A/N: I hope you guys enjoy this add. I know I enjoyed writing it (that's a first). LMFAO! O.o =========

Chapter 7-B

Peter was every bit a man's man, but he hadn't been around Olivia on a constant basis for a long time. She'd changed. She knew it. And he'd noticed. She was never one to keep the company of a lot of different men, but the part Peter didn't know was that something about being with Fitz for so long up until a couple of years ago awakened something primal in Liv.

She had gone through her young adult years focused on little else besides being a fastidious student and preparing to embark upon the stellar political and legal career she always knew she wanted. She never had the time – or desire – to be enraptured by love and lust. Even her almost episode with Peter when they were about to graduate from undergrad was bridled by her innocence and inexperience and his natural goodness… His unwillingness to take advantage of her. That part hadn't changed. But, what had changed was that Olivia knew the effect she had on men. Fitz had made that very clear during the life of their romantic, sexual, loving, passion-filled relationship.

There were times, especially when she and Fitz were on the campaign trail, when she'd just sense him staring at her from across a room crowded with campaign volunteers and press corps members. She could feel him most times before she could even see him. She knew he was there. She had developed a sixth sense for it. And, he couldn't help himself. No matter who was around, even by the time he'd gotten the White House, dignitaries, political rivals attending meetings off of the Hill, Mellie, Cyrus… Fitz had to be near her. Under different circumstances – with a different woman – he might have cared to be inconspicuous, but he had no control over himself when it came to Olivia. And, truthfully, neither did she. Even if they didn't have the chance to talk one on one about a speech he was preparing to give, or accidentally graze each other's fingertips when exchanging a briefing file, or really be alone with one another, if they were within twenty feet of each other, they could feel the magnetism, the heat. Something changed in the way they both breathed when they were near one another. Something changed about the way Fitz' skin felt. It was always hotter, prickly. She felt the same thing. Something changed about her body chemistry, and his as well. There were countless times when she would be experiencing the physiological symptoms of being in the same room as him, and different, random people would comment on the potent scent of her perfume… something she never even wore in excess. But the heat that radiated off of her body would mix with the sultry scent and other people couldn't help but take notice. Fitz took notice too and would always withhold comment until they could be alone.

Then, when they found themselves alone – on the trail, keeping ungodly late nights preparing for the next day's grueling schedule and finally being abandoned by Cyrus given in to his losing battle with fatigue, or during the first year at the White House when she'd work into the wee hours of the morning, intending to stay the night on the couch in her office but instead being summoned to the Oval hours after the rest of the workers had long abandoned their posts, or nervously but happily greeting him in her work space – he couldn't keep his hands off every part of her body. He couldn't maintain his distance if his life depended on it, and was always compelled to crowd her body with his within seconds of seeing her, sleepy-eyed, wound up, and wanting him. Always wanting him. They were animal in their magnetism to each other and in their movements. They spoke in whispers and murmurs, remarkably unhurried for such illicit meetings. They glided and ground their bodies up against each other – clothed, unclothed – for what seemed like hours before actually making love. Consummating their desire for each other every time. They never said "no" to each other. It was always "yes". It had to be.

Finally, Fitz put into actual words how she made him feel. What she did to him. He told her that when he saw her at the beginning of each day, his peripheral vision went dark and hazy, and he could literally only see her face, her hair, her lips teasing and being teased by her tongue and her teeth, the rise and fall of her breasts underneath her clothes as she breathed, her coffee cup and the slight sheen of light pink lip gloss left behind on its lid, her fingers when they forcefully grasped onto a newspaper roll or when they ghosted over and nimbly flipped through pages and pages of national security legislation, the roll of her hips and round ass and the flex of her thighs underneath her tailored suit pants, even the bare upper flesh of her feet peeking out from underneath her slacks and curving down into the various shades and fabrics of her collection of stilettos. Always stilettos. His pants would tighten around his growing manhood without warning and all he could do was find a seat somewhere, still staring at her, take a deep breath, and try to calm himself down. During the campaign, before he knew he had the same effect on her, he felt like a dirty old man watching her. Wanting to take her right then and there every second of every day she was in his presence. But she finally admitted to him too that every time she would see him or sense him, she would immediately feel hot all over, like a beam of intensely hot light had shone on her at his prompting, and her breathing would just… change. Her heart rate would speed up, unbeknownst to anyone else. The distinct feeling of her own arousal would cause her to lean against a desk or grab hold to the back of a chair to steady herself. She was a perfect professional, on the outside. But Fitz touched her to her core every damn time, just by his presence, a look, the baritone of his voice. It was all consuming.

