You look at me curiously behind those black framed glasses, as if you're evaluating me, before you stand up from the couch that we're both sitting on. Your eyes trail down my jawline, down my chest, and to my lap where my hands are nervously fiddling with one another as if the mere act alone could ease the tension in the room. I know my hands are sweating like crazy, quite frankly I'm sure you would be able to see the wet marks on my pants if I were wearing jeans and not my black slacks. But that's the least of my worries right now. My tongue prods against my cheek before running over my teeth, in a vain attempt to moisten my dry mouth; it seems as if all the moisture in my mouth had been sent to my palms, making it nearly impossible to speak. It truly is a disturbing sense, feeling as if your mouth is filled with cotton. I chew at the inside of my cheek momentarily as I feel the cold trickle of sweat run down my left palm before it penetrates my dark slacks and soaks through the small pores, sticking against my rapidly moistening thigh. I glance down at my hands to make sure that they aren't actually immersed in a bucket of water before looking back up to you, and just as quickly as your eyes were on me, they're gone.
I can see your mind whirling around hundreds of thoughts at once. All those little what ifs or is this even possible, maybe you're even beginning to become curious. Because the truth is, we never talked about this. Your eyes meet mine once more as both of your delicate hands reach up to the top of your blouse. Methodically, almost seamlessly, you pop off the first bottom before your fingers slide down to the next. You repeat the process until I'm left staring at your gorgeous, flawless, pale skin. I bite back the urge to laugh when I notice your light blue bra which doesn't match your darker blouse but I resist the urge; I'm sure it's been driving you crazy all day with the way you've been tugging at the corners of your blouse ever since that intern spilled coffee on you. You're anal in that sense; everything has to match perfectly in your own sense of harmony. But the small chuckle in the back of my throat is immediately diminished as you quirk an eyebrow at me, no doubt questioning my grin, before sliding the blouse off of your shoulders. You hold the blouse out in front of you and just as methodically as you unbuttoned the blouse, you straighten it out, as if removing the invisible wrinkles. Once you seem satisfied that the blouse was not wrinkled from its removal, you lay it out gently over the back of the couch.
You purse your lips briefly as you look me over once more and I admire the way your lips lighten at the corners while the plump center turns a darker shade of red before your lips smooth out into a seamless line, revealing absolutely no emotion. I wonder how it's even possible for you to look so detached while you're undressing for me. Usually people look a bit more, dare I say, enthusiastic? I'm not saying that I'm something special or even remotely significant but this seems more like a business deal than...
"One night," You state very clearly, immediately interrupting my train of thought, as our eyes meet. Your words don't waver or even hold a hint of hesitation. A part of me begins to wonder if it's too late to back out but then your hands are at the side of your tight pencil skirt, tugging down the zipper. And once your creamy smooth thighs are revealed, all rational thought leaves my mind as my eyes greedily take in the supple flesh and black garter set.
"One night," I confirm even though I know you left no room for discussion. For some reason, my voice sounds foreign, as if it wasn't really me speaking. I bite the inside of my cheek slightly, easily pinching the flesh before releasing my hold; okay this isn't just another one of those dreams. You lay your skirt across the back of your couch and smooth out some more invisible wrinkles before turning back to me. I can't help it as my eyes wander back down to your long, lean legs, admiring every inch of them. Hell, I'm not sure if I even removed my eyes from your legs in the first place but I don't think I could ever get enough of seeing you without barriers. There have been quite a few times where I have imagined those legs wrapped around my waist, squeezing my hand, or even resting across my shoulders.
You look at me expectantly, as if somehow I'm supposed to read your mind. But I can't, I'm not a mind reader, and to be honest, I'm afraid of making the wrong move and upsetting you. Because, for all I know, one wrong move could snap you out of whatever the heck you're thinking and make you realize what a huge mistake you're about to make. There's a reason why you only want one night in the first place. And let me tell you, it isn't because you're afraid I'm not good in the sack. We all know you've heard the rumors around the DA's office and the squad room. Hell, I've even been warned about the infamous Detective Benson, of course the poor girl had no clue who I was until about ten seconds later when Elliot called my name.
"Stand up," You command, not ask, let that be clear. You left no room for negotiation but I don't have any objections. I rise up on unsteady knees, leveling myself with you, even though you made it very clear that you're the one in charge here. I subconsciously wipe my sweaty palms across my slacks once more in a vain attempt to dry them off before they are otherwise preoccupied. Your eyes follow me as I rise, and I admire the way you shift your head ever so slightly, allowing your long blonde locks to fall over your shoulder and away from those piercing blue eyes. I wonder if it's a conscious move, as if you're barring your neck for me but I highly doubt that's your intent. I don't bother questioning it any further when I hear your voice break the silence.
"Take off your shirt, Olivia."