner for much longer. So I could, right? Finally, I could feel you—have you—and to hell with everything else.”
She recoils slightly, eyes widening even further. Her breathing quickens, color flooding her cheeks.
“But instead, I ran.” He swallows, chest heaving, voice shattering like glass. “I had to. I couldn’t fucking stay anymore. I packed my bags, took Kathy and Eli and moved halfway across the fucking planet, and guess what, Olivia? It didn’t fucking matter. None of it mattered. Because everywhere I went, every street, every café, every woman who so much as glanced my way, I saw you.”
“You fucking deserved it.” She rasps, but her voice misses the edge. She’s slightly breathless, deliciously undone.
“I did,” Elliot says, voice low and tight. “I deserved that pain. And trust me, it never stopped. It didn’t matter how far I ran, Liv. I carried you with me everywhere. So don’t you dare stand there and tell me I never looked back.”
He’s breathless now, trembling, eyes locked on hers, like she’s the only thing anchoring him to the room.
“You were all I fucking saw,” he growls. “Everything I ever wanted, for ten goddamn years.”
“You have no right—”
“Every single time I fucked Kathy,” he cuts in, sharp and brutal, “I pretended she was you.”
The slap lands before he even sees her hand move.
It echoes through the apartment like a shot, sharp and full of fury. His head whips to the side, cheek stinging, ears ringing. He blinks, jaw clenching.
He deserves it. All of it. Her hatred and her anger. He failed them both—the only two women he ever loved. And if he were a better man, he’d leave now. He’d spare her the ruin they’re both careening toward.
But he’s not. And he can’t.
“Fuck,” Olivia hisses, breath hot against his skin as she leans in just enough to make him feel it. “You.”
Something in him snaps.
“You want that, don’t you?” he spits, stepping in closer, their breath mingling, their bodies aligned and trembling with tension. “You want me to fuck you.”
She stiffens, her eyes flashing, jaw set with a fury that could level him—and maybe will. Her back straightens, chin lifting, and her lips hover dangerously close to his. One breath and they’d touch.
“You do.” His voice lowers, dangerous now, thick with heat. “I want that, too. Fuck you. Just like I did Flutura.”
She sucks in a sharp breath, pupils darkening.
“But better,” he adds, cruel and reverent at once. “Because with you? I wouldn’t have to pretend. I’d be right where I want to be.”
He drinks her in—shaking, furious, stunning. Her chest rises fast and shallow. Her nipples are hard beneath the thin fabric of her shirt, poking through like they want him, like they know him. Her lips are red, parted, trembling.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, almost reverently. “Because you want me. And you fucking hate that you do, even now.”
She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Her pupils are blown wide now, her gaze locked to his mouth.
“You hate that you know I’d make it good for you,” he breathes against her mouth. “So good you’d forget every man you ever let touch you. Cassidy. Fucking Tucker. I’d make you forget all of them, Liv. The only name you’d remember would be mine.”
And then—she moves.
Sudden. Fierce.
He flinches, expecting another slap—but instead her mouth crashes into his, and it’s like a match hitting gasoline.
She’s on him—lips open, teeth scraping, breath hot and furious against his skin. It’s not delicate. It’s not soft. It’s everything they’ve never let themselves feel, everything they’ve buried beneath years of silence and glances and denial.
He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t stop to process. He devours her.
He grips her hard, pulling her in, pressing his entire body against hers as his mouth claims her again, deeper, rougher. One step back, and he shoves her into the wall, palms flattening against her hips, her waist, her face—anywhere he can touch. Anywhere he needs to.
She moans into him, and it tears something open inside his chest.
He’s unraveling.
This is Olivia. His Olivia. Finally in his hands, under his mouth, pressed tight against him and kissing him like she’s starving. He doesn’t know how he ever lived without this. He doesn’t want to remember what that felt like. And he sure as fuck knows he’ll never survive it again.
She tastes like everything he imagined, and worse—better. Addictive. Devastating. Like whiskey and vengeance and the answer to a question he never let himself ask. God, he thinks, dragging his mouth down to her jaw, to her throat, sucking hard just to hear her gasp—he’s fucked. Utterly, irreparably fucked.
He growls low in his chest as he wraps his arms under her thighs and hoists her up, pinning her to the wall. Her legs wrap around his waist without hesitation, and he groans as her heat settles against him, scorching through their clothes. His hands grip her ass, squeezing hard, and he slams his mouth against hers again.
