Nodesbitch
Bartolomeo
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Chapter 3: The Crossing
The kiss on her knuckles was a brand. Olivia felt it resonate up her arm, a warmth that settled deep in her chest, chasing away the last of the shadows. His eyes, deep and impossibly soft in the lamplight, held hers, and in their depths she saw a mirror of the revelation that had just dawned on her. He had been waiting. Patiently, quietly, without pressure, he had been waiting for her to see what was right in front of her.
She didn't pull her hand back. Instead, she tightened her grip, a silent, answering pressure. "Rafa," she said again, her voice steadier this time, filled with a certainty that was as new as it was absolute. "Stay."
It wasn't a question. It was a plea, an invitation, a statement of fact. It was the only word that mattered.
He searched her face, his expression one of profound, cautious hope. He was looking for hesitation, for doubt, for any sign that she might regret this in the morning. He found none. He had spent years reading Olivia Benson, learning the subtle tells and micro-expressions that betrayed her true feelings. He saw no conflict in her now, only a clear, unwavering resolve.
Slowly, he nodded. "Okay."
The word was a quiet exhalation, laden with years of unspoken longing. He stood from the armchair, pulling her gently to her feet. They stood in the small space between the sofa and the coffee table, the quiet of the apartment wrapping around them like a blanket. The city outside, with its sirens and its endless, grinding chaos, ceased to exist. There was only this room, this moment.
He raised his free hand, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw with a reverence that made her breath catch. His touch was feather-light, hesitant, as if he were still afraid she might shatter. She leaned into his palm, a silent gesture of reassurance, of permission.
"Liv," he murmured, his voice thick with an emotion he no longer tried to conceal. It was a sound of visceral wonder.
And then he kissed her.
It was nothing like the desperate, hungry kisses of her past. There was no bruising force, no frantic claiming. It was a kiss of arrival, of coming home. It was slow and deep and breathtakingly tender, a conversation years in the making, spoken in a language of soft lips and gentle, searching pressure. It was a question and an answer, an apology and a promise.
Her hands came up to frame his face, her fingers sinking into the soft hair at his temples. He tasted of good wine and the sweet cannoli they had shared, but beneath it, he tasted of himself—of strength and patience and an unwavering devotion she was only now beginning to comprehend.
When they finally broke apart, they were both breathless. He rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed, his thumb stroking her cheek in a slow, hypnotic rhythm.
"I have been in love with you for a very long time," he whispered into the small space between them. The confession wasn't dramatic or tortured; it was a simple, profound truth, stated with the same calm certainty he used to state a fact in a courtroom.
Tears pricked at her eyes, not of sadness, but of an overwhelming, heart-stopping relief. "I think," she whispered back, her voice trembling slightly, "I have been, too. I was just too stubborn to see it."
He let out a shaky laugh, a sound of pure joy. "You? Stubborn? Never."
She smiled against his lips and kissed him again, more confidently this time. It was a kiss of acceptance, of acknowledgment. It was the end of the long, lonely search and the beginning of something new. They were no longer just a cop and a lawyer, no longer just friends. They had crossed a threshold, hand in hand, into a new and uncharted territory. For once, the unknown didn't feel like a threat. It felt like a promise.
Leading him into her bedroom felt like the most natural and most terrifying thing Olivia had ever done. It was her most private space, a sanctuary that had remained inviolably hers, even when other men had shared her bed. It was a room that had witnessed her nightmares, her quiet tears, her lonely, exhausted collapses at the end of impossible days. To bring him here was an act of ultimate trust.
He seemed to understand the sanctity of the space. He didn't stride in with easy confidence; he entered with a quiet reverence, his eyes taking in the small, personal details—the stack of books on her nightstand, the framed photo of a much younger Noah on her dresser, the soft, worn quilt folded at the foot of her bed.
She closed the door, the soft click of the latch shutting out the rest of the world. They stood in the dim light filtering in from the street, a silence falling between them that was different from all the silences that had come before. This one was humming with anticipation, with the raw, unspoken reality of what was about to happen.
"Liv," he said, his voice a low murmur. "Are you sure?"
The question was a gift. It was his final, respectful deference to her, an acknowledgment of the history that had made trust a difficult, precious currency. He was giving her one last chance to retreat to the safety of the known.
