His Possession (OLITZ /Scandal - short stories) - Chapter 11: Chapter 11

Fitz adjusted his cufflinks with the languid disinterest of a man who'd been dressed by stylists, handlers, and image consultants since the Nixon era.
"Sir," cooed Tawny—the new stylist Cyrus had hired without consulting anyone (read: without consulting her)—as she leaned so far over Fitz's lap her surgically-perfected cleavage nearly invoked executive privilege.
"Tilt your chin for me... just a little more. Perfect."
Olivia Pope didn't blink.
Her molars simply touched. Firmly.
Across the room, Cyrus poured bourbon into a glass the size of a birdbath, sipping serenely, smirk twitching like a cat that had just shoved a Fabergé egg off the Resolute Desk.
"Cyrus," Olivia said evenly, her heels clicking across the rug like loaded weapons, "we agreed that Fitz's team for the Liberty Award gala would be minimal. Discreet. Non-top-heavy."
Cyrus didn't glance up. "We agreed you'd micromanage the press releases and I'd handle optics. Tawny here"—he waved his glass lazily—"tests well with the base. You know how America loves an all-American, girl-next-door with excellent... wardrobe skills."
Tawny giggled at something Fitz muttered. Her acrylic nails fluttered to his bicep, lingering like she was taking more than measurements.
Olivia's smile tightened like a velvet noose.
"Tawny," she called sweetly. "Would you mind stepping out? I need a moment with the President."
Tawny straightened, bouncing slightly, because physics—and smoothed her skintight blouse.
"Sure thing, ma'am."
Her wink at Fitz could've triggered a congressional hearing. "I'll be right outside if you need anything. Anything."
As the door clicked shut, Fitz finally looked up, brow cocked. "What's the problem?"
"No problem," Olivia lied smoothly, pacing to him and fussing with a nonexistent smudge on his lapel. Her hand lingered. Flattened. Maybe pressed just a touch too hard.
Fitz caught her wrist gently, amusement dancing in those wicked hazel eyes.
"Are you jealous?"
Her laugh was swift and sharp. "Jealous? Of Tawny? Don't be ridiculous."
"Because it's hot if you are." His voice dipped—rich and honeyed, the kind that melted defenses and lingerie in equal measure.
Her eyes snapped to his, lethal and laser-focused. "I am not jealous. I am protecting the image of the President of the United States from an overzealous stylist with more silicone than discretion."
His grin spread slowly, teeth flashing. "You're jealous."
"I'm managing optics."
"You're jealous."
She exhaled sharply, snatched his tie, and yanked him down to her eye level hard enough to erase his smirk.
"I manage everything, Fitzgerald," she murmured, soft as silk, sharp as shrapnel. "Your schedule. Your speeches. Your public narrative. And yes—your wardrobe. Including who gets within six inches of your tie knot."
Fitz blinked.
Swallowed. Hard.
From the corner, Cyrus coughed loudly—badly disguising a wheeze of laughter.
After a beat, Fitz's lips twitched.
"Six inches. Got it. Rule applies to everyone... except you?"
Her gaze narrowed.
She released his tie slowly, smoothing the silk flat.
Her hand drifted downward, palm resting just above his belt.
Her thumb traced one deliberate, territorial circle.
"Exactly."
Cyrus, finally losing the battle, barked a single laugh.
"For God's sake, children—it's a pre-award gala, not Showtime After Dark."
Olivia stepped back, spine snapping straight as her armor reassembled in real time.
"We'll be ready in ten."
As she breezed toward the exit, Fitz's velvet voice followed, amused and electric:
"I'm happy to be accessorized, Liv. Long as it's you doing the accessorizing."
Without breaking stride, she tossed over her shoulder, cool as dry ice: "Damn right it is."
The Liberty Award gala shimmered under a thousand chandeliers, every politician and power broker air-kissing and back-patting like their lives depended on it—because, mostly, they did.
Olivia Pope, radiant in a black off-the-shoulder Ralph Lauren gown that could negotiate NATO treaties on its own, sipped champagne by the marble staircase.
Her earrings sparkled.
Her smile sparkled.
Her eyes?
Did not.
Across the ballroom, Tawny slithered beside Fitz like a python in Louboutin slingbacks.
"Mr. President," she purred, her hand grazing his shoulder under the flimsy excuse of adjusting his lapel (again). "Your collar's a little crooked. Let me just—"
From three tables away, Olivia's glass froze mid-air.