“Fuck, Liv,” he murmurs between kisses, voice wrecked and breathless. “You feel so fucking good—so warm—so perfect.”
Her fingers claw at his shirt, yanking it up, and he’s already moving, kissing her like it’s oxygen, like it’s the only thing keeping him from losing what’s left of his mind. He kisses her like he’s furious at her for not letting him do it sooner.
“You want me,” he hisses against her mouth, thrusting up against her just enough to hear her breath hitch. “You hate it, but you do. You’ve always fucking wanted me.”
She doesn’t deny it. She just pulls his face back to hers and bites his bottom lip hard enough to make him groan.
He grins—dark, hungry, wrecked—and lets his hands drop between them. Finds the front of her blouse.
“Too fucking slow,” he mutters—and rips it open, the fabric tearing, buttons flying across the floor like shrapnel.
She jerks her head back with a gasp as the last button pops off, eyes wide with fury.
“Goddammit, Elliot—this was my favorite shirt.”
He barely hears her.
His gaze drops—and stops.
Her blouse hangs open, exposing the curve of her breasts, full and flushed against the edge of a black lace bra. The kind that hugs and lifts, that makes her look even more like a fucking dream—dangerous and untouchable and his.
His mouth goes dry. His breath catches.
“Jesus Christ, Liv,” he mutters, more to himself than her, eyes fixed, reverent and wrecked. “Look at you.”
Before she can snap again, he’s already moving—rough palms sliding up her ribs and cupping her breasts through the fabric. He squeezes hard, groaning low in his throat when she gasps and arches into his touch.
Her head thuds back against the wall with a soft crack, her eyes fluttering shut, lips parting in a moan that sounds more like a curse.
“Fuck—”
It pushes her chest higher, tightens her against him—and he dives.
His mouth finds the curve of her neck, and he devours it. His lips, his tongue, his teeth—he uses them all, relentless, consuming every inch of skin he can reach. The sharp edge of her jaw. The soft underside behind her ear. The pulse point just below it—pounding for him.
He bites down—not hard, just enough—and she whines, her hips rolling against his like it’s instinct.
He groans, and keeps going.
He marks her. Open-mouthed kisses dragged over her throat. Wet, hungry sucks that leave her gasping. He lingers at the hollow where her neck meets her shoulder, teeth grazing, tongue soothing, then biting down again until she shudders.
“God, your smell,” he murmurs, breathing in, voice muffled against her skin. “Always wanted this. Always wanted you.”
She moans again, louder now, grinding down onto him with purpose. His cock throbs, straining against the fabric between them, and still—he doesn’t stop.
He kisses lower, trailing down her throat and across her collarbone, hands never still, one sliding beneath her bra strap, the other still gripping her ass to keep her pinned.
She’s breathing hard now—every breath shaky, every moan a growl, and she’s thrusting against him, helpless and angry and needing him, and he thinks he’s never been that hard before in his life.
He’s not just claiming her. He’s worshipping. Mouth and teeth and tongue working until her skin is flushed and damp and marked.
When he finally pulls back to look at her, her eyes are half-lidded, lips swollen, throat red with blooming bruises.
“Mine,” he says, breath hot against her ear. “Fucking mine.”
And then his mouth is on hers again, just as brutal as before.
He’s not stopping now, not with her panting into his mouth, her legs still wrapped tight around his waist, her nails digging into his shoulders like she needs to hold on or she’ll fall apart.
“Tell me to stop,” he growls against her jaw, even though they both know she won’t. Not when she’s rolling her hips like she’s chasing something she’s been denied for years.
And she doesn’t. She just kisses him harder—deeper—and it’s all the answer he needs.
He fumbles with the button of her pants, growling in frustration when it resists, but then it’s open—unzipped—and he wastes no time. Still holding her up with one arm braced beneath her, he slips his hand inside, beneath the fabric, past her underwear—
And freezes.
She’s soaked. Hot and pulsing and so ready for him it knocks the air right out of his lungs.
“Jesus fuck, Liv…” His voice breaks on her name, guttural and shaking. “You’re—”
He can’t even find the right words.
Her head falls back again, eyes fluttering closed, a choked sound slipping from her lips as his fingers move against her clit—slick and swollen, throbbing under every pass of his touch. She’s soaked, pulsing, trembling in his hands, and every time he presses just right, she grinds down with a broken gasp, chasing the pressure like she’s starved for it.