She answered by closing the distance between them and unbuttoning the top button of his shirt. Her fingers were not entirely steady, a fact that seemed to both amuse and touch him. "The only thing I'm sure of," she whispered, her eyes locked on his, "is that I have wasted far too much time being afraid of this."
His hands came to rest on her waist, his grip firm and grounding. He didn't rush. He let her set the pace, his gaze a warm, steady presence that made her feel seen in a way she never had before. As her fingers worked their way down the buttons of his shirt, she wasn't just undressing him; she was systematically dismantling the last of her own defenses. The starched cotton parted, revealing the smooth, warm skin of his chest. She splayed her hands against him, feeling the steady, powerful beat of his heart beneath her palms. It felt like a metronome, a rhythm she could anchor herself to.
He, in turn, was just as deliberate. His hands slid from her waist to the hem of her sweater, his thumbs brushing against the sliver of exposed skin there, sending a shiver through her. He gathered the soft wool in his hands and lifted it slowly over her head, his movements unhurried, almost worshipful. The cool air of the room kissed her skin, and for a fleeting second, she felt a pang of old, familiar vulnerability.
Then she saw the look on his face. He wasn't looking at her body with desire, not yet. He was looking at her with a kind of profound, breathtaking awe, as if he were finally being allowed to witness something he had only ever dreamed of. Any lingering insecurity she might have felt evaporated in the heat of that gaze.
Skin met skin. His hands, no longer hesitant, moved to her back, pulling her flush against him. The friction of their bodies, the warmth, the sheer, solid reality of it, was intoxicating. His mouth found hers again, and this time, the kiss was different. The earlier tenderness was still there, but now it was underpinned by a current of undeniable, long-suppressed hunger. It was a kiss that spoke of lonely nights and unspoken wishes, of years spent standing just a little too close, of a thousand conversations that had always ended just short of the truth.
He broke the kiss to press his lips to the sensitive skin of her neck, his mouth tracing a slow, deliberate path to the hollow of her collarbone. Her head fell back, a soft sound of surrender escaping her lips. His name. It was half a prayer, half a plea. While he kissed her neck, he finished stripping himself, leaving on her jeans to be dealt with, something he planned to immediately rectify.
He worked the button of her jeans, his fingers deft and sure. The denim slid down her hips, and then they were standing in the near-darkness, their bodies finally, completely bare to each other. He led her to the bed, the mattress dipping under their combined weight.
He made love to her with the same meticulous, focused intensity he brought to a closing argument. Every touch was deliberate, every caress a point being made, every kiss a piece of irrefutable evidence. He explored her body not as a conquest, but as a text he was finally being allowed to read. He discovered the sensitive skin behind her knee, the spot on her ribs that made her gasp, the way she arched her back when he kissed the base of her spine.
And he let her explore him in turn. She learned the landscape of his body, the taut muscles of his back, the sharp line of his hip bones. Her fingers traced the faint, silvery lines of a scar on his shoulder, a story she didn't know but felt she understood implicitly. They were both survivors, their bodies maps of past battles.
When he finally entered her, it was with a slowness that was a testament to his control, a deep, reverent joining that felt less like a physical act and more like the sealing of a sacred vow. He watched her face in the dim light, his eyes never leaving hers, gauging her reaction, ensuring her pleasure was paramount. He moved within her with a rhythm that was both patient and powerful, building a friction that was slowly, exquisitely, erasing the loneliness of a lifetime.
She clung to him, her nails digging into the strong muscles of his shoulders, her body meeting his every thrust. The release, when it came, was not a quiet, gentle thing. It was a shattering, a tidal wave that broke against the shores of her hard-fought control, washing away years of pain and fear and doubt. She cried out his name, a raw, unguarded sound, and felt his own release follow, a deep, shuddering groan that was a confession of his own.
Afterward, they lay tangled in her sheets, their bodies slick with sweat, their breathing slowly returning to normal. He didn't roll away. He gathered her into his arms, pulling her back against his chest, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her hair. She felt his heart beating against her back, a steady, reassuring rhythm.
"Okay?" he whispered into the quiet of the room.
She let out a long, shaky breath, a sound that was half laugh, half sob. In the warm, safe circle of his arms, she felt the last of her old ghosts begin to fade.
