Chapter Text
Olivia senses his gaze the moment she enters the elegant ballroom, pondering for a fleeting moment whether she could truly dismiss his presence throughout the evening. She knows - and feels, engraved in her skin - that he's there, likely as handsome as ever, leisurely sipping from a glass of scotch, effortlessly embodying his undercover persona. Edgar Sterling , an antique dealer turned art smuggler, his name whispered among a select group of art aficionados, a rumor started months before their current operation - a mastermind touch from Jet. It suits him well with his clever eyes and recently acquired art knowledge.
She helped him study his training cards for the last few weeks, and she just knows that he's probably charming some filthy rich person with his smooth talk about the Renaissance or the Modernists from '22. ' Tarsila might be my favorite painter of all time ,' she can conjure his voice in her head, the line he firmly repeated throughout the week - one that he meant, not just for show.
Smoothly, Olivia glides down the sweeping staircase that became the stage for each arriving guest. She's positively squirming, unsure what to do with her hands, since her phone is safely locked in a locker at the entrance hall. 'Y' okay in there, Liv?' comes Fin's voice in her ear, the tiny earbud serving as her only connection to the outer world. She's grateful for it because the frisk search that she was subjected to on her arrival left no space for any wires that she might have planned to wear for the night. In response, she double-taps the expensive brooch on her chest, where a mini camera is installed, broadcasting the event to the security van on the other side of the street.
With each click of her heels on the marbled floor, heads turn in her direction— curious and desire-filled gazes peering through the luscious masks made of soft, expensive fabric that discreetly cover only their eyes. Combined with the intimate lighting scheme—candles casting a soft yellow glow—the ambiance is set for the evening of 'luxurious pleasure,' as promised in the heavy, velvety invitation delivered to her address three weeks ago.
Not her address, but the address of Isabella Rinaldi, the mysterious widow of a recently deceased Italian mobster who had just landed in New York with millions in her bank account, an impeccable rap sheet, and a shadowy past in Puglia. In preparation for the assignment, she had spent the past month perfecting a convincing Italian accent, teasing Elliot every night with her newly acquired Mediterranean sexiness.
"Isabella is a mob nepobaby turned billionaire mob wife and black widow; she must be clever, dangerous, and sexy. That's your part, Liv," Ayana had explained when delivering the file that contained the entire story of her character. Olivia wouldn't openly admit—except maybe within the confines of her bedroom with Elliot by her side—that she was enjoying being Isabella for one night.
In a designer evening gown that lovingly embraces her curves with the finest, most luxurious silk she has ever felt, revealing a fleshy cleavage that leaves little to the imagination, her feet elegantly arched in Louboutin pumps, and diamonds delicately shimmering from her ears and neck, she feels decadent, like an old Hollywood superstar. Confidently strutting the salon, she quietly wonders where the NYPD found the budget for such a splurge on clothes and jewelry.
"High-profile target," Bell hummed happily when she showed Olivia what she should wear for the night. The captain swatted down all her complaints about being thrown like prey into an over-glorified sex party hosted by a megalomaniac billionaire who wasn't even their main target. Still, she was sure she could find some dirt on him if she dug deeper.
"Champagne?" A waiter, a tall and handsome man dressed in the most expensive suit she has ever seen on a server, politely offers. It takes her a moment to identify him. Velasco, with his simpler mask, specifically designed to distinguish the 'servants.' "All of those are clear; I opened the bottle and poured them myself," he adds quickly, sparing her the need to ask. She understands immediately. There are drugs in the drinks, intended to stimulate the guests, and she wonders if they're all aware of this.
Her hand shakes slightly as she reaches for a glass, needing a drink to steady her nerves. In her peripheral vision, she spots an undoubtedly underage girl engaged in close conversation with a man old enough to be her grandfather. Olivia fights the urge to shut down the party immediately. Breathe, Olivia. Walk around. Mingle . She orders herself. As she starts looking around, her eyes search for him. She needs Elliot, or at least a glimpse of him, a sign that this is all a façade and that by the end of the evening, they’ll have each other on his bed. She spots him almost immediately, and her breath catches in her throat.
There's Elliot, standing close to a large window with a scotch in hand, clad in a perfectly tailored Armani suit, as he had informed her before they went their separate ways to get dressed. She's thankful she didn't see him earlier; otherwise, she would’ve jumped him and they would have been incredibly late.