Then, their lovemaking. Fitz was insatiable. They both were. He needed to go for forever it seemed. Never less than half an hour without stopping. He would become almost someone else, transported to somewhere else. These were the feelings he finally told Liv about. She could feel it too, but he didn't leave her to guess.

His body would almost hum on it's own accord, all over, like dowsing rods reflecting some otherworldly energy. He would tremor from somewhere deep inside his core when he was pressing naked flesh up against her bare body. When he was deep inside of her to the hilt, feeling like he was at home. There were times when it felt like he was trying to take possession of her body with his. Climb fully inside of her never to leave. She could feel it. She loved it. Needed it. He couldn't breathe steady. His eyes would darken to the point where his dilated pupils would almost completely overtake the heady gray-blue of his irises. His face and ears and sides of his neck would turn various shades of red, and become scalding to the touch. He would become an inferno from the inside out, spreading his heat onto and into her body. She lived for those hours. He lit her body up, every nerve ending ablaze, when he touched her. When he fucked her. When he made love to her.

Naturally, after college there had been men. Two meaningful relationships. They'd loved her in their own ways. There had been some unfruitful encounters as well that had never even resulted in actual physical intimacy. With those, Olivia realized that she had an effect on men, but it was never quite so acute as it was when she was with Fitz. And, she'd never had that experience since. She didn't want it.

Until tonight. His touch had re-awakened those feelings she had suppressed for nearly two years. But, he left her hanging. She was so frustrated. So angry. So hurt. And now, so tipsy. Her intention, foolishly, was only to add to the numbness she had begun to feel thanks to the alcohol. Olivia warred with herself internally. She didn't want to hurt Peter. Some people, without having any clue about her sexual history, especially with Fitz, had labeled her a man-eater because of how she had effectively bowled over every powerful man in Washington D.C. who had the nerve to come up against her professionally. She didn't want to make Peter her latest victim, this time on a personal level. He deserved better. But, unfortunately for him, he was spun in her web. She hadn't anticipated the encounter with Fitz. But now that it had happened, she needed release. And Peter, wonderful, beautiful Peter whom she knew she could trust, was just… there.

The rest of the ride back to Olivia's apartment was filled only with an awkward silence. Peter stared at Olivia throughout, much to her chagrin. She could feel him looking at her, wondering what was going through her mind. She'd never share. That wasn't what this was about. She glanced over at him when they stopped in front of her building and gave him a small, dishonest smile and then looked away. But, Peter's heart melted. He couldn't just leave her hanging. He wouldn't leave her hanging the way Fitz had, although he of course had no idea that had happened. He knew it was something and he had an inkling it had to do with the President, although he couldn't prove it. He noticed the slightest shift in the atmosphere when Olivia and the President had greeted each other earlier in the evening. Whatever had happened, Olivia seemed to be in distress now, and Peter wouldn't leave her side unless she told him to leave.

Peter stepped out of the limo and helped Liv out as well. He tipped the limo driver who went on his way, and turned to see Liv waiting for him on the front steps of her building. He sighed deeply, and smiled that devastating smile of his, shoving his hands into his pants pockets again as he walked over to her.

Olivia smiled back at him, although the smile didn't fully reach her eyes, and she slid her hand through the space his arm created, linking hers with his. Peter glanced down behind Olivia, not noticing or ignoring altogether the shallowness of her smile, because he was again distracted by the way her naked back swayed and turned, and the way her hips and ass undulated, outlined by the ink-black lace of her dress. He covered her hand with his own, and felt her fingers grasp the sleeve of his jacket, like she was holding on for dear life. She wasn't looking at him, just walking along, looking straight ahead.

Peter looked down at Olivia and over her gorgeous face, hair, hands, everything. He felt both lucky and strangely disturbed all at the same time. He was trying to tune in to whatever was clearly affecting her, but he was still a man. He felt a bit guilty about it, but he was turned on. Maybe it had something to do with the damsel-in-distress vibe she was giving off. But, it definitely had to do with the vibe she was giving off that she wanted more from him tonight than just a nightcap. More than just a drink with a friend. He thought he should try, if the opportunity arose, but didn't think he'd be able to resist Olivia. What hot-blooded man in his right mind and lucky enough to be in his position could?

During the elevator ride up to Olivia's floor, still bathed in silence, she quietly slid her hand down Peter's forearm, down to his wrist, and then sensually over his palm, finally linking her delicate fingers with his strong digits, giving a slight tug as the elevator door opened. She looked up at Peter with some unidentifiable twinkle in her eye. All he could do was smile – this time with more nervousness than he'd felt earlier in the evening – and shake his head. Olivia chuckled.

