His Possession (OLITZ /Scandal - short stories) - Chapter 9: Chapter 9

"You promised me, Liv." Fitz's voice dipped low, threaded with challenge, the corner of his mouth tilting into that maddening, wolfish smirk as he reclined deeper into the leather chair.
A king surveying his throne.
"Now... dance."
Olivia crossed her arms tightly over her bare chest, chin lifting with that signature defiance that once leveled senators. "I don't recall agreeing to a strip show in the East Wing, Mr. President."
His chuckle rolled out, rich and knowing. Dangerous.
"Not the East Wing. Our bedroom. And it wasn't a show—it was a wager. You lost." His gaze swept unapologetically over her near-naked frame, voice softening to a rasp. "I intend to collect."
Her brow arched, sharp and calculating. "This is beneath you, Fitz."
His smile deepened. "Olivia. Nothing—and I mean nothing—about you half-naked is beneath me." His eyes burned into hers, unwavering. "You lost fair and square. Now stop stalling and give me what's mine."
"It was one glass of wine—" she countered, her words clipped.
"You weren't drunk. You were confident. Cocky. And wrong." He steepled his fingers, elbows balanced on the chair's arms. "You're not backing out now. That's not the Olivia Pope I know."
She inhaled sharply, a flicker of a smile betraying her irritation. "You're enjoying this far too much."
"I'm enjoying you." His tone gentled, eyes softening—sincere under the bravado. "But if you truly don't want to—" He leaned forward, lowering his voice to something only for her, intimate and reverent. "Say the word, Liv. I'll forget it."
Her jaw clenched.
That was Fitz.
Always dangling tenderness right after tightening the noose.
Always giving her an out—knowing damn well she'd never take it.
Not with him looking at her like that.
She exhaled through her nose, slow and calculated. "A drink. First."
Fitz blinked, amused. "You need liquid courage? To dance for me?"
"I'm about to pole dance in five-inch heels for the leader of the free world. I need something stronger than courage. I need anesthesia."
He rose smoothly, pouring amber liquid into a glass with precise ease. "Fireball?" he asked over his shoulder, already knowing the answer.
"Make it a double."
She downed the first in a single practiced tilt, then handed the glass back.
"Another."
"Careful, Liv," Fitz warned, voice darkening as her arm dropped unconsciously, baring more of her chest. His gaze dragged hungrily over her skin. "Or I'll collect more than one debt tonight."
Her eyes cut sharply to his—smoldering, daring him to press further.
Confidence bloomed in her veins. Slowly, deliberately, Olivia approached the chrome pole, her movements sinuous and bold. Planting her heels, she leaned back and rolled her hips in a slow, deliberate rhythm, her lips parting in a wicked smile.
Then—with practiced grace—she hooked one leg around the pole and arched deeper, her back bowing, fingers digging into cool steel. Her teeth grazed her bottom lip in a languid, seductive bite.
Across the room, Fitz shifted sharply in his seat. His jaw clenched; his breath hitched. His slacks grew unbearably tight.
I thought she said she didn't know what she was doing...
His grip on the chair blanched white. His eyes darted—legs, hips, throat—desperate and unsure where to land.
Straightening, Olivia sauntered to the front of the pole, facing him now with a dark, smoldering gaze. Slowly, she raised both arms above her head, fingers curling around the pole as she sank into a deep squat, hips tilting forward with a sinuous roll. Her expression dripped mischief and challenge.
A strangled growl tore from Fitz's throat. He was one heartbeat from tearing that last scrap of fabric off with his teeth.
She spun, hips flicking, hair tossing, her body liquid silk.
Every move is deliberate.
Controlled.
Devastating.
Fitz couldn't take it anymore.
"Olivia," he rasped. Hoarse.
Wrecked.
Undone.
By the time she hooked her leg one last time and spun, her coy smile was devastating.
His breath shattered.
In two strides, he was on her.
—
"You're—God, Fitz—" Olivia gasped, her breath catching as his tongue flicked and circled with maddening precision.
Her fingers threaded tighter into his curls, nails scraping lightly against his scalp.