His beard is neatly trimmed, his eyes gleaming dangerously behind the mask as he stares at her like a predator eyeing its next meal, though his mouth moves rapidly. It takes Olivia a couple of minutes to take in his surroundings. Not one, but five women surround him, all seemingly younger than her, with striking bodies and even more striking dresses — cleavages and slits designed to seduce any man in the room. They all appear captivated by him, who’s undressing Olivia with his eyes.
She's not proud to admit that a sudden wave of lust and possessiveness washes over her, shooting from the soles of her feet to the palms of her hands, straight into her core, and she feels heat all over her body. Those women, all painfully pretty, young, and willing, looking at her man , touching his shoulders, biceps, and forearms in unsubtle signs of desire, yet he doesn't spare them a glance. His eyes are fixed on her, drinking in her looks, longing to touch her, and she feels her chest and face flush with this knowledge.
She can't tear her gaze away from him, but she knows she needs to, right now. She understands that she has to find her target, flirt with him and his wife, make them want her, and get confirmation that they’re providing the drugs, the underage girls, and armed security for these parties. However, she can't divert her eyes from Elliot, and he's not making her job any easier.
He's at a loss for words as soon as he hears the click of her heels on the marble floor, right at the top of the staircase. It feels like some sixth sense has taken place because the small cords quartet is playing a classical melody, and there's no way he listened to her arrival. Still, he just knows that she's right there, descending the stairs as if she's weightless, imposing, and mesmerizing.
The lighting seems to contemplate her as if the candles were positioned just to reflect on her tanned skin. The softness of her gown catches the soft yellow light just right to make it look like she's floating, gliding across the room with an impeccable posture born from ancient Roman warriors and goddesses. She's majestic, claiming for herself the attention of each man in the room, and he feels the itch of jealousy in the palm of his hands as she accepts a glass of champagne—thankfully handed by Velasco—and surveys the room with her eyes. A wolf, stalking prey.
He can see her eyes from afar, and to the unknown watcher, she might seem like she's searching for someone, anyone, who might catch her attention, but he knows her. Better than anyone, as she whispered against his skin a couple of nights ago. He knows she's searching for their targets, and he needs her to see him. Not just because he has one of their targets right in front of him, being sweet-talked by his half-fake, half-true stories about his many travels and art knowledge. When he feels her eyes land on his, he knows he made a misconception. Olivia wasn't looking for their targets.
He felt a tinge of pride a few minutes before her arrival when he made such a clever joke that those beautiful model-like women laughed and deemed him a devilishly charming man, but the feeling is forgotten now. There's no bigger thrill than being searched and found in a crowd by the hungry eyes of a woman who loves him. And a woman that he too, loves and adores. There's nothing sexier than the hint of a smile on her face—not even her naked back or the diamond necklace hanging from her neck.
The soft satin mask can't hide the glint of her brown orbs, and he wonders if the slide of her tongue over her lower lip is a conscious movement. She's the most beautiful woman in the room, and he's aware that he's not the only one who reached that conclusion.
There are admiring and wanting eyes from multiple men and women, following her steps as she owns the room, and he wishes he could parade her around on his arm, dance with her, splay his hands over her exposed back, and state his ownership over her. And he wishes she would show the same possessiveness towards him. If she wanted to, he would wear a chain on his neck with her name on it. Or a leash. Whatever she wanted.
Blame the scotch, the ambiance, her nightgown, or the pure need he feels for her, but his mind is entirely on the gut, and he needs to keep his bearings. He needs some sign for her, some indication that the woman in front of him is the one they're searching for, and it's safe—and needed—to approach. So, he improvises, seizing the subject — the representation of Aphrodite by Botticelli — to pay a compliment to their target.
"You could be Aphrodite, with this ginger hair of yours and that killer smile," he says, his voice hoarse, his hand reaching softly to touch her pronounced cheekbone, hopefully with the camera on his tie pin capturing the calculated touch. At the end of the sentence, his eyes are still searching for Olivia's. She needs to know. "In my Villa, back in Lombardi, we have this marvelous painter, an old gentleman, that might turn you into a modern Goddess, and the world would fall at your feet," Elliot flirts, smoothly, and he's grateful for Fin's voice in his ear, mumbling a ' copy that '.