As they made their way into the apartment, Olivia reached down quickly, unbuckling the straps on each ankle, and kicked her stilettos off, comically dropping down in height several inches. Before, she was somewhat petite sanding next to Peter. Now, she was absolutely diminutive.

She made her way over to the console cabinet next to her chiffon-covered ceiling-height windows framed at the bottom with pillowed window seats, and retrieved a decanter full of 30 year old scotch and two tumblers. As Peter sat comfortably at the corner of her plush, cream colored, supple linen sofa, Olivia approached and placed both tumblers on the coffee table in front of him, pouring a generous amount of the amber liquid in each one. She sat down on the other end of the sofa, after picking up her tumbler, and looked back and forth from Peter to his portion, which he was slow to take in hand.

A full twenty minutes, at least, had passed since they'd said actual words to each other. Olivia was intrigued to see how far this game she'd created would actually go. Her intrigue was heightened by her already slightly inebriated state. She cocked her head to the side, staring at Peter and swiveled the tumbler in front of her nose, lightly taking in the harsh fumes created by the scotch.

Peter smiled again at her and shook his head a little. He reached over and picked up his tumbler as Olivia held hers out in his direction. He read her intent and gently clinked the edge of his glass against hers.

"Cheers." He said, quietly, and took a strong gulp of the scotch, watching her.

Olivia smiled, pleased at his acquiescence and replied in like manner, nodding "Cheers," then taking a drawn out sip from her glass. She closed her eyes slowly and leant her head back slightly as she swallowed. Peter halted his movements and stared at the curve of her throat as she did so. His mouth watered as it hung slightly open and he was forced to lick his lips. Peter took another long gulp, almost surprising himself by finishing off his portion. He could both feel the burn in his throat, as well as the slight buzz. It was quicker than he wanted.

Olivia had swung her legs up onto the sofa and moved her tiny feet in Peter's direction as she finished off her beverage, eyes still closed. She did so without any awareness, but the effect it had on Peter was substantial.

He placed the empty tumbler back on the table and turned his attention fully to Olivia. As she rubbed her ankles together, satisfied with her drink, and showcasing her beautiful toes, Peter was almost possessed and reached over, taking a firm hold to her small, perfect arches.

Olivia gasped slightly as her eyes slowly drifted open. She smiled, devilishly, and placed her glass on the table as well. She slung one arm over the back of the couch and propped the side of her head up with the other hand as she watched Peter work.

"What are you doing, Peter?" Olivia slurred. They both knew it was a strictly rhetorical question.

Peter answered only with a smile, and turned his full concentration to kneading circles into the bottom of her feet, alternating between them. Amongst other maneuvers, Peter was rolling her arches over his knuckles and applying and releasing pressure as he went along. She could feel her body starting to respond. This was what she wanted. To feel this.

Peter's body began to respond as well. Olivia's quiet, inadvertent moans and gasps, and her feline-like movements as he worked literally gave Peter rise causing his dick to harden. He watched her with his head cocked to the side. Her eyes were closed, and he could feel the heat growing in his loins, and moving up his stomach to his chest and over the rest of him.

Olivia sunk further down into her side of the sofa and moved her legs further towards Peter, causing her dress to rise up some. Now, her bare, smooth calves were slung over his thighs as he continued to caress her toes, feet and ankles.

"Ah, Peter" Olivia whispered. "That feels so good." She looked at him with hooded eyes and licked her lips, pausing to catch her bottom lip between her teeth. Her desire was growing. Her judgment was clouded and her vision was slightly clouded too but she knew enough to know she wasn't ready for him to stop what he was doing.

As soon as he released one of her feet, she rubbed his thigh with it, moving towards the inside of his thigh and up towards his growing erection. Peter was slightly caught off guard when Olivia slowly and gently pressed the ball of her foot into his hardness and began to knead him there. He sucked in a sharp breath and looked over at her seeing the desire and mischief in her eyes. He grabbed her ankles and pulled them open as he climbed onto his knees and laid down in between her legs.

Peter positioned himself on top of Olivia as he began slowly pulling up her dress inch by inch at the same time that he allowed his fingertips to brush her lower legs, then her knees, then her thighs.

Before he went any further, Peter pressed his hips into Olivia's and instinctively ground himself into her. Olivia gasped and grabbed his ears, bringing his lips to hers and kissing him soundly on the mouth. Her eyes drifted shut and instantaneously a vision of Fitz flashed through her mind, across the insides of her eyelids. She kissed Peter harder, and sucked on his lips, causing him to respond by opening his mouth and search for her tongue with his. He massaged her tongue with his own, and in return Olivia sucked on his, alternating between that and both of his lips.