"Yeah, Rafa," she whispered back, her voice thick. "More than okay."
Olivia woke slowly, drawn from a deep and dreamless sleep by a warmth that had nothing to do with her quilt. For a moment, she was disoriented. The weight across her waist was heavy and unfamiliar, the slow, steady breathing against the back of her neck a foreign rhythm. Then, the memories of the night before came flooding back, sharp and vivid, and a slow, spreading warmth bloomed in her belly.
Rafael.
He was still asleep, his arm draped possessively over her, his body curved to fit perfectly against hers. She could feel the wiry texture of the hair on his legs against her own, the solid wall of his chest against her back. She was cocooned, held in a way that felt both incredibly safe and thrillingly new. She lay perfectly still, not wanting to wake him, content to simply exist in this new reality.
She remembered the feel of his mouth on her skin, the surprising strength in his hands, the rough scrape of his stubble against the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. She remembered the guttural, unrestrained sounds he'd made in the darkness, the way he'd arched into her, chanting her name like an incantation as he came. The memory alone was enough to make her body clench with a renewed, hungry ache. Tame was not a word she would have used. Primal, perhaps. Devotional. But certainly not tame.
Slowly, carefully, she shifted, turning in his arms to face him. In sleep, the sharp, analytical planes of his face were softened. His mouth was slightly parted, his dark lashes stark against his skin. The formidable Bureau Chief was gone, replaced by a man who looked peaceful, vulnerable. The urge to kiss him, to wake him, was almost overwhelming.
As if sensing her gaze, his eyes fluttered open. They were hazy with sleep for a moment, then focused on her, and a slow, lazy smile spread across his face. It was a smile of honest satisfaction.
"Morning, Counselor," she whispered.
"Morning, Lieutenant," he rasped, his voice thick with sleep. He tightened his arm around her, pulling her impossibly closer until their noses were almost touching. "I was beginning to think I'd dreamt all that."
"Not a dream," she confirmed, her hand coming up to trace the line of his unshaven jaw. The rasp of it against her fingertips was an intimate, tactile reminder of the night.
His smile faded, replaced by a look of raw hunger. He captured her hand, pressing a kiss to the palm, his eyes never leaving hers. "Good," he murmured against her skin. "Because I'm not nearly done with you."
He rolled, shifting his weight until he was half-draped over her, his knee nudging her legs apart. The morning light was beginning to filter through the blinds, painting stripes across their bodies, leaving nothing to suggestion. He lowered his head, his mouth closing over hers in a kiss that was a world away from the tender explorations of the night before. This was a kiss of possession, of familiarity. His tongue swept into her mouth, confident and demanding, while his hand slid down her body, past her ribs, over the curve of her hip.
She gasped into his mouth as his fingers found her, already slick and aching for him. He didn't hesitate, sinking two fingers deep inside her, his thumb finding the swollen, sensitive nub of her clit with an unerring accuracy that told her he had been paying very close attention.
"Rafa," she breathed, her hips already beginning to arch off the bed.
"Shh," he murmured against her lips, his thumb beginning to move in slow, deliberate circles. "Just feel."
It was too much, too soon. The pleasure was electric, sharp and immediate, a stark contrast to the slow, languid build of the night. Her body, already sensitized from their earlier lovemaking, caught fire instantly. He continued to kiss her, swallowing her moans, his fingers moving faster, harder, pushing her toward the edge with a skill that was both breathtaking and infuriating. It was a calculated, masterful assault on her senses, and she was completely, utterly lost to it. The orgasm ripped through her, a violent, shuddering wave that left her boneless and gasping, her body trembling in the aftershocks.
He rested his forehead against hers, his breathing heavy. "That," he said, a note of undisguised pride in his voice, "is a much better way to wake up than an alarm clock."
Before she could form a coherent reply, a small, insistent voice came from the hallway, followed by the patter of little feet.
"Mommy? I'm hungry."
Reality, in the form of a five-year-old with a love for pancakes, had arrived.
The sound of Noah’s voice was like a bucket of ice water, snapping them out of their sensual haze. Olivia’s eyes widened in a moment of panic. It was one thing to have Rafael here, in her bed, in the dead of night. It was another entirely to have him here in the bright, unforgiving light of morning, with her son just down the hall.