A second later, he sees Olivia adjusting her posture, and he knows that she already got the message. The ladies in front of him quickly latch on the subject of his Villa, looking at him adoringly.
"Liv, the target's wife is talking with Stabler. She's the ginger one," Fin's voice once again comes through the earbuds, and she's grateful for this information because now she has a reason to approach. She needs a fix of his cologne, and she needs it now.
Quickly, she traces a plan, intending to catch the attention of the ginger target, deciding to play her best cards. With renewed confidence, she wears her dirtiest smile on her picture-perfect face and stalks like a wolf toward the small gathering, circling the women to execute her move
"I believe I would recognize these oli dell'oceano at any salon from here back to Puglia," it’s her opening line, dangerously and seductively, her well-practiced accent sounding alluring and strong even to her ears. She catches the exact moment when Elliot understands her game.
"And I would recognize this voce di una dea even through the loudest crowd," he responds with elegance and charm. Theatrically, she reaches out a hand for him to kiss, which he does with devotion, and she can barely conceal the goosebumps that arise from her flesh. "Ladies, this is a magnificent friend of mine," Elliot introduces her - Edgar, she has to remind herself, feeling oddly uncomfortable with the word 'friend.' She's not disappointed by the curious and hungry looks from the women, now directed towards her.
Focused on her mission, she greets each one of them with a kiss on the cheek, lingering her touch a second longer on her target's shoulder, and letting the tips of her fingers glide smoothly over the soft skin of her arm when she lowers her hand.
"What lies were you telling these girls when I rudely interrupted you?" Olivia asks, charmingly. Elliot lets out a laugh, sliding his arm around her waist, playfully and intimately, as the setup allows. She's immediately soothed by his touch, but there's a fire starting to burn in the pit of her stomach
"I was simply telling them about this stunning Villa that I bought in Lombardia last year, and you are my proof that I'm not lying," he keeps his cool, playing right along with her.
"Oh, it's splendida . There are these French doors, painted green, with a patio that you can lounge for hours. Il dolce far niente … and the peach trees are just..." Olivia chooses her words slowly, as if struggling with the language, and the women seem just as captivated by her as they were by him.
Carefully calculating her next move, she looks right into the ginger's eyes - Sienna, she recalls from the briefing, in her late twenties, the bisexual model wife and muse of their target. A sitting duck , Elliot had called her when they received their mission to seduce the woman, either one of them or both if needed. "Soft and sweet, like the skin of a woman," Olivia almost whispers, her voice a hoarse and sexy version of her usual, and she reaches for a loose lock of ginger hair, tucking the strand behind Sienna's ear. The girl's breath hitches, and the captain almost feels bad for leading her on.
Almost being the keyword, since Sienna is no defenseless girl. She's a vicious and willing participant in the crimes of her husband. Olivia can't wait to read her Miranda rights.
"My husband and I just spent a lovely winter in this small village close to Turin," Sienna says, engaging in small talk, and Olivia feels Elliot's fingers flexing over her waist, gripping her flesh. Jackpot, she can almost hear his internal celebration because they just got confirmation about what was previously just a rumor from their intelligence.
"Oh, che meraviglia ," Olivia says spontaneously, embodying Isabella with her expansive manners and warmth. "Which village, preziosa ?" she asks, her eyes not leaving Sienna's for a second, trapping the girl under her spell.
"Chianale. Such a quiet place and the people are so welcoming; I felt right at home," it's undeniable that the girl is as charming as can be, blinking her doe-green eyes, and Olivia smiles easily, satisfied with the answer.
" Keep her talking about Italy, Liv ," Ayana urges her through the earbud, and Olivia quickly comes up with another question.
"Chianale is such a provincial village, not so many tourists know about it," she goads, not even sure if she's thinking about the right village, but Sienna smiles, straightening her posture.
"My husband has business in the village, so we're lucky to know and live in the place," the ginger boasts proudly, and once again, Elliot's fingers dig deeper into her back. He's happy, and she knows.
"Lucky girl. This husband of yours seems much more fun than my former husband. Especially since you're here with us," Olivia is not subtle at all with her flirting, her tone dropping a few octaves, and she knows Sienna is not the only one entrapped in her game. The other ladies from their small gathering are seemingly drinking her up, and Elliot is doing nothing to hide his intentions with her.