Fitz groaned low in his throat, the vibration shooting straight through her core. His hands clamped firmly on her thighs, keeping her spread open and utterly at his mercy.
"Stay still, Liv," he murmured darkly against her swollen flesh, voice honeyed with command and reverence.
His tongue dipped deeper, flattening to languidly lap her slick folds, savoring every reaction he coaxed. Her head fell back, curls sprawling, chest heaving.
"You're infuriating," she panted. "Always have to win."
He lifted his gaze, eyes dark and molten, lips glistening. "This isn't winning, Liv. This is worship."
And he proved it. His mouth sealed to her again, reverent and unhurried. His fingers slid inside her, curling expertly—he knew her body better than the Constitution itself.
Her thighs trembled. Her breath stuttered. She shattered—convulsing, gasping, arching off the bed with a cry that was all Fitz and no restraint.
He eased her through it, slow and tender, before rising over her with a triumphant smirk tugging at his kiss-swollen lips.
"Still think you don't know how to dance, Liv?" His voice was thick, smug, but steeped in heat and something softer.
Her glare was exhausted but razor-sharp. "You're insufferable."
Fitz chuckled, his smile softening as he kissed her, slow and deep, letting her taste herself on his lips. His thumb caressed her jaw, grounding her even as she floated.
"You ruin me, Olivia Pope," he murmured against her mouth. "Every day. And I've never been more grateful for anything in my life."
Her throat tightened. She curled her hand behind his neck.
"Then shut up and take your victory lap, Mr. President," she whispered hoarsely. "You earned it."
That wolfish grin unfurled. "Oh, I intend to."
Lining himself against her entrance, he sank into her slowly and deeply, swallowing her gasp with a searing kiss.
He rolled his hips deliberately, dragging against her walls in a way that made her toes curl.
"Look at me," Fitz rasped.
Quiet.
Absolute.
Their eyes locked—molten, unflinching. Years of stolen glances, clipped conversations, and restrained touches collapsed into this moment.
"I need you to see how wrecked I am for you," he whispered, driving deeper. His control frayed, sweat beading at his temple. "You're the only thing that's ever made sense to me."
Her nails dug into his back as she met his thrusts. Her voice cracked, raw and surprising even to her.
"You think you're the only one wrecked?"
She swallowed thickly. "I don't breathe right when you're not around. You ruin me, too, Fitz."
His smile broke wide—equal parts relief and unguarded affection.
"I know."
He pushed her to the edge again, thumb circling her clit expertly, thrusts deep and inexorable.
"Let go, Liv. Give it to me again."
Her climax slammed into her sharp and bruising. She convulsed beneath him, body quaking, moaning brokenly against his shoulder.
It was all he needed—Fitz lost control with a guttural groan, spilling into her deep and claiming, their bodies trembling together.
For a long moment, they just breathed. Tangled. Slick. Ruined.
Finally, Olivia huffed an exhausted, breathless laugh, lips twitching.
"If this is your victory lap, Mr. President... you might just get re-elected."
Fitz barked out a low, wrecked laugh, rolling them gently to their sides without pulling out.
"I don't want the White House, Liv," he murmured, thumb stroking her hip. "I just want this. You. Always have."
She blinked slowly, that truth wrapping around her like warm silk. Her fingers trailed lazily down his chest.
"We're a mess," she whispered... but her smile said she'd never wanted anything cleaner.
Olivia's lips curved into a lazy, knowing smile. "I should lose at strip poker to you more often," she purred, her voice thick with exhaustion as she draped herself against his shoulder.
Fitz's mouth tipped into a slow, dangerous grin.
His fingers traced idle circles on her bare back. "Anytime you're ready to play again, Liv," he whispered, voice warm with promise.
But when he glanced down, she was already asleep—peaceful, sunk deep into rest.
With a soft chuckle, Fitz reached over and plucked the deck of cards from the nightstand. He slid them into the drawer and gave it a gentle shut, lips twitching.
She didn't need to know he'd rigged the game tonight. Not when she'd already stolen the best prize.
He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, settled in beside her, and let the quiet satisfaction pull him under, too.