Rafael reacted instantly, a low curse escaping his lips as he rolled off her. He moved with a swift, silent grace, gathering his discarded clothes from the floor. There was a moment of frantic, unspoken communication between them—a shared look that said, What do we do?
"Mommy?" Noah’s voice came again, closer this time.
"Just a minute, sweet boy!" Olivia called out, her voice a little too high. She scrambled out of bed, grabbing her robe from the back of the door and pulling it on, cinching the belt tightly as if it were a piece of body armor.
Rafael was already dressed, his shirt hastily buttoned, his hair endearingly messy. He looked at her, one eyebrow raised in a silent question. Hide? Leave?
She shook her head, a small, decisive gesture. No. No more hiding. No more pretending. This was their life now. "It's okay," she whispered, more to convince herself than him. She took a deep breath, walked to the bedroom door, and opened it.
Noah was standing in the hallway, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his favorite dinosaur pajamas rumpled. His gaze went from his mother to the man standing in her bedroom, and a slow, happy grin spread across his face.
"Uncle Rafa!" he exclaimed. "Are you having a sleepover?"
Rafael, to his immense credit, didn't miss a beat. He walked out of the bedroom, crouching down to Noah's level. "I was just leaving, actually," he said smoothly. "But I heard a rumor there might be pancakes."
"We're having chocolate chip pancakes!" Noah announced proudly. "It's Saturday!"
"Chocolate chip?" Rafael looked at Olivia, his expression one of mock gravity. "That's a serious allegation. I may have to stay and investigate."
Olivia felt the tension drain out of her, replaced by a wave of affection so powerful it almost buckled her knees. He wasn't just handling it; he was embracing it, fitting himself into the fabric of her morning with an ease that felt like a miracle.
"Well, Investigator," she said, her voice laced with amusement, "the evidence is in the kitchen."
The next hour was the most surreal and wonderful of Olivia's life. Rafael, a man she had only ever seen work in bespoke suits and a courtroom, took over her kitchen as if he'd been born in it. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing strong, capable forearms, and set about making pancakes from scratch, refusing to use the boxed mix she pointed to. He let Noah stand on a chair and "help" stir the batter, patiently wiping up the inevitable spills, his deep voice a low, happy rumble as they debated the optimal chocolate chip-to-pancake ratio.
Olivia leaned against the counter, a mug of coffee clutched in her hands, and just watched. She watched him flip a pancake with a flick of his wrist. She watched him cut Noah's into small, manageable bites. She watched the way he subtly refilled her coffee cup without her having to ask. It was a scene of such profound, simple domesticity that it brought an ache to her chest.
This was what she had been missing. Not just a lover, but a partner. A man who could face down a murderer in the morning and make a perfect pancake in the afternoon.
While Noah was happily engrossed in his breakfast and a cartoon on the small kitchen TV, Rafael cornered her by the sink. He didn't say anything. He just backed her against the counter, his body caging hers, and stole a kiss. It was quick and hot and tasted of coffee and maple syrup. His hand slid from her waist down to her ass, squeezing once, a possessive, silent promise of things to come.
"Later," he murmured against her lips, his breath warm.
"Definitely," she breathed back, her body thrumming.
When it was finally time for him to leave, the goodbye was different. He hugged Noah, promising to inspect his next Lego creation very soon. Then he turned to her. In the entryway, with Noah thankfully out of sight, he pulled her into his arms.
"I'll call you," he said, his voice low and serious.
"You'd better," she replied.
He kissed her then, a real kiss, a confident, lingering kiss that was a world away from the tentative explorations of the past. It was the kiss of a man who knew he would be back, a kiss that sealed the new reality they had woken up to. It was a promise.
He walked out the door, leaving her standing in the entryway, her lips still tingling, her heart full. She heard the click of the door closing, and the sound didn't feel like a barrier shutting her in. It felt like the start of something new.