Her body is fire. Scorching. Wet. Alive. And the heat of her, the way she opens to him so instinctively—it makes him dizzy. Like he’s standing too close to something holy.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he rasps, pressing his forehead to her temple, his breath hot against her flushed skin. “You feel so fucking good, Liv. So warm. So wet. Fuck—you want this. You need this.”
She groans, hips lifting into his hand, her breath stuttering, mouth open but speechless—lost.
He smiles against her cheek, something wrecked and reverent in it.
“You want me to make you come, don’t you?” he whispers, teeth grazing her jaw. “Wrapped around me. Moaning my fucking name. You’re already so close.”
His fingers keep working—slick, confident, devastating. He traces through her folds with maddening precision, dipping down, feeling how wet she is, how open, how much she’s already giving him.
He slides the first finger inside her, slow and sure.
She shudders—her whole body clenching around him—and lets out a loud, broken moan that echoes off the walls like it belongs to someone else. Her head drops to his shoulder, her breath coming hot and fast against his neck, her hands clutching at him like she doesn’t trust her legs anymore.
He groans, dragging his mouth along her throat as he sinks deeper.
“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs, undone. “You’re so fucking tight. So hot. You feel like—fuck.”
The sound she makes—God—it’s low, raw, something dragged out from the deepest part of her, and it shoots straight through him, tightening every muscle in his core.
He’s never heard her like this.
Never touched her like this.
And now that he has, he knows there’s no going back. He’s ruined. Irrevocably. Completely.
Her head drops forward onto his shoulder, her breath hot against his neck, shallow and uneven. He presses deeper, his finger sliding further inside her—tight, hot, soaked around him—and she gasps, hips jolting in response.
“Oh my God—Elliot—”
His name from her mouth like that—pleaded, breathless, real—nearly undoes him.
“That’s it,” he groans, voice dark and reverent. “That’s what I wanted. Say it again.”
She doesn’t. Can’t. But her nails dig into his back like she’s holding onto the only thing anchoring her to earth. He slides a second finger in beside the first, slowly, carefully, watching her unravel right in front of him.
“Your pussy feels like fucking heaven,” he breathes into her skin. “So tight, so perfect. It’s like you were made for me.”
She moans again—higher this time, her hips rolling helplessly, fucking herself on his hand like she needs it.
He kisses her jaw, her throat, biting softly at the spot he already marked, his voice a steady rhythm against her skin.
“You want more, don’t you?” he murmurs. “Want me to fuck you right here. Against this wall. Let me do it, Liv. Let me in. I’ll make you feel so fucking good.”
Her only answer is the way she moans and rocks against him, breath catching, body shuddering around his fingers. She’s close—he can feel it in the way she tightens, the way her movements grow more frantic, less controlled.
He curls his fingers inside her, just right, and she gasps like she’s falling.
“Right there?” he groans. “Yeah. I know. I know. I’ve always known exactly what you need.”
She sobs out a sound when he does it again—high, sharp, raw—and he kisses her like it’ll keep her from shattering.
“You’ve been walking around with this locked up for years,” he whispers. “Pretending. Fighting it. But you want it. You want me. You always have.”
He kisses the corner of her mouth, her throat, her cheek—soft and desperate and full of everything he’s never said.
“And I wanted you. Always, Liv. Always.”
Her eyes open for half a second—and it’s there. All of it. The truth. The burn. The surrender.
“I’m gonna give you what you need,” he breathes. “Everything. You’re so fucking perfect—you don’t even know.”
She whimpers when his pace slows just enough to make her ache. Her hips chase his hand, frantic, like she can’t bear the space between them.
“Better than I ever imagined,” he groans into her neck. “And God, I imagined it. I imagined all of it.”
Then his mouth finds hers—slow, deep, desperate—and he drinks every gasp, every tremble from her lips.
“You’re gonna come for me,” he breathes into her mouth. “And then I’m gonna take you to bed. And you’re not getting up until you forget what it’s like to not be mine.”
The sound of it—the wet slap of his wrist against her, their breathless moans—floods the room. It’s overwhelming. It’s them. And for a second, he could come just like this, watching her fall apart in his hands.
When she does, it’s loud. Unmistakable. Her entire body clenches around him, shaking as the orgasm rips through her—and he watches, stunned, awed, completely undone.
