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[personal profile] coffeethyme4me
Title: Troth
Author: [personal profile] coffeethyme4me
Pairing: Peter/El/Neal
Rating: NC-17
Words: 1,300
Summary: After a benefit, the Burkes Plus One enjoy the leftovers.
A/N: This is a belated birfday fic for my awesome bestie, [personal profile] elrhiarhodan! You absolutely rule! (Also, shout out to both [personal profile] rabidchild67 and [personal profile] doctor_fangeek. Yo, ladies. :-D ) [Also, also, I really need a good threesome icon!]



They had just finished dinner: the leftovers from one of her bigger parties. Three courses and a dessert. It was all gone now, and El felt relaxed by the fine food and even finer wine. And the finest thing of all: fingers touched her ankle under the table and slid up the stocking she still wore.

Peter looked smug at the opposite end of their dining table. He sipped his Riesling and eyed her over the rim of the flute. She let her legs uncross.

“Dinner was beyond good, hun,” he told her. The fingers became a warm, trembling palm around her calf.

“I can’t take credit.”

“Sure you can. You hired the caterers. I think they’re the best you’ve ever found.”

“Why thank you, dear.” El cleared her throat as the back of her knee was tickled. She spread her legs and dabbed at her mouth with her napkin.

“Was dessert to your satisfaction?” Peter asked her, a becoming flush settling on his cheeks, his neck bare, the hint of his collarbone warm in the candlelight.

“Oh yes,” she sighed. The hand slid up the inside of her right thigh, found the tops of her stockings where her thighs met and started to press between.

“Something tells me, though, that you could take more,” Peter said.

“I don’t know,” she answered. “It was awfully rich.”

Peter took another sip and watched her. Two insistent hands now parted her legs. She heard, in the deep silence, the sound of her own wet. She took a mouthful of wine, and as she swallowed, his lips found that space, the darkness where she wept, where he found her naked for him, no barrier to his tongue now licking through her, gently destroying her.

“Seconds is the best part,” Peter told her, and she couldn’t help but close her eyes and agree:

“Yes…”

Her hand gripped the napkin, balling it into her fist. She slumped absolutely unladylike in her chair to provide him access, to let him inside her with that hot, probing tongue, to feel it get her from deep cunt to twitching clit – over and over and over – until she opened her eyes to find her husband, one hand disappeared under the tablecloth, his other hand turning his wineglass compulsively, that smart tongue licking his lips.

“Good?” he asked her.

“Better…than that…” she answered.

But it wasn’t until a finger found its way inside while the tongue worked at her clit, the mouth sucked at it, that she had to close her eyes again, reach down and hold the head in good and tight, and then ride it through the shaking and the involuntary moaning that her parted lips had no hope of silencing. El came, rocking her hips, closing desperately around that finger, pulling her own hair in frustration as it went on and on, long minutes of suffering while across from her came her husband’s deep breathing.

He pulled the last from her with a crook’d finger and some infernally light licking, and El’s breasts rose and fell, the nipples aroused against the rhythmic scratch of the lace of her bra. She found Peter watching them. She, in turn, watched the movement of his arm as the mouth and hands left her. She left her skirt lifted, left her legs parted as she watched.

Peter’s arm stopped moving, and he placed his hand back on the table as he relaxed further into his chair.

“You look like you didn’t quite get enough, either,” El said to him, her voice changed.

“I’m definitely still hungry,” he affirmed, and the fire in his eyes made her drop her hand to her still-throbbing pussy and pet it.

She watched Peter swallow – and knew that his zipper was undone, his cock getting stroked inside.

She watched him blink, his eyes nearly closing – and knew that it had been pulled free, the heft of him growing still more, the tip inserted into a mouth.

Peter didn’t sip his wine now – he threw it back – and then both his hands lay flat on the table, not relaxed: ready. And El knew that the mouth was moving on him, up and down on that beautiful cock, spit-shining it, loving it.

They stared at each other – Peter and El – and El stroked herself as her husband had done to himself when it had not been his turn. El watched the desire build in her husband – the quick swallowing, the audible breaths, first even, then caught here and there on a particularly good suck, a very good tongue torturing the slit of it, nearly inside, so persistent and rough. They stared at each other until Peter’s head fell back and both hands were suddenly under the table, and El heard the beautiful gagging sounds and watched her husband’s hips coming off the chair. She detected just the hint of dark hair under Peter’s hands, and the gagging turned into the tender sounds of submission – the suckle and slide, the aborted breaths, the trying to swallow, the mewl of wanting it. And over that, Peter’s brutal, seething breath, his strong trembling, his closeness – the moment upon him.

El vigorously fingered her clit as Peter opened his mouth, panting at first, and then groaned aloud his lover’s name.

For the first time through all of it – finally – his name:

“Neal… Oh God, Neal…”

It went on almost as long as it had for her, and when she came, it was muted and perfect, a reverberation of what had come before – maybe better for sharing it with her husband, with both of them.

When he’d finished, Peter pushed back his chair, smiling down at him, and Neal crawled up his lap, Peter’s big hand guiding him by the back of the neck until they were kissing, Peter’s mouth opening Neal’s, tasting himself and moaning. El watched Neal cling to her husband, the tilt of his head and the pliancy of his lips the perfect statement of his loyalties, his troth.

She stood up on unsure legs, letting her dress fall back down her thighs. She walked over and stroked Peter’s hair as he kissed their lover. She leaned down and Peter pulled back, letting her in, letting her take Neal’s mouth, letting her lick inside.

“I love when you taste like my husband’s cock,” she said when she’d had enough of a fill to stop. Belatedly, she noticed Peter’s hand slipping down inside the bodice of her dress and palming her breast. The lust brought her, literally, to her knees.

“Upstairs?” Neal breathed, his whisper coarse from his battered throat.

“Dishes?” she asked, though Peter’s fingers were pinching her nipple now, and she didn’t really care if they simply threw the good china straight into the trash bin.

“Fuck ‘em,” Peter said, echoing her own sentiments. And he was looking into Neal’s dark eyes even as he touched her. She loved that look – that thing that cast between them that she didn’t think even they understood.

“Fuck upstairs,” she breathed, and then both her lovers laughed.

Someone was pulling her dress down. Someone was pushing her to the floor. Soon, two mouths were on her, one for each of her tits, and she was dying. Twenty minutes of dying there on the floor, her arms thrown above her head and her back arching.

Then she was rolled over, and someone entered her from behind – Neal from the feel of it – long and powerful, the strokes slow and patient, those artist’s hands all over her bare back. Then his stillness, his cry echoing through the room as he, too, was breached. Peter’s moan as he thrust and began moving them both.

El’s fingers made claws in the carpet, and, biting her lip against the desire to come, she couldn’t help but smile.

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May 2012

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