Rafael is on a high. Even though this case was relatively easy from the standpoint of a prosecutor, the feeling of winning never gets old. His “opponent”—a defense attorney that was state appointed, gives him a disgruntled look as they pack up their briefcases. He then goes on some sort of tangent about prosecuting the guy for aggravated assault, and after about five seconds all he wants to do is shut this guy up. Obviously, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.
“Your client. A jury takes one look at the simian carriage, the neanderthal jaw—I'll get him convicted for kidnapping the Lindbergh baby. So how about he takes ten and spares us all the humiliation?” The guy bristles a little, but soon the look of defeat clings to his face as he looks at his client being led away in handcuffs.
“Call you in the morning,” he says, clearly exasperated. He smirks at this, walking away without a care in the world, when he spots two very important people coming towards him at the same time: the captain of the NYPD’s Special Victim’s Unit, and his girlfriend. Who should he go to first: Work or Personal? He picks work after a nanosecond of deliberation. He was in a working mindset, and his “girlfriend” wasn’t really his girlfriend: more of someone to call up when he needed a bit of stress relief—stress relief being code for a good fuck. She still came to some of his court cases, and they did do things outside of just sex, but neither of them were prepared to make it an official thing. After all, he was a prosecutor, and she was a psychologist. They had plenty more things to worry about than the state of their relationship.
These thoughts flood his head as he approaches the temporary Captain.
“Captain. Take your daughters to work day?” he asks teasingly.
“Detectives Benson and Rollins, Rafael Barba. I lied and told them that you know your way around a courtroom.” He shakes their hands, but before he can discuss things any further a figure appears next to Rafael. It’s his girlfriend, an accusatory look on her face.
“Work trumps me, huh?” she says, sarcasm dripping from her voice. “Nice job, though. You could feel the defense crumble from a mile away.” Noticing the detectives and the captain, she straightens up. “Captain. Nice to see you again. How’s the knee injury?” At this his face morphs into one of confusion.
“How the hell did you know I had a knee problem?”
“Your limp. It’s subtle, sure, and you’ve opted for looser suit pants than normal, presumably because they help to cover it all up. It doesn’t come from a hurt foot though, or else the way that you walked would be a lot more shaky and uneven. Because you’ve put more weight on your right leg, it’s obviously your left that’s in pain. But how much pain? Judging by the way you clench your left hand whenever your left leg hits the ground, it can be inferred that your left leg hurts, for lack of a better word, like a bitch. The only part of your leg that would cause that amount of pain would be your knee, so I’ll ask you again: how’s your knee doing?”
He doesn’t respond, the look of shock painting his face. Rafael sighs, begrudgingly gesturing to the woman on his right.
“Detectives, meet my.....friend, Camila Martínez. Camila, meet SVU detectives Benson and Rollins.” She gives them a smile and a short wave.
“How’d you know all that stuff?” Rollins blurts out, earning a side eye from the other detective and the captain.
“My dad was FBI,” she responds. “He always told me that the first rule of survival was to notice things.” Rollins, clearly impressed, says nothing further. “I have to go, Rafi. Got a 4 o’ clock with an army veteran with PTSD.” She leans into him to whisper something into his ear. “Wanna see you tonight, guapo. My place or yours?” He blushes slightly at this, but keeps a straight face in order to not tip off the detectives about what they were talking about.
“Mine. Wear something good,” he whispers back, a lopsided smirk on his face. She bites her lip at this, cogs in her brain turning at what to show up in to achieve maximum torture points.
“Got it. See you—oh, and nice to meet you, detectives. Captain, there’s a physical therapy place near my office, highly effective. Here’s my card, call me if you need help,” she says, winking playfully. The captain, still looking a bit shocked, nods his head in thanks, albeit slowly. She walks off afterwards, leaving Rafael with the police.
“Let’s get to work, then,” he says, already pushing away recent events. After all, he was a successful ADA. He didn’t get into Harvard by flirting. Well actually, his mind says. There was that one admissions offi—he pushes the thought away. If the Captain of such an elite detective unit makes a house call, it must be damn important.
And good God, Rafael Barba better be considered important. He deserved that much, if not more.
The Jocelyn Paley case was difficult, to say the least. After being briefed by the SVU team—Amanda Rollins, Nick Amaro, Fin Tutuola, John Munch and Olivia Benson, he was ready to sink into a nice double shot of scotch. But no, he had to do work like a responsible adult. Taking out the paperwork that was given to him about the Paley case, he skims it for a good minute and a half before giving up, sighing in defeat. With his current mood, he would never be able to finish this casework, much less help the team get an arraignment. His next thought snaps him out of this funk, though. Checking the time on his Rolex, he jumps up, grabs his coat, spills the case file and startles his secretary, Carmen. He has to go. Now. He has a very special girl to see.
He speedwalks into his apartment building, tapping his foot impatiently on the floor of the elevator, and practically runs to his doorway, where he almost collides with Camila, who’s leaning next to his door.
“Took you long enough, asshole.”
“Thought I told you to wear something good,” Rafael retorts. He was looking at her long trench coat and her bare legs. There doesn’t seem to be much going on with her outfit.