"Would you like to meet him?" Sienna offers, her face coming closer than what would be considered proper in any other social interaction, and Olivia feels like laughing. She feels like a she-wolf, hunting down sheep, but she has to constantly remind herself that it's all for the show. Sienna is no good girl, and she shouldn't be deceived by her soft eyes, girlish smile, and willingness to please.
"If he's man enough to be your man, I'd love to meet him," the words roll out easily from her mouth, and she's proud that all of her practice is paying off. With a striking smile, Sienna slides her hand over her arm and intertwines their fingers before looking at Elliot.
"You can join us," she offers wickedly, and Olivia hates herself for the pang of jealousy. "My husband will love to meet both of you," she winks before guiding them away from their small group, through the crowd that had grown considerably over the last few minutes.
Olivia holds Elliot's hand firmly behind her back, letting herself be guided by one of their targets. As they approach the heavy doors that separate the main salon from the 'Dance Room,' as the guests call the area reserved for other activities, she squeezes his fingers tightly, reassuring herself.
It's never easier or less shocking to enter that kind of ambiance, even after 25 years of SVU and the most depraved and decadent scenes she has ever seen in her life. And now, she's not entering the Dance Room - with sweaty bodies swaying together in many rhythms and raised voices chanting and moaning together - as Olivia Benson, a cop. She's entering as Isabella, seemingly unfazed by the bacchanal scene unfolding in front of her.
"You Americans sure know how to pay homage to one of our Gods," she says as they reach a single table by the end of the 'dance floor,' a cushioned niche with comfortable seats and a fancy champagne bottle in an ice bucket. Her comment slides out easily, the fake accent punctuating her meaning, and it reaches the man sitting on one of the velvet seats with a girl—no older than sixteen, with a heavy coat of makeup and sexy clothes to make her seem older—on his lap. She scurries quickly as Sienna appears.
He's objectively handsome, with his tanned skin, strong jaw, roman nose, and heavy dark hair, but a deep scar runs along his cheek, and he has an unsettling smile, although he presents himself with elegance. Carlo Rizzo, 35, Italian-American, raised in Brooklyn, son of a long lineage of criminals and pretty models. Such a shame.
"If Bacchus is still out there, he's proud of my work," the man says solemnly before opening a smile and broadening his posture to his wife, patting his lap for her to sit.
"Love, I brought someone for you to meet," Sienna says with a wicked smile. Like a proud princess, the ginger sits on his thigh, the slit on her dress opening up until it barely covers her thigh, and she looks up at the two cops, alluring them. "No names, but this fine gentleman is an art dealer, and the lady..."
"Is a problem fixer," Olivia quickly adds, her answer suggesting dirty business, and Carlo's smile widens.
"A beautiful lady who can fix a problem. Isn't that every man's dream?" he asks, scrutinizing both of his new acquaintances and Olivia feels Elliot holding his breath a step behind her, his hand firmly on her waist once again. When Carlo hums what seems like approval and seductively invites them to sit, both cops trade a meaningful glance, signifying 'good job,' but the strangers read it just as their desire for each other, and that serves them well.
"First time at our... Celebration of Bacchus?" Carlo asks as Olivia sits almost glued to Elliot's side, the fine silk of her dress sliding easily over her legs, exposing the slit of her thigh just like Sienna's, and she feels the itch of three sets of eyes on her skin.
"Yes, and I must say: I've never seen such a vast menu ," Elliot says, his hand laying heavily over Olivia's knee, drawing a lazy circle that enraptures the attention of their lust-induced targets.
"They come from all around the world. The best and prettiest boys and girls that you'll ever taste," the man states proudly, feeding them new information - they knew about the girls, and now, boys are added to the mix. "You just gotta pick one, and they'll treat you well. No fees for my friends," he adds, and Sienna giggles, sipping from his glass of champagne.
"Oh, this is the kind of business that I should've landed my eyes on," Elliot groans in fake annoyance, and Olivia forces herself to mirror Sienna's gesture, letting out a deeper, pondered chuckle in response to his comment.
"Back in our day, caro , the market wasn't so demanding," she pretends to soothe him, patting his chest, and that catches Carlo's attention.