Peter's hands stopped at Olivia's thighs as he got lost in the kiss. She ground up against him and began to remove his tuxedo jacket making him remember all that was happening.

"Fi-… I want you…" Olivia ran her hands across Peter's back, and then up into his shortly cropped hair, adjusting mentally to the difference. She peppered heated kisses across his neck and moved her hands down to undo his tie and the buttons of his shirt.

But, as she began to get carried away, Peter clutched her wrists. For a second, it didn't register with Olivia, but then she opened her eyes and stared up at Peter who was looking down at her intently. He was paused in mid-motion and seemingly deep in thought.

"Wait…" Still on top of her, Peter slowly reached up and cupped the side of Olivia's face with the warm palm of his hand. He closed his eyes and sweetly kissed her on the tip of her nose, then bent his neck and rubbed his nose against hers.

Olivia grasped the closely cut hair at his nape, trying to re-connect with his gaze, although her instincts were hindered by the alcohol. "Peter… look at me" she muttered. Her tongue felt thick.

Peter ran the palm of his hand down Olivia's cheek and the side of her neck, as if he were trying to memorize her skin with his hand. He kept moving it down the side of her breast, still over her intact dress, and down her flank, finally tucking it underneath her so that his palm rested right on the curve of her bare lower back. It didn't bother him that his hand was essentially pinned underneath her slight weight. With his other elbow pressed into the cushion up alongside Olivia's head, he perched the side of his face in his palm. Peter looked down at Olivia and shook his head with disbelief about their predicament. His breathing, which had quickened before when they were in the throes of whatever this was, had steadied.

"What?" Olivia said sweetly, smiling up into his face. She was a little confused as to why he stopped. She could feel his arousal, still. Still watching him, she kissed him ever so gently on his lips as if to encourage him.

Peter sighed. He wanted to kick himself for being so damn noble. It always got in the way of what he wanted. Who he wanted. "You don't want this…" he said, almost too low for her to hear. He shook his head, still making direct eye contact. He was nothing if not direct.

But, she was sure she mis-heard him.

"What?" Olivia was incredulous at first. "What?!" Now she was pissed, quick as lightning.

Peter looked down at her. "Tell me you want this, and I'll stay."

Olivia paused, silent, just looking at Peter for what seemed like an eternity. She wondered if he could see past the heaviness of her eyelids and make out the rage that was growing in her eyes.

"The fuck are you talking about?" she said, with deceptive calmness. Deceptive if Peter didn't know her, but he knew she was mad as a viper snake right now.

Olivia gritted her teeth, stretching her lips thinly over them, and moved to squirm out from underneath him. He didn't fight her. She moved Peter off of her and stood up quickly, too quickly for her own good as her head spun, and made her way around the coffee table towards the other side of the room.

Peter righted himself and sat up at the edge of the sofa. "Olivia, something happened tonight. I don't know what it is, but I'm here if you want to talk instead of..."

Olivia scoffed and just started to pace back and forth in front of him. She shot him a look that silenced him from saying more. "Talk?!" She shuffled slightly, feeling the effects of the anger and the amount of alcohol she'd imbibed. She could hear her own words slur slightly, but didn't have any control to stop it. "I damn sure am not in the mood to talk!" she said, hardly in his general direction. It was almost as if she were talking to herself.

"Well," Peter dared, "I think that's what you need right now. A friend… to talk to." He looked at her with earnest care and concern as she began to unravel. He knew he'd made a mistake by starting down this road with Olivia and he regretted getting carried away with her fore a few reasons. He was still in a state of physical arousal, and feeling more and more guilty by the second because of that. Peter sighed deep, feeling the sense of defeat grow.

She stopped dead at his words and turned to him, lazily placing a hand on one of her hips, and jutting it out. She stared Peter down as she swayed a little bit just from standing there in her bare feet and now too-long dress. She flipped her hand through the air at Peter. "The fuck you know about what I need, huh?" Olivia had become belligerent in her drunkenness. And, now she felt she was only getting started. "How about, you let me tell you what the hell I need, okay? How about, I need you to just stop talking so that we can do this!" Olivia waved her hands up and down in front of herself as if telling Peter to take her in fully. "That's what the fuck I need." Olivia bent at the waist towards him a little, and her eyes were slightly glazed over and unfocused as she tried to stare him down.