Pass Me the Kerosene - Fanfic Ch.1
Summary: They are experts at building walls, two lonely professionals in a city of millions. But when the silence becomes too loud, they start a secret war against their own control, discovering that self-destruction can feel a lot like salvation. You see I would have killed Romeo and...
looksmax.org
Pass Me the Kerosene - Fanfic Ch.2
Previous threads: https://looksmax.org/threads/pass-me-the-kerosene-fanfic-ch-1.1685682/ Chapter 2: A Calculated Risk The silence that settled between them wasn't awkward. It was heavy, weighted with the gravity of unspoken words, but it was also solid, a shared space they now occupied. Rafael...
looksmax.org
Chapter 3: The Crossing
The kiss on her knuckles was a brand. Olivia felt it resonate up her arm, a warmth that settled deep in her chest, chasing away the last of the shadows. His eyes, deep and impossibly soft in the lamplight, held hers, and in their depths she saw a mirror of the revelation that had just dawned on her. He had been waiting. Patiently, quietly, without pressure, he had been waiting for her to see what was right in front of her.
She didn't pull her hand back. Instead, she tightened her grip, a silent, answering pressure. "Rafa," she said again, her voice steadier this time, filled with a certainty that was as new as it was absolute. "Stay."
It wasn't a question. It was a plea, an invitation, a statement of fact. It was the only word that mattered.
He searched her face, his expression one of profound, cautious hope. He was looking for hesitation, for doubt, for any sign that she might regret this in the morning. He found none. He had spent years reading Olivia Benson, learning the subtle tells and micro-expressions that betrayed her true feelings. He saw no conflict in her now, only a clear, unwavering resolve.
Slowly, he nodded. "Okay."
The word was a quiet exhalation, laden with years of unspoken longing. He stood from the armchair, pulling her gently to her feet. They stood in the small space between the sofa and the coffee table, the quiet of the apartment wrapping around them like a blanket. The city outside, with its sirens and its endless, grinding chaos, ceased to exist. There was only this room, this moment.
He raised his free hand, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw with a reverence that made her breath catch. His touch was feather-light, hesitant, as if he were still afraid she might shatter. She leaned into his palm, a silent gesture of reassurance, of permission.
"Liv," he murmured, his voice thick with an emotion he no longer tried to conceal. It was a sound of visceral wonder.
And then he kissed her.
It was nothing like the desperate, hungry kisses of her past. There was no bruising force, no frantic claiming. It was a kiss of arrival, of coming home. It was slow and deep and breathtakingly tender, a conversation years in the making, spoken in a language of soft lips and gentle, searching pressure. It was a question and an answer, an apology and a promise.
Her hands came up to frame his face, her fingers sinking into the soft hair at his temples. He tasted of good wine and the sweet cannoli they had shared, but beneath it, he tasted of himself—of strength and patience and an unwavering devotion she was only now beginning to comprehend.
When they finally broke apart, they were both breathless. He rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed, his thumb stroking her cheek in a slow, hypnotic rhythm.
"I have been in love with you for a very long time," he whispered into the small space between them. The confession wasn't dramatic or tortured; it was a simple, profound truth, stated with the same calm certainty he used to state a fact in a courtroom.
Tears pricked at her eyes, not of sadness, but of an overwhelming, heart-stopping relief. "I think," she whispered back, her voice trembling slightly, "I have been, too. I was just too stubborn to see it."
He let out a shaky laugh, a sound of pure joy. "You? Stubborn? Never."
She smiled against his lips and kissed him again, more confidently this time. It was a kiss of acceptance, of acknowledgment. It was the end of the long, lonely search and the beginning of something new. They were no longer just a cop and a lawyer, no longer just friends. They had crossed a threshold, hand in hand, into a new and uncharted territory. For once, the unknown didn't feel like a threat. It felt like a promise.
Leading him into her bedroom felt like the most natural and most terrifying thing Olivia had ever done. It was her most private space, a sanctuary that had remained inviolably hers, even when other men had shared her bed. It was a room that had witnessed her nightmares, her quiet tears, her lonely, exhausted collapses at the end of impossible days. To bring him here was an act of ultimate trust.
He seemed to understand the sanctity of the space. He didn't stride in with easy confidence; he entered with a quiet reverence, his eyes taking in the small, personal details—the stack of books on her nightstand, the framed photo of a much younger Noah on her dresser, the soft, worn quilt folded at the foot of her bed.
She closed the door, the soft click of the latch shutting out the rest of the world. They stood in the dim light filtering in from the street, a silence falling between them that was different from all the silences that had come before. This one was humming with anticipation, with the raw, unspoken reality of what was about to happen.