“That’s it, baby,” he groans, not stopping. “You’re so beautiful. God, you’re breathtaking. Take it. Take all of it.”
His fingers stay steady as she comes apart in his hands—loud, raw and shattering. And he watches, stunned. Breathless. His fingers moving inside her, slow and sure, anchoring her through the aftershocks as her body trembles in his arms.
She gasps against his neck, limp and boneless, her entire weight sagging into him like the fight’s left her. But he catches her. Holds her steady. One arm tight around her back, the other still between her thighs, fingers slick and glistening with everything she gave him.
“Jesus,” she breathes. Just that. A whisper.
And he’s not even close to done.
He lifts her, easy and deliberate, like she weighs nothing. She’s pliant in his arms now—soft, dazed, glowing with the aftermath—and he doesn’t stop to ask where her bedroom is. He hopes his inference skills are right as he leads her to the last door to the left down the hall.
The walk there is slow, reverent. Her breath is hot against his collarbone, her hand fisted weakly in front of his shirt like she’s holding onto him without realizing it.
He was right, and he reaches her bed with ease, before laying her down the mattress with care. Like she’s precious. Sacred. Like this isn’t just sex—it’s a reckoning.
He kneels beside her, hands already at the waistband of her jeans. And when he slides them down, slow and firm, her breath hitches again. He peels the fabric from her legs, exposing inch after inch of flushed, trembling skin—until nothing but a pair of black lace panties remain, a perfect set to her bra.
He pauses. Admires.
The way they cling to her hips, sheer and soaked, delicate against the strength of her body—it nearly drives him to his knees.
“Fuck,” he whispers, like it’s punched from his lungs. “Look at you.”
She’s still breathing hard, eyes half-lidded, body rising and falling in shallow waves. Her hand reaches for him, tries to pull him closer, maybe to say something—but he doesn’t let her.
Instead, he leans down, lips brushing over her soft stomach—soft, unhurried kisses. One after the other. Reverent. Worshipful.
He traces the curve of her waist with his mouth, presses to the hollow just below her navel, lets his tongue flick gently at the edge of lace.
She moans, quiet and rough, nails scratching into his scalp, but he doesn’t stop.
He kisses every new inch of her like he’s memorizing it. Mapping her. He’s waited to damn long to touch her this way, and now he refuses to miss a single spot.
It probably takes him longer than it should have to notice.
In the low light of the room, with the drapes almost entirely shut, just a few scarce rays of sunlight slipping through the blinds, he sees them.
Dozens of faint scars scattered across her torso. Some small and pale. Others darker, raised slightly from the skin. One near her ribs. A few on her side. One—rounded, thick—just above her left hip.
His breath catches.
His blood runs cold.
What the fuck happened?
You haven’t asked one thing about my life since you came back.
Her words, etched into her skin like penance. He doesn’t know what happened, but he knows one thing. He wasn’t there.
He left.
He senses her tensing, and he knows he’s one slip away from her shutting him out. He wants to know… God, he does. But he doesn’t want to break her trust. Doesn’t want to push for more than what she’s willing to give now.
So instead, he breathes. In. Out. Steady.
It takes a while to get his heartbeat under control, but when it does, he leans down and presses a kiss to the largest scar—the one curled just above her hip. It’s intentional. His mouth firm and warm against it, grounding them both.
She shudders. Visibly. Audibly.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, voice low, honest, cracking at the edges. “So fucking beautiful.”
She shudders beneath his mouth, her breath catching sharp in her throat. He feels it. Feels her go still for half a second, like something inside her has cracked open—and then she exhales, slow and shaking. He glances at her through his lashes, watching as she looks at him—eyelids heavy, chest rising and falling, lips parted like she might break if she tries to hold back.
His hand trails slowly up the outside of her thigh, fingers skimming along skin that still trembles with the aftershock of what he gave her. And then, without a word, he curls his fingers into the side of her panties—black lace damp and clinging—and moves them aside.
Just enough.
Just far enough to bare her.
The sight of her—wet and swollen, glistening in the low light—nearly undoes him.
He groans, low and reverent, and moves closer. Presses his mouth to the inside of her thigh, dragging his lips upward, open-mouthed and slow, until she gasps his name—barely more than a breath.
“Elliot, please—”
The sound of his name on her lips—it’s soft, unguarded, something he’s never heard quite like this—and it snaps the last thread of restraint inside him.