Peter wasn't angry with Olivia for reacting this way, but he didn't want to compound it. He knew now that in her state, trying to reason with her and just talk to her was impossible. He sighed again, defeated, not wanting to really leave, but not wanting to anger her further. He really didn't know what to do.

Peter stood up and walked over to Olivia as she followed him with her eyes. She looked so puzzled. She really couldn't believe what was happening right now. She was drunk and fucking horny and shit wasn't going the way she needed it to go.

He went to envelop her in his arms, intending to hold her, and kiss her on the top of her head. But, as soon as he got close enough to touch her, Olivia slapped him cold in the face.

"Get the fuck out!" she spat.

"Liv…" Peter tried, his voice even despite the literal blow she'd just dealt him.

"Nah!..." Olivia closed her eyes and waved him away. "I don't wanna talk about it." Olivia said dismissively. "That shit is wack, okay? So… bye!" Olivia nearly stumbled backwards trying to move away from him as he advanced closer to her again, stepping into dangerous territory. He tried to catch her, fearful that she'd fall.

She slapped his hand away, instead. "Don't touch me! I want you to leave, Peter." Olivia had a determination that outweighed her drunkenness.

Peter stopped, looking down at her and shaking his head. He shoved his hands into his pockets, like he always did when he didn't know what to do. "Olivia… I'm sorry." He said, looking at her somewhat dejected.

She just clumsily walked over to her door and after struggling a little with the locks, opened it and held it open, leaning on it for support. "Good night, Peter."

As Peter walked past her, he turned slightly just before stepping out over the threshold. In response, all Olivia did was wave him all the way out with an extremely annoyed expression on her face, as if to say she didn't want to hear anymore.

Just as Peter stepped clear of the door, he turned around to face Olivia and started to speak, but she shut the door in his face.

He stood there for a second in stunned silence and heard her double-bolt the door's locks. At least she had the wherewithal to practice safety. He called through the door, "I'll call and check on you in the morning…" He stood there for a little while longer, hoping but not hearing anything in response.

After another moment, feeling immense regret and anger with himself for nearly taking advantage of his friend, Peter walked off.

On the other side of the door, Olivia slid down it coming to rest seated on her living room floor. She picked up one of her earlier discarded stilettos and threw it across the room, knocking a small crystal vase off of it's perch on the side table causing it to crash, shattered, onto the floor.

Olivia looked at the broken vase, reminding her of the broken pieces of her life, and suddenly began sobbing. She was drunk, alone, and so horny. She was fucking miserable.

That was the last thing Olivia remembered when she awoke the next morning. She must've made her way to her bedroom soon thereafter and passed out.

As she now sat being lulled by the warmth and Jacuzzi jets of the tub, she couldn't fight off the thoughts of him. It wasn't as if she didn't already think of him nearly every waking moment and incessantly in her dreams, but she hadn't seen him in person or touched him – or been touched by him – in what felt like decades… until last night. That only made the thoughts more vivid and torturous.

Olivia shut her eyes and pressed the back of her head into the bath pillow as she wrapped her arms around herself in a hug.

His face, so close to hers, almost too close to make out all of the details, shadowed by the darkness of their immediate surroundings mixed with the dim lights off in the distance of the massive room.

Her hands loosened a bit and she slid them across her stomach, then up towards her breasts.

His eyes, and how they both sparkle and darken into a remarkable shade of silvery gray as they bare into hers.

She splayed her hands and slid her palms over her mounds, allowing her hardening nipples to slide in between her first and second fingers.

His hot breath on her cheek, smelling of cherries from the Hall's cough drops he's obsessed with and the spicy bourbon he had been sipping gingerly all night.

Olivia, eyes still closed, turned her head to one side, remembering. She ran an index finger over one of her nipples slowly, back and forth until it became impossibly hard. Then she pinched it once, between her thumb and forefinger then pinched it harder a second time, just as he'd done.

The rumble of his husky, slightly hoarse baritone-filled voice over the place on her body near the bottom of her earlobe, and alongside her neck, causing the tiny light-colored hairs there to vibrate.

Still toying with her own nipple, thinking about him, Liv slid her other hand down from where she had been kneading her breast, lightly running the tips of her fingers over her taut, pulsing stomach. Her own touch sent ripples through her abdomen and over her skin and through the warm water of her bath.

The musky, woodsy aroma of his cologne, sweet like leather and pine and coffee filling her nostrils, and his soft-as-petal lips skimming over the ridge of her chin as he taunts and teases her with his words and with his hardness pressed into the sensitive apex of her thighs covered only by the delicate fabric of her gown.