"Liv," he said, his voice a low murmur. "Are you sure?"
The question was a gift. It was his final, respectful deference to her, an acknowledgment of the history that had made trust a difficult, precious currency. He was giving her one last chance to retreat to the safety of the known.
She answered by closing the distance between them and unbuttoning the top button of his shirt. Her fingers were not entirely steady, a fact that seemed to both amuse and touch him. "The only thing I'm sure of," she whispered, her eyes locked on his, "is that I have wasted far too much time being afraid of this."
His hands came to rest on her waist, his grip firm and grounding. He didn't rush. He let her set the pace, his gaze a warm, steady presence that made her feel seen in a way she never had before. As her fingers worked their way down the buttons of his shirt, she wasn't just undressing him; she was systematically dismantling the last of her own defenses. The starched cotton parted, revealing the smooth, warm skin of his chest. She splayed her hands against him, feeling the steady, powerful beat of his heart beneath her palms. It felt like a metronome, a rhythm she could anchor herself to.
He, in turn, was just as deliberate. His hands slid from her waist to the hem of her sweater, his thumbs brushing against the sliver of exposed skin there, sending a shiver through her. He gathered the soft wool in his hands and lifted it slowly over her head, his movements unhurried, almost worshipful. The cool air of the room kissed her skin, and for a fleeting second, she felt a pang of old, familiar vulnerability.
Then she saw the look on his face. He wasn't looking at her body with desire, not yet. He was looking at her with a kind of profound, breathtaking awe, as if he were finally being allowed to witness something he had only ever dreamed of. Any lingering insecurity she might have felt evaporated in the heat of that gaze.
Skin met skin. His hands, no longer hesitant, moved to her back, pulling her flush against him. The friction of their bodies, the warmth, the sheer, solid reality of it, was intoxicating. His mouth found hers again, and this time, the kiss was different. The earlier tenderness was still there, but now it was underpinned by a current of undeniable, long-suppressed hunger. It was a kiss that spoke of lonely nights and unspoken wishes, of years spent standing just a little too close, of a thousand conversations that had always ended just short of the truth.
He broke the kiss to press his lips to the sensitive skin of her neck, his mouth tracing a slow, deliberate path to the hollow of her collarbone. Her head fell back, a soft sound of surrender escaping her lips. His name. It was half a prayer, half a plea. While he kissed her neck, he finished stripping himself, leaving on her jeans to be dealt with, something he planned to immediately rectify.
He worked the button of her jeans, his fingers deft and sure. The denim slid down her hips, and then they were standing in the near-darkness, their bodies finally, completely bare to each other. He led her to the bed, the mattress dipping under their combined weight.
He made love to her with the same meticulous, focused intensity he brought to a closing argument. Every touch was deliberate, every caress a point being made, every kiss a piece of irrefutable evidence. He explored her body not as a conquest, but as a text he was finally being allowed to read. He discovered the sensitive skin behind her knee, the spot on her ribs that made her gasp, the way she arched her back when he kissed the base of her spine.
And he let her explore him in turn. She learned the landscape of his body, the taut muscles of his back, the sharp line of his hip bones. Her fingers traced the faint, silvery lines of a scar on his shoulder, a story she didn't know but felt she understood implicitly. They were both survivors, their bodies maps of past battles.
When he finally entered her, it was with a slowness that was a testament to his control, a deep, reverent joining that felt less like a physical act and more like the sealing of a sacred vow. He watched her face in the dim light, his eyes never leaving hers, gauging her reaction, ensuring her pleasure was paramount. He moved within her with a rhythm that was both patient and powerful, building a friction that was slowly, exquisitely, erasing the loneliness of a lifetime.
She clung to him, her nails digging into the strong muscles of his shoulders, her body meeting his every thrust. The release, when it came, was not a quiet, gentle thing. It was a shattering, a tidal wave that broke against the shores of her hard-fought control, washing away years of pain and fear and doubt. She cried out his name, a raw, unguarded sound, and felt his own release follow, a deep, shuddering groan that was a confession of his own.