He slides his hands beneath her thighs, anchoring her wide and open to him, and leans in without hesitation. With one smooth flick of his tongue, he licks a firm stripe from her opening straight to her clit.
The taste of her fluids is enough to ruin him.
He groans against her—deep and guttural—because she’s everything. Sweet and slick and hot on his tongue, and fuck, he’s starved for her.
She gasps, her back arching off the bed, a breathless “Oh my God” falling from her mouth as he licks another long, slow stripe through her folds. Then another. And another—each one firmer, more deliberate, until her thighs are trembling in his hands.
He latches onto her clit with practiced precision, lips sealing around it, tongue flicking in tight, steady circles—and she whimpers, loud and sudden, one hand flying to his head, touching aimlessly at something to hold on to, and letting out a frustrated sigh.
He wants to reassure her that he’s going anywhere, but he won’t take his mouth away from her so soon. Not until she comes again on his tongue.
He groans—God, he loves the way she tastes—and starts a rhythm, slow and devastating, tongue flattening then curling, teasing her open, coaxing every sound from her that he’s ever dreamed of hearing.
Her thighs try to close around his head, and he just holds them wider, firmer, mouth relentless as her body starts to shake.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against her, voice rough, lips brushing her soaked skin. “Come for me, Liv. Let me taste you.”
She moans, louder now, eyes squeezed shut, jaw slack, breath stuttering with every pass of his tongue.
He dips lower, tongue dragging down to tease at her entrance, then back up—slow and thorough—before sucking her clit between his lips again. The moment he does, she cries out, hips jerking upward, thighs clamping around his shoulders.
“Fuck—Elliot—I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he growls into her. “You’re gonna come on my tongue, baby. Right now.”
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow. He sucks harder, tongue flicking faster now, and when he slides two fingers inside her again—deep and curling—she breaks.
She screams, raw and desperate, her body convulsing around his mouth and hand as the orgasm tears through her. Her thighs quake. Her fingers claw into his scalp. Her breath comes in shattered sobs.
And he keeps going. Gentle now. Licking her through it. Letting her ride every wave.
Only when her body starts to go limp, legs trembling too hard to hold tension, does he finally lift his head.
She’s wrecked.
Flushed and gasping, hair wild against the pillow, her chest heaving like she just ran through fire—and he’s never seen anything more beautiful.
He crawls up her body slowly, kissing her belly, the curve of her breast, the corner of her mouth. And when she opens her eyes to him—still dazed, still recovering—he smiles, just a little.
“I told you,” he breathes, kissing her cheek, her jaw, her temple. “You don’t get to stand up until you forget what it was like to not be mine.”
Then he kisses her again—soft at first, until she kisses him back, tasting herself on his mouth like it only turns her on more, her tongue lapping at his with devastating precision. They kiss for what seems like hours, her mouth firm on his until suddenly it’s not.
She shifts, pushes lightly at his chest.
He frowns, surprised, until he lets her guide him flat on his back. And then—she moves over him. Swings her leg across his waist and straddles him, her thighs trembling slightly as she settles above him.
Elliot looks up at her, eyes wide with wonder, but doesn’t move. He waits. Watches.
Olivia’s breathing hard. Her hair’s a mess, her cheeks still flushed from his mouth, and she’s still wet—he knows, she knows—but there’s something else in her expression now. Something flickering behind the control she’s trying to project.
She rolls her hips once, slow and firm, grinding against his cock still straining beneath his pants.
He groans, hands flying to her thighs, but she slaps one away—not hard. Just enough.
“You’re not in charge here,” she says. Her voice is low, almost steady. Almost.
But when he looks closer—really looks—he sees it: the tightness in her jaw, the way her hands are curled into fists against his chest. Like she’s trying to keep herself from shaking. Like she’s not sure what will happen if she lets go.
He softens instantly beneath her touch, even as his body aches for more.
“Liv,” he breathes, eyes locked on hers. “You okay?”
She lets out a breath. It’s not a laugh, not quite. More like the sound someone makes when they’re trying to pretend they’re fine.
“Don’t,” she says quickly, shaking her head. “Just… don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m gonna break.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Doesn’t push. He just lets his hands settle at her hips—lightly this time. Grounding. There if she wants him. Not forcing.
“You’re not gonna break,” he says quietly. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known.”
Her throat moves. She looks away. Just for a second. Then back down at him—eyes darker now, fuller.