As she continued to tease and knead one of her tits with the palm of her hand, alternating with the delicate pads of her fingers, she slid the fingers of her other hand down, further, finally reaching the completely submerged neatly trimmed curls just above her mons. She lingered there, imagining, recalling the personal attention he was always so glad to pay to her grooming. He never wanted her to have it professionally done. The President of the United States always insisted on keeping her closely trimmed himself, one of their naughty little secrets no one else could've ever guessed. She smiled a little at the absolutely delicious absurdity of the thought, and sighed inaudibly, almost internally.

His fingers, as they begin at the back of her ankle and slowly trail their way to the front of her lower leg and up her calf, slower still, as if they couldn't get caught by anyone who happens by to straighten up the tables or find out what on earth is keeping either of them so long.

Liv slid her own fingers down further still, through her outer folds, quickly ghosting over her clitoris, stroking her middle finger all the way through her inner folds until she reached her opening.

His fingers finding their way up over her knee and flitting over her thigh until they reach her sex where he briefly pauses, fingers tensing with awe at the realization that underneath her dress, she is completely exposed.

Liv slipped one finger inside, then two, and slowly pumped them in and out, causing the water covering her to undulate along with the motion. She moaned out loud, and pressed her head even further into the small pillow behind her, her mouth open. Then, she began to alternate between sliding her fingers out, and pressing and massaging her clitoris with the tips, and sliding them back in with a practiced rhythm. Over the past couple of years she had gotten too used to this to supplement the loss.

As soon as the shock wears off, a heady mix of lust and anger overtakes him as he plays with her folds and teases her clit with his fingers. Finally, he slides his thick, long, firm fingers all the way inside of her, until they are fully buried and his hand is cupping her sex.

As she worked herself over, Olivia sucked in a sharp intake of breath, feeling the tension deep inside of her body grow. "Fuck… Fitz…" she moaned. She whimpered and an unexpected tear escaped from her closed eye and trickled down her cheek mixing with the perspiration drummed up by her activities and the steam still coming off of the water.

He keeps whispering, mumbling, growling in her ear his delight and torture at her slickness, her heat, how fucking tight she is for him… only him.

Finally, Olivia sent herself over the edge, feeling her walls constrict and release around her fingers in quick succession. As she pumped a few final times, she brought her other hand down to meet her nub of sensitive nerve endings, and manipulated it causing a feeling like lightning to flash through her beginning behind her eyelids and shooting throughout the rest of her body. She flicked her foot, causing some of the water to splash out onto the tub surround. Her back tensed as she stretched fully, then relaxed, still submerged under the warm liquid up to her chin. She let out a deep, satisfied sigh, but her eyes remained closed. And then, suddenly she was weeping, quietly, softly. It wasn't a tumultuous moment. It was a release. As if a dam had been broken. She missed him beyond reason.

He looks at her with guilt. Olivia's eyes flitter open. He's unsure. Wrong for touching her like this. Her eyes close again. He can't bear to look at her again, for his shame, for treating her like this. Olivia opens her tear-filled eyes, staring ahead, fixing her gaze on the light reflecting off of the small, oval-shaped vanity mirror on the counter. He walks away. She watches as he disappears from sight.

Spent, she stood up carefully, letting the slick, sudsy water slide off of her body, and stepped out onto the plush mat down on the floor. Olivia slowly reached for her plush bath towel and wrapped herself up in it like a cocoon. She sat for a second, still, and eventually went about the business of drying herself off. When she was done, she padded over to her sink with the various body crèmes and oils sitting atop it, and picked out her most soothing oil mixture. She poured a generous amount in the palm of her hand and watched it pool there. Fitz loved this stuff. It smelled of lavender and vanilla. Then, she slowly massaged it into her skin, from her delicate neck, over her breasts, down over her stomach and everywhere, until she had finally given special attention to each toe and the bottom of her feet. She was nothing if not obsessed with having soft, pretty feet. He was obsessed with that too. She just shook her head and chuckled, hopeless, at the memory. Another memory.

When she was done, Olivia discarded her towel and reached for her plush, floor length, cashmere robe that had hung on the hook at the top of her bathroom door. She slipped into it and tied the tie snugly around her waist.

She walked into her bedroom, still contemplating, and found her blackberry that had, along with her clutch, somehow come to rest on the floor near her bed. Almost without thinking, she sent the group an e-mail: "No calls. Taking a day. I trust you guys to handle it." She saw the tiny red light blinking at the top of the instrument, signaling that she had a missed call, but she didn't even check to see who it was. Probably Peter immediately after she'd put him out. Olivia shook her head and sighed, turning off the phone and shoving it back into her clutch, and then tossing it over to the side of the room.