"Back in your day?" he seems interested, suddenly sounding like a curious teenager, and both cops roll with their act, easily improvising lines and stories.
"Drugs were easier to bring in and out, and commodities became a lucrative business. But we never multitasked ," Olivia plays her cards, insinuating the same market niche as Carlo, and Elliot nods in agreement.
"Always too dangerous. Too many hands to wet and the logistics were insane," he points with a bit of humor, making ‘ Isabella’ laugh carelessly.
"You would be surprised by the logistics now," Carlo comments, his chest puffed in a cocky way, barely containing the smirk on his face. Olivia knows the checkmate is coming, and she hears Fin in her ear, whispering instructions for the Ops team. They're getting ready to burst the party.
"You telling me you solved the logistic problem of the cargo?" Olivia blinks her eyes, dropping octaves in her voice as if listening to him goad about his crimes is a major turn-on, and he falls like sheep.
"Bring them while they're kids. Put the drugs on their bags, their teddy bears, baby formula, and diapers. Who will suspect? Fancy, beautiful, European mothers with their perfect babies and expensive shoes. You raise them here until they are the right age. The others you bring in the cruise ships. Crew, we call them. Cooks, cleaners, maîtres, waiters, waitresses, young and beautiful people from all around the world, working those big ships, and they're none the wiser," he points with a creepy smile growing bigger and bigger. It’s sickening the laugh that escapes Sienna's lips as if she's listening to some genius.
" Questo è incredibile ," Olivia lets the comment roll freely, and again, she looks at Elliot in that secretive way that they share. He knows she's not talking about the business itself but the stupidity of the man who just laid out all these sick details for two strangers, just because he's horny and high.
"Keep them entertained; we're moving in 5 minutes," Ayana warns them, and the couple trades a glance, the thrill of certain victory sparkling in their dilated pupils. Olivia can feel the tiny shocks coming up and down her legs, shooting from where Elliot's fingers are tracing slow circles too close to the slit of her dress.
Keep them entertained , she muses as his fingers seem to come up and up, silently praying that the camera on the brooch on her shoulder and in the pin of his tie is high enough not to catch his movements. It would be unnecessarily embarrassing to face Jet after this.
"How long have you two known each other?" Carlo asks, his eyes glued to Olivia's thigh, seemingly unconsciously mimicking Elliot's gestures over his wife's skin.
"Oh, caro mio, we go way back, when you were still just a little boy, I'm sure," Olivia answers with a teasing tone, giving him a smile that could cause a stroke in a weaker man. She sees the way his hand grasps Sienna's thigh.
"Are you two lovers?" Sienna inquires with almost a manic look on her face, her pupils blown out, and both cops wonder if the drugs served with the fine champagne have finally kicked in for her. With rehearsed mischief—although there's pleasure in performing the part and saying some of those absurdities out loud—the older couple exchanges a knowing smile, and Olivia puts her face an inch close to Elliot's mouth before answering truthfully.
"We were partners for many years."
"We behaved, for all those years," Elliot adds, and she feels like laughing. This is absurd! She bites her lower lip and turns her face to Carlo and Sienna.
"We don't behave anymore," is Olivia's checkmate, and she's at a loss for words when Sienna kisses her husband on the mouth before climbing out of his lap straight to her knees.
"Will you not behave with me?" Sienna's voice sounds pleading, kneeling between Olivia's legs, her doe eyes almost begging, and Olivia blinks slowly. Keep playing the part. She forces herself to stay in character.
"Oh, ragazzina , do you think you're old enough to misbehave with us?" she asks, and she hears the soft gasp that falls from the girl's lips.
"Please, I am," she insists, and Olivia looks straight into Carlo's eyes as if she's asking for his permission. He nods, slowly.
"We're coming in, Liv," Fin warns, just as Sienna propels her body a bit forward, an inch separating her lips from Olivia's cleavage.
When the heavy doors burst open, the rendezvous of police shouts and screams from the guests turn the place into hell on Earth, Elliot and Olivia switch into cop-mode , both of them jumping their targets easily. Surprisingly, Olivia—filled with a rage that took a while to simmer to a boiling point—tackles Carlo to the floor, and Elliot holds the man there, using his whole body weight to pin him down. It's truly a vision, Olivia Benson in her fancy gown, tackling a grown man as if she's Travis Kelce on a Sunday evening, and he saves the imagery for later because she looks amazing while doing it.