“You left,” she says, so quietly he almost misses it. “You left and I—” She cuts herself off, jaw tightening. “I can’t forget that. I don’t know how I’m supposed to forget that.”
The silence between them stretches.
And then she moves again.
Not in retreat—but forward. Down.
She leans in, mouth brushing his jaw, her voice rough.
“But I need this,” she whispers. “I need you.”
Her breath catches as the words leave her—fragile and raw, not a command but a confession—and for a moment she stills above him, like she’s bracing for the fallout.
Then, softer, barely audible as her lips graze the skin beneath his ear, “Don’t make me regret it.”
Her hands are trembling slightly where they rest against his chest, her body still firm above him, but the illusion of control is beginning to crack, and he can see it now—the fear threaded through her strength, the hesitance behind her eyes, like she’s fighting not just him but herself.
Elliot brings a hand to her cheek, slow and steady, brushing his thumb against the corner of her mouth with the kind of gentleness that says he knows what it cost her to say that out loud.
“I won’t,” he says, his voice rough but sure, every syllable weighted with something deeper than lust. “I swear to God, Olivia. I won’t.”
She breathes in, sharp and shaky, and instead of responding, she captures his thumb between her lips and sucks—hard—closing her eyes as if the sensation, or the act of taking, might steady her. Elliot groans, guttural and loud, his hips jerking beneath her as his cock twitches helplessly inside the confines of his boxers.
“You’re not in charge here,” she murmurs, voice lower now, but steadier, her gaze locked on his as she rolls her hips against him, slow and deliberate, grinding down with such perfect pressure it nearly unravels him. “Say it.”
He closes his eyes, swears under his breath, counts to ten.
“I’m not in charge here,” he says, his voice strained and hoarse.
“Good,” she breathes, dragging her nails down his chest, just sharp enough to make him flinch and gasp, but not enough to pull him out of it. “You don’t get to waltz back into my life, ruin me with your mouth, and then decide how this goes.”
He groans her name again—helpless, reverent—and one hand flies to her hip, the other to the sheets, gripping them like they might anchor him as she shifts her weight, sitting tall above him, chest heaving, mouth swollen and parted.
Then her fingers find the hem of his shirt.
There’s no hesitation in the way she lifts it. Just a steady, focused determination as she pushes the fabric up his torso, exposing the warm skin and lean muscle beneath. He lifts his arms without a word, lets her pull it over his head, and toss it aside.
Her hands pause there—at his chest, at the center of him—and she just lets them rest for a moment, her palms pressed flat over the thrum of his heartbeat, like she’s trying to memorize the feel of him.
Then she leans in, presses her mouth to the space over his heart. It’s not seduction. It’s something quieter, more necessary and intimate than anything else they’ve done so far. And when she straightens again, her hands are already moving to his waistband.
She undoes the button and the zipper, sliding both pants and boxers down at once, and he lifts his hips to help her, not breaking her gaze. When she pulls the fabric off and finally sees him—completely, without barrier—her breath catches.
She looks at him for a long moment, and he doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t move. Because for all the years between them, for all the tension and anger and longing that’s burned at the edges of their partnership, this is uncharted.
And it matters.
She doesn’t say a word as she reaches behind her back, unhooks her bra, and slides it from her shoulders, her eyes never leaving his.
When it falls, and her breasts are bare, he stops breathing.
“Jesus,” he murmurs, more reverence than profanity.
She’s already pushing her panties down, the black lace sliding over her thighs, catching briefly at one knee before she kicks them free.
She sits back on his thighs now—naked, flushed and completely vulnerable—and it’s the first time they’ve seen each other like this. Not half-dressed, not in the dark, not through stolen glances and almosts. Fully naked. Exposed.
And it’s not just physical. It’s the emotional weight of it. The years of wanting, of hurting, of denying that this would ever happen, all crashing into this single moment.
She doesn’t cover herself. Doesn’t flinch.
But she doesn’t move, either.
And he can see it now, clearly, in her eyes.
She’s terrified.
Of him. Of this. Of what it means to want something she might not survive losing.
He reaches up—lightly, reverently—his fingertips brushing the curve of her waist, the underside of her breast, the scar above her hip that still burns in his chest.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, again. And it sounds different this time—softer, fuller, like he’s saying it not just for her, but for himself.