Olivia came to her highly set, mahogany platform bed with its rich, chocolate brown tufted linen headboard. She pulled off the ruined duvet and let it fall to the floor. She'd get rid of that later. Then, she climbed onto the bed with its soft, beige Egyptian cotton sheets and laid down, covered almost completely by her cashmere robe. It was as good as any lux blanket, but better because it fit closer. She wouldn't be getting much work done today. Her last thoughts were of drifting awake, maybe later, in the wee hours to work on Prosor's speech, then… naturally… she thought of Fitz, and within moments she was asleep.

He'd tried, of course, to call her a little after 3:30 a.m., but there was no answer. Three rings and then straight to voicemail. He hung up. She was probably screening his calls anyway. She had to know he'd try, but she didn't want anything to do with him. Still. Especially not after what he'd done tonight.

He wasn't in his own skin… not really. He was a machine operating on the inside, but still looking like himself on the outside. He knew he was looking for her, hoping to catch her alone, and he knew that his well-appointed feet were carrying him around the periphery of the room, then up the stairs and onto the semi-darkened balcony, but he couldn't stop them.

Then when he saw her, he felt hot and cold all over, at the same time. His head swam, taking in the sight of her body underneath that half of a dress, and her hair, and everything… It was almost an out of body experience. Almost. He felt like he rushed her. Maybe he frightened her a little. He couldn't stop his actions if he'd tried. It wasn't in him to actually hurt her or even scare her, but he had to touch her. Had to. He needed to smell her perfume up close, the way it was enhanced by the natural emollients of her supple skin. He could only get that aroma if he were closer to her. He was still obsessed, even after everything, after every wrong she'd committed against him. He still needed to touch her. It was maddening. And he was already angry with her for daring to bring a date to his event.

When he descended upon her, it was hopeless. She was mad and full of trepidation, but that just spurned him on. She relented when he finally touched her and even more as it developed into the most intimate of moments. His heart leapt a little with joy that she still desired him.

But then, he had snapped out of it. Almost as if a trance had been broken. He looked at her, really seeing her, and felt a pang of horror and guilt. He had just taken advantage of the love of his life. Anyone could've discovered them, and she'd be furious, but also hurt. He couldn't even bring himself to apologize in that moment. He was just as stunned with his conduct as she seemed to be. He tried his best to gather himself and then felt compelled to escape. That's what it was. An escape. He had committed a sin against her and now he was running away like a coward.

He wanted to try to explain, somehow. Apologize, of course, but maybe really talk to her… finally. A fantasy. That's all that was. They hadn't talked in over a year and he blew tonight's opportunity and now he was trying to play catch-up, as usual.

If he wasn't tipsy or drunk when he'd tried to reach her on the telephone, he certainly was now. Nursing his fourth or fifth scotch in the last hour, Fitz remembered back to when he still had, and then lost, hope in the course of a day.

Fitz had gone looking for Cyrus that day, only to be informed by one of his secret service agents that Cy had left the grounds to meet Olivia for lunch. He predicted that Cyrus would go running to Olivia to plead with her to fix it. To somehow convince him to stop the divorce proceedings or any talk of divorce at all. His reasonable mind knew she wouldn't come, but he felt the unmistakable pang of hope shoot through his heart at the notion. Of course she didn't and he didn't give himself time to be heartbroken over it. He decided instead that it was more of the same – Olivia abandoning him, giving him back over to his handlers, turning in her hard pass, and disappearing. He used the anger he felt over that to push away any feelings he had of utter despair at the realization that she wouldn't be back because she didn't want him anymore. This move – divorcing Mellie – could ruin his presidency and seal his miserable fate with the loss of another run for the White House, but it seemed clear to Fitz that Olivia didn't care about that anymore. She wasn't his fixer, she wasn't his friend, and she wasn't his lover. And, some days, when he really thought about it, he wanted to die. So he drank, quietly, by himself, in order to get some sleep. And he woke up every morning hurting, physically, and numb emotionally, but prepared to push through the day. And did it all over again the next day and the next.

That sad routine was only amplified when he saw Olivia at the dinner. He hadn't expected it, to see her at all. He had been sucker-punched. And, although most of the guests could never tell, he began unraveling immediately. He didn't even realize it right when he'd encountered her and cornered her alone on the empty balcony, but from the moment he saw her walk into the room earlier in the evening, he had begun plotting a move.

And move, he did. And now he hated himself as he sat alone in his study, still, always, thinking of her.