Fitz, charming idiot that he was, smiled politely, blissfully unaware of the Category 5 hurricane forming behind him. "I think I'm good, Tawny."
"Oh no, it's no trouble."
Her nails—redder than necessary—lingered.
From behind her, Olivia's voice sliced through the Bach concerto like a switchblade.
"Is it protocol to grope the President at black-tie events, or is that just your personal brand?"
Tawny blinked, pivoting smoothly on her four-inch heels, smile syrupy-sweet. "Ms. Pope. I was just ensuring Fitz looked his best."
Olivia descended the marble stairs like a queen reclaiming stolen land, hips swaying just enough to draw blood. Her eyes locked on Tawny with precision-guided menace.
"I manage how Fitz looks."
Her voice was velvet-lined with steel. "Your job ended an hour ago. Mine never does."
Tawny's lashes fluttered. "I thought we all wanted the President to make a good impression."
"Oh, we do."
Olivia circled them, smile sharpening. "We want him polished. Presidential. Untouchable."
She stopped beside Fitz, her hand sliding to the crook of his elbow—proprietary and possessive as hell. Her diamond bracelet sparkled as her fingers stroked his sleeve, a gesture of territorial elegance.
"What we don't want," she murmured silkily, "is unnecessary hands on my property."
Fitz coughed into his glass. Cyrus, not ten feet away, nearly choked on a canapé.
Tawny's smile wavered for half a second before snapping back. "Didn't realize you were that territorial, Ms. Pope."
Olivia's smile was ice laced with arsenic. "Oh, honey. You have no idea."
Without another word, she tugged Fitz smoothly toward the ballroom doors, her hand drifting just low enough to erase all doubt.
As they glided away, Fitz murmured under his breath, voice thick with admiration: "Possessive Olivia Pope is something else."
Her lips curved—barely. "You're lucky that's all she is tonight."
Behind them, Tawny stood frozen, smile brittle, chest heaving. Cyrus ambled over, smirk wide, and topped off her champagne. "Rookie mistake, sweetheart. You just got Poped."
Back at the townhouse, Olivia's heels hit hardwood with two precise thuds. Fitz was upstairs already—tie loosened, whiskey in hand, that infuriating smirk waiting.
But first—Cyrus.
She hit dial so hard her phone vibrated. He picked up after two rings, voice thick with faux innocence.
"Well, well. Madam Fixer. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Cut the crap, Beene." Her tone could've stripped paint off the Oval Office walls. "You hired Tawny to bait me."
Silence. Then a long, theatrical sigh. "Oh, Livvie. Must you make everything about you?"
"You made it about me when you sicced your bottle-blonde Barbie on my man like a heat-seeking missile."
Cyrus chuckled darkly. "I merely thought the President deserved to be fluffed and polished properly before a big night. Can I help it if my stylist multitasks?"
"You wanted theater. You got it." Her voice dropped—deadly silk.
"You forget, Cyrus. I learned from you. You sent a rookie into a gladiator's ring and thought I wouldn't come for your throat?"
A beat. Then, grudging admiration.
"Well. Color me impressed, Pope. Consider your territory marked. Enjoy your spoils."
The line went dead.
She exhaled sharply—just as Fitz padded in barefoot, rolled sleeves, devil-may-care grin tugging at his lips.
"Let me guess," he drawled, sauntering over. "You just verbally eviscerated Cyrus into next week."
"I gave him fair warning."
Fitz chuckled, stepping into her space. His fingers toyed lazily with her sleeve. "That little display back at the gala was sexy as hell."
Her breath caught as his knuckles brushed her bare shoulder.
"You think so?" she asked archly.
"Oh, I know so." His mouth grazed her jaw. "Watching you stalk across that ballroom like you owned me? Olivia, you don't even know what you do to me when you get jealous."
"I wasn't jealous," she huffed—pulse betraying her.
"No?" His lips skimmed her earlobe, voice thick. "You practically branded me in front of Washington."
Her gasp turned into a moan as he hoisted her onto the console table in one smooth move, her legs locking around him.
"I don't share, Fitz." Her voice dropped—dark and molten.
"I know," he rasped, kissing her hard. "I love that about you."
The antique console table creaked in protest as Fitz bracketed Olivia between his arms, mouth devouring hers like a man who'd finally found something worth breaking the rules for—again.