“Elliot—”
“I love you.” He says, and her expression is pretty much the same it was the first time he told her that—eyes widening, lips parting. But this time, he doesn’t take it back. He doesn’t hide the truth behind excuses, and fear. He looks at her straight in the eyes and will her to believe it—believe him. “I love you, Olivia.”
“Elliot—” she repeats, and her voice breaks.
He doesn’t let up.
“You want this?” he asks, his voice rasping at the edges, breathless and raw. But he’s not just asking about the sex—he means everything. All of it. The history, the heartache, the terrifying, fragile hope that maybe they’re not too late. “Tell me, Liv. Tell me you want this.”
And when she nods—when she says “I do”—it’s quiet, vulnerable, final. It slices through him like nothing else ever could.
That’s all it takes.
His hands grip her hips, steadying her, anchoring them both, and when she reaches down and guides him to her, his whole body goes still.
He lets her lead.
Lets her have this.
Lets her take him in slowly, inch by inch, her breath catching as he fills her.
It’s everything he’s ever imagined and more.
And when she finally sinks down all the way, when he’s fully inside her, his breath catches like he’s drowning in her.
She lets out a small, startled whimper, her body trembling as she adjusts to him, and he can’t hold back the groan that rips from his throat.
“God, Liv,” he manages, voice strained. “You feel—Jesus. You feel like home.”
And she does. He’s never felt anything like this. Not even close. Her warmth, the way she fits around him, the sheer intimacy of it—it wrecks him. There’s nothing between them now. Nothing to hide behind. No past, no distance, no pretending.
She presses her forehead to his, breath shaky and uneven.
“Jesus, El,” she whispers, and her voice breaks on his name. “You feel…”
She doesn’t finish. She doesn’t have to. Just his name— just El—makes his chest clench, makes something long-starved inside him flicker to life again.
They’re going to be okay.
They’re El and Liv again.
He keeps his hands steady on her hips, grounding her, giving her space to lead. And when she starts to move—rolling her hips in slow, deliberate strokes—he swears he could die from how good it feels. She’s so goddamn beautiful like this—head tipped back, mouth open, every movement drawn from some deep, hidden place inside her—and all he can do is hold on.
He watches her ride him—slow at first, testing, tentative—and it’s like watching the tide roll in, inevitable and aching. Her breath hitches each time she sinks back down, her palms pressing into his chest, trying to stay balanced even as she starts to fall apart.
He could live in this moment forever. Just watching her. Just feeling her.
His hands slip up her sides, over her ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts, and she gasps, her rhythm stuttering.
“You look…” he chokes on it, eyes wide, helpless. “You look like a fucking miracle.”
She laughs—just a breath of it—but it’s shaky, raw, broken at the edges. He feels her tighten around him in response, and when she grinds her hips down harder, more insistent now, he thrusts up to meet her, finally giving in to the pull.
“Liv,” he groans, panting, his fingers digging into her hips as he moves with her, matching her stroke for stroke. “You’re so close, baby—I can feel it. Come for me. Come on.”
Her eyes are glassy now, lips parted, her body jerking forward as she chases the edge—desperate and wild, like she doesn’t know how to stop.
“I can’t—El—I don’t—” she gasps, the words barely forming.
“Yes, you can,” he breathes against her skin. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
Her body jerks, her breath hitches, her walls flutter around him, and for a second it feels like she’s slipping over the edge—but she pulls back. Holds herself there. Her rhythm falters. Her hips stutter. She’s fighting it.
And he knows why.
He sees it—the control, the restraint, the refusal to surrender even now—and he’s done watching her hold back.
Without a word, he moves.
His grip tightens on her waist as he flips them, smooth and deliberate, easing her onto her back and pinning her down with the weight of his body before she can even catch her breath.
She gasps, startled. “Elliot—”
But he cuts her off, grabbing her thighs and spreading her wide around his waist. Then, he takes both of her wrists and slams them firmly down beside her body, arms along her torso, locking her in place.
It is control, deliberate and possessive.
He’s done letting her drive this.
“Stop fighting it,” he growls, forehead pressing to hers, breath hot against her lips. “I know what you need. Let me give it to you.”
He thrusts into her hard, all the way to the hilt, and her mouth falls open in a strangled moan, the air punched out of her lungs as her back arches beneath him.
“No one knows you like I do,” he grits out, hips pulling back before driving forward again, unrelenting now, unmerciful. “No one’s ever known you like this.”