“I did. Wait ‘til you see what’s under the coat.” He shudders at this, and hurriedly finds his keys as she buries her face in his neck, sucking and nibbling, making his hands shake. Finally they get inside the apartment and immediately he pushes her up against the wall. Sure, he’s not the tallest guy, but he has about three or four inches on her, making it easy for him to dominate. He meets her lips hungrily, tongues dancing together as he moves his mouth to her neck, making her arch up when he hits a sensitive spot. "Want you now, cariña," he says, mumbling against her chest. In response, she leads him to his bedroom, where she sits him down at the edge of the bed, telling him to “look, not touch.”
She slowly unbuttons her jacket and lets it fall to the ground, it pooling around her feet. At the sight of his girl in head to toe black lace, he could swear that his heart stopped beating for a second. Yes, she was so hot that he would bet anything that he had died for a second there.
“So what do you think, Counselor?” she purrs, swinging her hips as she approaches him and sits on his lap, feeling satisfied and a little cocky when she feels him hardening against her. He looks at her in awe for a second, and then his eyes darken, and he grips her hips tightly, a smirk on his face that sends heat rushing to Camila’s core.
“How much did this little number set you back?”
“About a hundred, why?”
He shrugged, “Just wondering if you’d mind terribly if I ripped them off right about now.” At this she returns his smirk.
“Not at all, Counselor. Have it your way.” His eyes flash again. The way she purrs his title is enough for him to melt under her touch. But he doesn’t allow it. He does, however, flip her over onto the bed and spread her legs for him. With one hand, he removes his jacket and shirt, while with the other hand he slides her underwear down, exposing her core. It’s dripping wet, and he laughs to himself, feeling quite good about himself that he could get her that hot and bothered.
He slides his palm up her thigh, grabbing a handful of her ass, as he leaves open mouthed kisses along her inner thigh, everywhere but where she needed it the most.
“Rafael, don’t tease.” she whines out, sounding needy already. The needier she was, the harder he got, so in this case he was totally ok with it.
"I thought it was papi?" He smirks cockily as his index finger traced circles on her inner thighs.
"I'll call you Jesus if you make me feel like I felt last week."
He laughs softly at this, moving his hand further and further up her thigh. She moans and her hips thrust salaciously towards his mouth. At that moment he gives in—partially. He licks her slit and she visibly shudders, inching forward and spreading her legs wider. He could have died right there; the sight of Camila Martínez with her legs spread, wordlessly—though not silently—asking him to taste her was an image he wanted imprinted in his brain forever.
By the time she came, Rafael was so hard that it genuinely hurt. So hard, in fact, that he honestly wasn’t above begging. She’d barely finished before she started at his pants. As she did, he removes his fingers and brings them to his mouth—tasting them because he wanted to, of course, but also to see the look on her face when he did. He isn’t disappointed. Slack-jawed and hungry-eyed, she stares at him for a couple moments before leaning in for a hot, sloppy kiss as she sinks to the floor yet again. She bites his lip again, hard, and draws him from his pants at the same time.
“Fucking hell,” he groans when her hand makes contact with his cock. “You’re a fuckin’ goddess.” She silences him quickly when her wet mouth takes him in. His breath catches in his throat as she gives him kitten licks, stroking him slowly at first, but then picking up speed just so she can hear his moans get louder and higher. She stops, though, leaving Rafael’s cock wet and his hands in her hair. He growls at her for not finishing him off, but drags her up to the bed all the same. Goddamnit, he can never stay mad at her. He lies on his back leisurely, giving her the look that a starving man would give to a three course meal.
“You want to come again, huh? Well, work for it.”
She shudders at his tone, but climbs on him, sinking down onto him and letting out a low moan of his name.
“Mierda,” she moans, moving up and down his length slowly, in order to tease him to the max.
“Faster,” he commands, forcing the words out through his teeth.
Neither spoke again for a while. He had one hand under her thigh, kneading and squeezing her round ass, while the other cradles her back. He can’t stop looking at her, can’t get enough of the feel of her walls and taste of her center. His hand moves from her back to her clit, and rubs it harshly, bringing her closer and closer.
"Fuck!" she pants. "Oh fuck, I'm—" She bites her lip, hard, and her head falls back with a soft moan of his name.
"Look at me," he rasps. "Look at me when you come."
Her chin drops. He strokes her hipbone with his thumb and nips at her fingertips. She mouthes his name, and grinds against him in an urgent rhythm.
"Good," he says, thrusting up to meet her. "That's good, good girl, don't stop."
"Yes! Fuck, Rafi, I—yes!" She shuddered, and when she went still he grabbed her hips and yanked her down, rocking up against her to coax the orgasm higher. Deeper. Longer. At last she began to come down from her high, and she falls against him with several sharp gasps. With a couple more thrusts, he spills inside of her, thanking all that was holy for her IUD.
She rolls off him slowly, wincing a little as she feels the tightness in her thighs. He watches her as she eases herself off, eyes noticing his liquid drip out of her center. This makes him smile in the most cocky, self assured way humanly possible.
“That’s a pretty sight,” he rasps.
“Get used to it, Barba. Can I stay the night? I swear I’ll help you in the morning,” she simpers, hand already stroking his face.
Of course he lets her stay. After all, he can never say no to her—especially when she’s completely naked and in his bed.