Her hands were already in his shirt, nails scraping against crisp cotton, cool knuckles skimming his heated skin. She tugged the hem free with practiced efficiency, like she'd done this a thousand times and could do it blindfolded, handcuffed, or mid-filibuster.
Fitz grinned against her mouth, breath short. "You're impatient tonight."
Her lips curved wickedly. "Don't flatter yourself. I'm just efficient."
His laugh rumbled low in his chest, cut off sharply as she palmed his belt buckle and yanked. Hard.
"Christ, Liv—"
"Language, Mr. President," she murmured, teeth grazing his jawline as she popped the button and slid the zipper down in one smooth, ruthless pull. "Or I'll add a swear jar to your campaign finance reports."
He hissed a breath, forehead pressing to hers, grin feral. "You can tax me however you want."
"Oh, don't worry. I plan to."
Her hands shoved his trousers low enough to leave zero room for plausible deniability. When she slid her fingers deliberately over the evidence of his arousal—slow, firm, unhurried—Fitz's jaw clenched so hard she half-expected to hear molars crack.
"You were enjoying that little stylist's hands on you," she accused softly, voice like silk soaked in gasoline.
He shook his head instantly, breath ragged. "Only when I knew you were watching."
Her breath caught.
His eyes darkened, hunger simmering like bourbon left too long on the stove. "I like it when you get like this," he rasped, hips rocking into her palm almost helplessly. "Sharp. Possessive. Ruthless."
"Good," she purred, nipping at his bottom lip, one hand curling possessively around the back of his neck as her other hand stroked him slowly. Lethal. "Because I don't plan on being gentle tonight."
His answering groan sounded like something primal and ancient, echoing low in his throat.
And then, faster than she expected—his hands were on her, cool fingertips skating up her thighs, under the slit of her gown, bunching silk high on her hips.
"Careful," she warned, voice wobbling deliciously between command and gasp. "This dress is on loan from Oscar de la Renta."
"I'll buy him a new one," Fitz growled, surging forward, kissing her neck, biting just hard enough to make her gasp and dig her nails into his shoulder.
Her head fell back, lashes fluttering, throat exposed in a rare crack of armor.
Fitz's grin was pure sin. "There she is," he murmured against her skin. "The Olivia Pope who owns me."
Her hand fisted in his hair, yanking him back just enough to meet her eyes—dark, molten, burning.
"Correction." Her voice was a scalpel wrapped in velvet. "The Olivia Pope who owns everything."
He didn't argue.
He just sank to his knees.
Right there. In his slacks and rolled shirtsleeves. On her townhouse floor. For her.
Without breaking eye contact, Fitz slid her heels off one by one, lips brushing her ankle, the inside of her calf, the sensitive skin behind her knee—all while his hands parted her thighs with deliberate reverence and arrogant certainty.
"You can claim the Republic all you want, Liv," he murmured, kissing up her thigh slow as honey. "But I'll kneel for you any day."
Her breath shuddered.
Her smirk deepened. And when his mouth finally—finally—found where she wanted him most?
Olivia Pope's nails gouged the antique console table like she was signing the Constitution in blood.
By the time Olivia's back hit the cool, high-thread-count sheets, her gown was history—a shimmering puddle somewhere near the doorway, forgotten like vetoed legislation.
Fitz stood at the foot of her bed, shirt open, belt hanging loose, watching her like a man seconds from declaring war and surrendering all at once. His chest rose and fell hard, color high in his cheeks, hair mussed by her impatient fingers.
"You're overdressed," she noted, voice deceptively calm despite the flush painting her collarbones.
He didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Just drank her in—her long, bare legs sprawled over her pristine sheets, her bra slipped low on one shoulder, her lips parted and breath quick and controlled like she was holding back a closing argument. Finally, Fitz's lips twitched.
"I like when you order me around."
"Then follow orders."Her brow arched. "Now."
The word cracked through the air like a gavel.
Fitz's grin snapped into something hungry and obedient in one breath. He stripped with elegant efficiency—shirt sliding from broad shoulders, pants kicked away, briefs discarded fast enough to make her smirk widen in satisfaction.
Then, and only then, did she extend one finger and crook it.
Come here.
He came.
Crawled up the bed with the same deliberate focus he used when dismantling world leaders across war room tables.
But here, in her sheets, under her gaze?
Fitz was hers.
And he wanted to be.