Afterward, they lay tangled in her sheets, their bodies slick with sweat, their breathing slowly returning to normal. He didn't roll away. He gathered her into his arms, pulling her back against his chest, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her hair. She felt his heart beating against her back, a steady, reassuring rhythm.
"Okay?" he whispered into the quiet of the room.
She let out a long, shaky breath, a sound that was half laugh, half sob. In the warm, safe circle of his arms, she felt the last of her old ghosts begin to fade.
"Yeah, Rafa," she whispered back, her voice thick. "More than okay."
Olivia woke slowly, drawn from a deep and dreamless sleep by a warmth that had nothing to do with her quilt. For a moment, she was disoriented. The weight across her waist was heavy and unfamiliar, the slow, steady breathing against the back of her neck a foreign rhythm. Then, the memories of the night before came flooding back, sharp and vivid, and a slow, spreading warmth bloomed in her belly.
Rafael.
He was still asleep, his arm draped possessively over her, his body curved to fit perfectly against hers. She could feel the wiry texture of the hair on his legs against her own, the solid wall of his chest against her back. She was cocooned, held in a way that felt both incredibly safe and thrillingly new. She lay perfectly still, not wanting to wake him, content to simply exist in this new reality.
She remembered the feel of his mouth on her skin, the surprising strength in his hands, the rough scrape of his stubble against the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. She remembered the guttural, unrestrained sounds he'd made in the darkness, the way he'd arched into her, chanting her name like an incantation as he came. The memory alone was enough to make her body clench with a renewed, hungry ache. Tame was not a word she would have used. Primal, perhaps. Devotional. But certainly not tame.
Slowly, carefully, she shifted, turning in his arms to face him. In sleep, the sharp, analytical planes of his face were softened. His mouth was slightly parted, his dark lashes stark against his skin. The formidable Bureau Chief was gone, replaced by a man who looked peaceful, vulnerable. The urge to kiss him, to wake him, was almost overwhelming.
As if sensing her gaze, his eyes fluttered open. They were hazy with sleep for a moment, then focused on her, and a slow, lazy smile spread across his face. It was a smile of honest satisfaction.
"Morning, Counselor," she whispered.
"Morning, Lieutenant," he rasped, his voice thick with sleep. He tightened his arm around her, pulling her impossibly closer until their noses were almost touching. "I was beginning to think I'd dreamt all that."
"Not a dream," she confirmed, her hand coming up to trace the line of his unshaven jaw. The rasp of it against her fingertips was an intimate, tactile reminder of the night.
His smile faded, replaced by a look of raw hunger. He captured her hand, pressing a kiss to the palm, his eyes never leaving hers. "Good," he murmured against her skin. "Because I'm not nearly done with you."
He rolled, shifting his weight until he was half-draped over her, his knee nudging her legs apart. The morning light was beginning to filter through the blinds, painting stripes across their bodies, leaving nothing to suggestion. He lowered his head, his mouth closing over hers in a kiss that was a world away from the tender explorations of the night before. This was a kiss of possession, of familiarity. His tongue swept into her mouth, confident and demanding, while his hand slid down her body, past her ribs, over the curve of her hip.
She gasped into his mouth as his fingers found her, already slick and aching for him. He didn't hesitate, sinking two fingers deep inside her, his thumb finding the swollen, sensitive nub of her clit with an unerring accuracy that told her he had been paying very close attention.
"Rafa," she breathed, her hips already beginning to arch off the bed.
"Shh," he murmured against her lips, his thumb beginning to move in slow, deliberate circles. "Just feel."
It was too much, too soon. The pleasure was electric, sharp and immediate, a stark contrast to the slow, languid build of the night. Her body, already sensitized from their earlier lovemaking, caught fire instantly. He continued to kiss her, swallowing her moans, his fingers moving faster, harder, pushing her toward the edge with a skill that was both breathtaking and infuriating. It was a calculated, masterful assault on her senses, and she was completely, utterly lost to it. The orgasm ripped through her, a violent, shuddering wave that left her boneless and gasping, her body trembling in the aftershocks.
He rested his forehead against hers, his breathing heavy. "That," he said, a note of undisguised pride in his voice, "is a much better way to wake up than an alarm clock."
Before she could form a coherent reply, a small, insistent voice came from the hallway, followed by the patter of little feet.
"Mommy? I'm hungry."