"Y' got him?" she asks, out of breath, when Elliot finally manages to secure the man's wrists between his large hands, and he nods before signaling Sienna with his head. The woman seems paralyzed by shock, still kneeling where she was a couple of minutes before, blinking slowly, as if she's now wholly aware of what's happening in her surroundings.
"Sienna Rizzo, you're under arrest for child endangerment, international drug trafficking, and human trafficking," Olivia says with a hint of satisfaction while she urges the girl to her feet, securing her small wrists between her hands. Then, she finally breathes lightly while reciting the Miranda Rights.
After a couple of months of operation, she finally has her two main targets, and as she looks around, she feels a wave of relief as the teams work in perfect sync. OC is calling out arrests, and SVU is speaking in soothing voices with the bunch of teenagers, forced to be there.
It takes hours for them to finally leave the task force headquarters, a boat warehouse turned into an improvised office, filled with desks for all the involved teams - OCCB, SVU, Vice, and Narcotics - and holding cells for all of their arrests, now full with all the scum they managed to call in during the party. There are supermodels, Wall Street men and women, trust fund babies, doctors, lawyers who suddenly lost their voices and their power to rebut, a couple of artists, exactly three university professors, two city counselors, and the billionaire host. It's outrageous, and Olivia is fuming when she steps out of the interrogation room after ripping a new one for goddamned Carlo Rizzo and his stupid little wife.
"You two did good," Ayanna is the first to congratulate them when the duo rejoins the team at the main meeting room. It's so out of place, seeing Elliot and Olivia dressed to the nines, with their hardened postures and badges attached to their evening attire, that the sergeant almost laughs in their faces.
"Go home, we can finish up here," Fin suggests, passing Olivia's bag back to her, and she checks her phone for any missed calls from Noah, who’s with Kathleen and Eli at Elliot’s place. Zero, and she lets out a relieved breath.
"Call me if you need anything," she's so eager to go home that she doesn't even protest, and her gaze goes straight to Elliot, who's also checking his phone. Silently, she prays that he also has zero missed calls or any emergency that might drag him away from her. Tonight, she yearns for him as if he's some kind of drug, and she'll take any fix she can get. Luckily, he seems to read her mind.
"Liv, need a ride?" he offers, the double entendre meant only for her, and she swallows a chuckle that threatens to rise up her throat. A tired and resigned chuckle, because she most definitely needs a ride.
"Yeah, I can't drive dressed like this," she fakes her excuse because she can do whatever the hell she puts her mind to, including driving her big-ass SUV back home in a three-thousand-dollar dress that she needs to return the following day. But she'd rather not anxiously clutch the steering wheel the whole ride home while Elliot does the same in another car. No, she'd rather spend the ride home with her hand tucked inside his pants, praying to God not to let him crash his car.
And that's exactly what she does as soon as they get into his stupid new car - a vintage Jeep with a bench seat that allows Olivia to tuck herself into his side as they drive away from the warehouse, and she's kind of grateful for the old thing.
"Tonight was endless," she groans lazily, conflicted between feeling her whole body heavy with tiredness or pumped up with adrenaline. She rubs slow circles over his right thigh, and her lips find the junction of his neck and shoulder. From this close, his smell is even more intoxicating than it was in the ballroom or in the interrogation room.
"Well, I guess it's not over yet", Elliot's answer sounds strained as her fingers reach closely to his crotch and she's lightheaded from his perfume.
"Not over yet", she confirms, licking a scorching patch from his clavicle bone to his earlobe and he clutches the steering wheel as she predicted. "You smell so good", comes her purr, her voice sounds strange even for herself, and she nuzzles his neck more intentionally.
Blame her undercover persona, the adrenaline of being someone so free and sexual for one night, the power of being seductive and not feeling guilty about it, but all of her previous anger and disgust, mixed with the sweet victory of closing a massive case, turned into a haze of lust that's clouding her good judgment since she crossed eyes with Elliot during interrogation. Fuck, they were always on fire cracking a suspect together.
Slowly, she pops the button from his pants and his breath hitches as she lowers the zipper, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet vehicle, their breaths being the loudest and only sounds heard.