When he hovered over her, their mouths brushed but didn't quite meet. His breath ghosted her lips, hands braced on either side of her, holding himself aloft as though not touching her yet was its own form of worship.
"I lied earlier," he murmured roughly, eyes locked on hers.
"Oh?" she asked, voice low and dangerous. "You lied to me, Mr. President?"
He nodded slowly. "When I said I like it when you get like this..." His lips brushed her jaw, skimming to her ear. "I don't just like it, Olivia. I live for it."
Her breath hitched. Her hands curled tight in his shoulders, pulling him down until his full weight pressed against her, hot and solid, hips aligned with devastating precision.
"Then don't keep me waiting," she whispered, voice fraying deliciously at the edges. "I have countries to run in the morning."
That was all it took.
He surged into her with one deep, sure thrust that stole her breath, stole her command, stole the air out of her lungs and replaced it with him.
Olivia gasped, nails raking hard down his back as her spine arched off the bed, head thrown back on a moan that cracked her poise wide open.
Fitz groaned, mouth catching hers with bruising, desperate precision, rolling his hips with slow, grinding intent designed to destroy her methodically.
Her control slipped, shattered, reformed—and then shattered again under him.
"You can own the Oval," he panted against her lips, rhythm unrelenting. "But here? You own me."
"Damn right I do," she hissed, wrapping her legs high around his waist and flipping them with sudden, ruthless skill that made his grin flash even as his breath punched out of him. Her hands pinned his wrists hard to the bed, her body sliding down his with sin-slick confidence. "And don't you forget it."
His answer was a groan of pure surrender. One, she swallowed whole when she bent and kissed him like she was claiming her rightful territory.
And for the next hour—under her command, under her body, under her merciless, exquisite control—Fitzgerald Grant forgot everything except Olivia Pope.
The sheets were a tangled wreck, her duvet long since exiled to the floor. A thin sheen of sweat shimmered across Olivia's bare back as she sat perched at the edge of the bed, spine long and elegant, breath slowing in measured beats like she'd just wrapped a filibuster.
Behind her, Fitz lay sprawled against the pillows, chest rising and falling like he'd just run Marine One down Pennsylvania Avenue and back. One arm flung wide. A ghost of a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.
He looked wrecked.
Thoroughly, gloriously wrecked.
And she'd done that.
With ruthless, exquisite precision.
Olivia gathered her silk robe from the bedpost, slipping it over her shoulders and cinching it tight with a practiced tug. It fell smoothly over her frame, reclaiming her silhouette like armor sliding back into place.
Fitz watched her. Silent. Still breathless. Eyes dark and dazed, but focused on her like she was the only briefing worth memorizing.
"You're staring," she noted, cool and amused, smoothing her curls back into place with her fingers, graceful as ever.
"I'm admiring," he corrected hoarsely, voice rough from exertion—and emotion. The kind he rarely let leak into Situation Rooms but poured out of him here, in her bed.
Olivia's lips quirked. Slight. Sphinxlike.
She crossed to the bureau and plucked a glass of water from the crystal decanter, taking a long sip. Her throat worked delicately as she swallowed, and Fitz's gaze trailed her every movement like a man who had no idea what time it was—and didn't give a damn.
"You realize," he finally rasped, pushing up onto his elbows, "I'd surrender whole countries for you without blinking right now."
Her head tilted, eyes narrowing—not dismissive, but calculating.
Appraising.
"Lucky for you, Mr. President," she murmured, setting the glass down with a muted clink, "I don't need countries. I just need you to be smart enough to know the difference between power and possession."
His smile crooked. Soft. Surrendered.
"I know." He dragged a hand through his mussed hair, biceps flexing in a way that would've been distracting if she hadn't just conquered every inch of him minutes ago. "I just like saying it. You—me—like this? Feels better than any damn executive order I've ever signed."
Olivia exhaled through her nose, gaze softening imperceptibly as she returned to the bed.
When she sat beside him, her hand slid absently to his chest, fingers splaying over the thrum of his heart—steadying now, but still quick beneath her palm.
Fitz's hand rose and covered hers without a word.
"I have to be back in the office by eight," she said finally, voice velvet-smooth but laced with steel.
"I know," he echoed quietly. "But for now?" His fingers curled around hers, grounding both of them in the warm quiet between battles.
"For now," she agreed, leaning in with the smallest smile that felt more dangerous than any signature on official letterhead, "you're mine."
And for these few hours—in this rare, fragile peace—he was.