Fitz sat in his favorite supple, deep-sunken massive leather chair, tuxedo jacket and tie long since discarded on the table next to the door. He swirled around the tumbler in his left hand, listening to the calming sound of the melting ice clinking along the sides of the glass. He took another long sip, perhaps his last for right now. He couldn't be accused of not knowing when to stop.

As the haze of drunkenness and loneliness and self-loathing set in, Fitz set the tumbler down and put his hand in his pocket. That's when he felt the forgotten silk pocket square he had placed there earlier, after his dalliance with Olivia. His heart began to race a little, and his breath caught in his throat as he pulled the delicate fabric out and clutched it in his fingers.

He began to softly run his thumb over the material as he remembered using it to wipe her essence from his fingers. He almost laughed, bemused at the ridiculousness of it all. But, any humorous notion he had faded quickly as his arousal grew again. Fitz lifted the cloth to his nose and inhaled deeply rolling his eyes shut and sealing his fate. His mouth watered and his dick hardened immediately.

"Fuck". For the life of him he couldn't understand why he couldn't escape this… her. As he continued to breathe into the fabric, smelling of her musk just as he remembered her, his other hand inadvertently slid down over his taut, muscular stomach and rested over his pants on his rock-hard bulge.

Her lips, her eyes, her breasts, her ass, her thighs, her feet, her hands, her hair… All images shooting through his mind at breakneck pace as he began to firmly knead himself. He wished it were her hands.

Fitz quickly made work of his belt buckle, and the button and clasp at the top of his pants. When he was free of their confinement, he slid his hand into the front of his pants and cupped his hot, hardened flesh with a cool hand. "Ahhh…" He let out an audible moan and laid his head back on the cool leather, as he sunk down further into the chair.

With his left hand, he still clutched the soiled pocket square and had the side of his face in his hand so that the cloth remained in contact with the side of his mouth just under his nostrils. He'd hold on to her scent as long as he could. He would never wash this piece of material.

Fitz rubbed his calloused thumb across the tip of his penis wiping away the pre-cum that had escaped. Thinking again about her mouth and her hands and her fragrant, sweet pussy, he started, slowly at first, pumping his fist up and down along his shaft. Perspiration sprouted out on his crinkled forehead. He only had thoughts of her. No one else. This was her touching him. He picked up the pace, pumping and squeezing himself firmly. He could see her smiling down at him, mounted on top of him, impaling herself on him just the way he wanted. He was close as he sped up his attentions even more. He could see her mouth taking all of him in slowly, impossibly hot and wet. He could feel her tongue flick over his head and lay flat on his shaft. The tension began to build and overtake him. He was at the precipice.

His private desk phone rang loudly. Once, twice… now on ring number five. Fitz halted his actions and gritted his teeth. "Fuck!" He shot his eyes over to the clock on his nearby desk. 3:58 a.m. Who the fuck was calling him at this hour?!

Fitz yanked his hand out of his pants and nearly leapt from his chair in anger. Usually, disruptive phone calls on this line at this time of night – or morning, rather – only meant something critical was happening that absolutely required his attention. In one step he reached the phone, now on it's seventh ring, and yanked it off of the receiver.

"What?! Why am I being disturbed at this hour?" He expected it to be Cyrus or one of his Secret Service agents, but instead he was greeted with a woman's unsure voice.

"Uh… Fitz?"

Fitz gasped, and then sighed slamming his eyes shut. He mouthed the word "fuck" to himself and then sat down on the desk.

"Cecily."

"Darling… I'm so sorry. I-…"

"No. No… don't be. I'm sorry…" he sighed. "I thought it was bad news. I thought you were Cyrus." Then, he thought about it. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes…" she drawled in her thick, but proper English accent. "Still, I feel like I should apologize. I clearly disturbed you. It is late." She sighed this time. "Know what?... I'll talk to you another time."

"Wait. Don't apologize. I just thought you'd be sleep by now." Fitz was on edge, and still a little hard. His voice shook as he tried to be regular on the phone with Cecily, but he could hear the distress in his own voice. He couldn't let on though. He didn't feel like trying to explain his sudden mood. Sober, would be the best way to describe it. Completely sober.

"I couldn't sleep." She answered. "I thought perhaps you could use some company." Cecily was nothing if not direct. A quality Fitz couldn't say he disliked in her.

He just sighed in resignation, and absolute frustration. "Perhaps."

A/N: Okay, so you've been more properly introduced to a new character. LOL! There will be more interaction with Cecily to come. All I can say about the next chapter is... I'm working on it (you know what that means), but an add by next weekend will be an utter miracle. Pray, people. LOL!

Comments, complaints, heckling, cheers, feedback, criticism... all are welcome. XOXO.