"Liv, don't make me crash," he alerts playfully, his eyes seared into the road in front of them, driving at almost 62 miles per hour and quietly considering putting up the lights so they could get to her home faster. Only 13 more minutes, the GPS indicates on his phone, and Olivia softly kisses his jaw, working her hand into his underwear.
"I'm not doing anything, I'm just warming my hand," she tries to be playful, but her fingers start to work deftly, stirring him up to a frenzy in seconds. If Olivia keeps that up, he won't be needing any blue pill for the next ten years.
"Liv, behave," Elliot requests, unconsciously readjusting himself in the seat to give her more space. He feels her smile against his neck, the heat emanating from her body as if she's feverish.
"I've said it before, we don't behave anymore," she teases sultrily, nipping his jaw with a smile on her face. He stops the car at the red light, turning his head to look at her, and God, she's delicious.
Whatever is brewing inside of her - champagne, victory, rage, and lust - combined with the red light's reflection, the only thing illuminating the car, makes her look like a goddess. She's divine enough to cause jealousy even in Aphrodite herself. Her neck and cheeks are flushed, her lips reddish and plump from the friction against his beard, even though she hasn't kissed him yet. Her hair is slightly frizzy from the drizzle they caught during the party exit, and her eyes... He could drown in her eyes. For the passion written in her deep brown eyes, he could understand every man who ever loved a woman to death. He could relate to Odysseus, sailing for ten years just to get back to Penelope, because he did. And he would, over and over again.
"It's green, Detective," Olivia points out as the light changes in the car, and he blinks quickly to regain some sort of composure, laser-focused on getting home, to get into her arms.
"The things I'll do to you, Liv," he grumbles, promising with a strangled moan as she resumes her slow strokes. Resting her chin on his shoulder, she reads every line and crease of his face, and he hears and feels her smile, teasingly and oh! so tempting.
"I can't wait."
As soon as they cross the threshold of her apartment, their lips collide, and it's as if a dam burst. Their kisses are frenzied, hungry, and desperate, fueled by hours of suppressed longing and the yearning to touch, sending electric pulses through their bodies. His hands tangle in her hair, now completely mussed and ruined, and she grasps at his suit urgently, pulling him as close as she can. Their breaths mingle in the heated air between them when they dare to part for seconds, and it takes all of Olivia's self-control not to let him shove her against the nearest wall, hyper-aware of her expensive outfit.
"Can't - ruin - the - humph! El!" she manages to warn as he grabs the side of her dress eagerly, the delicate fabric at risk of tearing between his fingers.
"Off with this," he demands, descending his lips between the revealing patch of her cleavage, and she drops her head back, feeling the whole weight of her body sustained by Elliot's hands on her back.
She agrees with a couple of greedy gasps and he runs his fingers up her back, tracing the delicious skin with his digits. He takes one more appreciative look at her in that dress, her curves filling the dress, her tight nipples against the finest silk he ever touched, and he considers writing a check for Saint Laurent, only to let her keep the damn dress, that never looked as good in a runway that looks on her.
"Don't even think, Elliot", Olivia chastises him before he can formulate the whole idea, and kisses him again, forcefully.
He slides his tongue against hers, before reaching the cross-strap between her shoulder blades, loosening one side and then the other, and then the silk quickly slides down Olivia's body, pooling on her feet artfully. With Olivia wholly naked with her compass back on her chest - she removed the borrowed diamonds as soon as they got into the police van - and her feet propped on the obscene heels that she wore the whole night, he feels like falling into his knees, ready to pray at her altar.
"You're so beautiful," he whispers against her shoulder, kissing her feverish skin with devotion. "I love you... I love you..." he keeps saying, touching her chest, her clavicle, and her chin with his kisses, and then he levels his look with hers again, caressing her jaw with his palm. She looks at him as if she's enthralled, hypnotized by him. "I adore you," Elliot professes, meaning something completely different from love. Adoration, as he adores in his faith, with awe and devotion, and Olivia's legs tremble with his words.
"Let me feel it," she says, unsure if she's ordering or begging, her heart hammering against her ribcage. As he falls to his knees, scratching his beard over her navel, his lips frantic on her skin, she feels utterly divine, praised as if she's holy, and for the first time in her life, she sends up a prayer during the most inappropriate yet righteous hours, with the name of God shouted in vain.