Reality, in the form of a five-year-old with a love for pancakes, had arrived.
The sound of Noah’s voice was like a bucket of ice water, snapping them out of their sensual haze. Olivia’s eyes widened in a moment of panic. It was one thing to have Rafael here, in her bed, in the dead of night. It was another entirely to have him here in the bright, unforgiving light of morning, with her son just down the hall.
Rafael reacted instantly, a low curse escaping his lips as he rolled off her. He moved with a swift, silent grace, gathering his discarded clothes from the floor. There was a moment of frantic, unspoken communication between them—a shared look that said, What do we do?
"Mommy?" Noah’s voice came again, closer this time.
"Just a minute, sweet boy!" Olivia called out, her voice a little too high. She scrambled out of bed, grabbing her robe from the back of the door and pulling it on, cinching the belt tightly as if it were a piece of body armor.
Rafael was already dressed, his shirt hastily buttoned, his hair endearingly messy. He looked at her, one eyebrow raised in a silent question. Hide? Leave?
She shook her head, a small, decisive gesture. No. No more hiding. No more pretending. This was their life now. "It's okay," she whispered, more to convince herself than him. She took a deep breath, walked to the bedroom door, and opened it.
Noah was standing in the hallway, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his favorite dinosaur pajamas rumpled. His gaze went from his mother to the man standing in her bedroom, and a slow, happy grin spread across his face.
"Uncle Rafa!" he exclaimed. "Are you having a sleepover?"
Rafael, to his immense credit, didn't miss a beat. He walked out of the bedroom, crouching down to Noah's level. "I was just leaving, actually," he said smoothly. "But I heard a rumor there might be pancakes."
"We're having chocolate chip pancakes!" Noah announced proudly. "It's Saturday!"
"Chocolate chip?" Rafael looked at Olivia, his expression one of mock gravity. "That's a serious allegation. I may have to stay and investigate."
Olivia felt the tension drain out of her, replaced by a wave of affection so powerful it almost buckled her knees. He wasn't just handling it; he was embracing it, fitting himself into the fabric of her morning with an ease that felt like a miracle.
"Well, Investigator," she said, her voice laced with amusement, "the evidence is in the kitchen."
The next hour was the most surreal and wonderful of Olivia's life. Rafael, a man she had only ever seen work in bespoke suits and a courtroom, took over her kitchen as if he'd been born in it. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing strong, capable forearms, and set about making pancakes from scratch, refusing to use the boxed mix she pointed to. He let Noah stand on a chair and "help" stir the batter, patiently wiping up the inevitable spills, his deep voice a low, happy rumble as they debated the optimal chocolate chip-to-pancake ratio.
Olivia leaned against the counter, a mug of coffee clutched in her hands, and just watched. She watched him flip a pancake with a flick of his wrist. She watched him cut Noah's into small, manageable bites. She watched the way he subtly refilled her coffee cup without her having to ask. It was a scene of such profound, simple domesticity that it brought an ache to her chest.
This was what she had been missing. Not just a lover, but a partner. A man who could face down a murderer in the morning and make a perfect pancake in the afternoon.
While Noah was happily engrossed in his breakfast and a cartoon on the small kitchen TV, Rafael cornered her by the sink. He didn't say anything. He just backed her against the counter, his body caging hers, and stole a kiss. It was quick and hot and tasted of coffee and maple syrup. His hand slid from her waist down to her ass, squeezing once, a possessive, silent promise of things to come.
"Later," he murmured against her lips, his breath warm.
"Definitely," she breathed back, her body thrumming.
When it was finally time for him to leave, the goodbye was different. He hugged Noah, promising to inspect his next Lego creation very soon. Then he turned to her. In the entryway, with Noah thankfully out of sight, he pulled her into his arms.
"I'll call you," he said, his voice low and serious.
"You'd better," she replied.
He kissed her then, a real kiss, a confident, lingering kiss that was a world away from the tentative explorations of the past. It was the kiss of a man who knew he would be back, a kiss that sealed the new reality they had woken up to. It was a promise.
He walked out the door, leaving her standing in the entryway, her lips still tingling, her heart full. She heard the click of the door closing, and the sound didn't feel like a barrier shutting her in. It felt like the start of something new.