She tries to move, to lift her hips or twist her wrists from his grip, but he holds her firm—his weight pressing her down, his cock burying into her over and over, deeper each time.
“You don’t have to be strong right now,” he pants, voice thick with heat and purpose. “You don’t have to control this. You just have to feel it.”
Her breath is ragged, desperate, lips parted, eyes wide with panic and need and everything in between. She wants to argue. She wants to win—but her body is already betraying her, trembling under the pressure, clenching tight around him as he fucks her harder, deeper and right.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t ease up.
He knows she’ll only let go if she’s forced to. If someone takes it from her.
So he does.
He pistons into her, unrelenting, her wrists still pinned, her legs wide around his hips, her body caught beneath him and unraveling fast.
“Elliot—” she gasps, and this time it’s real. Raw. Like she’s falling.
“I’ve got you,” he growls. “I’m not going anywhere, baby. Let it go.”
She breaks.
Her whole body locks beneath him, a scream caught in her throat as another orgasm tears through her—violent and overwhelming. Her nails dig into the backs of his hands, her thighs shaking, her entire body arching off the bed as she comes around him, wave after wave crashing down.
He groans—low, guttural, broken—and chases her down.
He doesn’t slow.
He fucks her through it, into it, with it—his hips still slamming, driving into the deepest part of her, until he’s spiraling too. Until her body milks him and he can’t hold on any longer.
He comes with a sharp, brutal thrust—buried so deep inside her he can’t tell where he ends and she begins. His body shudders. His vision blurs. His name on her lips, her breath in his mouth, her body still shaking beneath him—it’s everything.
He collapses against her, still inside, still breathless, still holding her wrists as if letting go would send her floating off.
When he finally lifts his head, her eyes are already open.
And they’re burning.
“Hi,” he murmurs, voice rough, a little unsure.
She snorts. “Hi?”
He smiles—bashful, sheepish—and lowers his face to her neck, pressing it there like he needs the anchor, breathing her in with something between relief and reverence.
“You’re an asshole,” she mutters, voice muffled against his head.
“I’m aware,” he says, and the words come out half-laugh, half-prayer.
She sighs. Doesn’t pull away.
“You said you loved me.”
He lifts his head, just enough to meet her eyes, and nods without hesitation.
“I did,” he says softly. “I do.”
There’s a pause, full and heavy, and for a beat he wonders if he’s pushed too far—too soon, too much. But then her wrists shift where he still half-holds them, and her hand slides up the back of his neck, fingers curling into his skin. She tilts her head, just slightly, and brushes her nose against his.
“This doesn’t fix everything.”
“I know,” he murmurs.
“And you’re still an asshole.”
That makes him laugh—really laugh—and he nods in full agreement, eyes crinkling, his mouth already finding hers in a kiss that’s far less about fire and far more about the truth of it all. It’s searing, yes, but slow too, grounding. A confirmation. A promise.
When they part, she exhales shakily, her hand still curled at the back of his neck.
“You cannot,” she says, voice suddenly steadier, eyes sharp, “under any circumstance—ever—fuck Flutura again.”
He blinks, caught off guard for half a second. Then his smile curves, slow and wicked.
“I have zero intention of fucking anyone but you,” he says, voice low and steady, every word carved in stone. “Not tonight”—he presses a kiss to her jaw—“not tomorrow”—a gentle bite to her throat—“not for the rest of my goddamn life.”
She studies him, and something in her expression softens—like she wants to believe it but is afraid to. Still, she nods, just once, and he watches her look away for the briefest second, like even that kind of promise might be too much to hold right now.
That’s okay. He’ll hold it for both of them.
Finally, he slips out of her slowly, reluctant to leave her body but needing to see her—all of her. He lies down beside her, eyes tracing her face, the lines of her collarbone, the bruised flush along her chest.
His hand begins to move, slow and reverent, brushing across her skin like he’s memorizing it all—her ribs, her stomach, the curve of her hip. His mouth follows, dropping soft kisses wherever he can reach, no urgency, no plan, just instinct.
A temple. A shoulder. The inside of her wrist.
For a while, neither of them speaks. The silence stretches—warm, settled, safe.
And then, after what feels like an eternity, her voice breaks softly through the quiet.
“Elliot,” she whispers.
He turns his head instantly, eyes meeting hers.
She holds his gaze, steady now, all the fight gone, stripped bare like the rest of her.
“You feel like home too.”
Finally, something they can both agree on.