"The Remaking of Us", Peter/Neal, NC-17
Mar. 22nd, 2012 09:39 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
coffeethyme4meTitle: The Remaking of Us
Author:coffeethyme4me
Pairing: Peter/Neal (Peter/El, of course, but off-screen)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: The pipes burst at Chez Burke. Can Neal handle another home invasion?
Prompt: "Neal is turned on by Peter's collarbone" by the incomparableelrhiarhodan!
Warnings: Very mild (like you need to squint to see it) Daddy kink. Size differential kink.
Words: 4,725
A/N: This is set somewhere in the middle of S2.
I don’t know why I offered to let him stay here again – not after last time. Not after the sweating on the ten thousand dollar couch incident. Not that I minded Peter’s actual sweat. It was really more the presumption that I wouldn’t mind his sweat that I minded. And not even that really. I don’t know why I was so bothered by him. It wasn’t miserable. I just…minded him taking up my space as though he had every right to take up my space, because it wasn’t really my space at all.
And here I’ve gone and invited him over again. Because two hours after El got on a plane for Los Angeles to host one of the biggest events she’s ever organized in her life, three pipes burst at Chez Burke, their whole bottom floor flooded, and when Peter called to tell me, he left that pitiful pause in there – the one that communicated to me that if I wanted to offer up my couch (June’s ten thousand dollar, clean of sweat couch), now was the time. So I’d done it. I’d done it, because I could hear the loneliness, the un-Elness of him, and I have real trouble saying no to Peter Burke.
It’s not just the anklet either. Not just.
I like him.
I like him liking me.
He’s maybe the best friend I’ve ever had. (Don’t tell Moz I said that.) And frankly, I owe Peter my life. The least I could lend him is my couch for three nights.
The knock comes at the door as I’m stirring the Italian sausage into my “easy vodka sauce” that I found on the Internet. “Just a sec!” I yell. I don’t even have my shoes on yet. I look down at what I’m wearing, a paint-stained white t-shirt, ratty jeans, and bare feet. I guess I lost track of time. Not that Peter will give a rat’s ass what I’m wearing. It’s not as though I invited him for dinner. I invited him for a few days. That’s different. That means we don’t have to look any certain way.
At least I hope that’s what it means. I start having my doubts once I open the door and see him. He’s standing there in a sleek long black coat over a white dress shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, and nicely pressed gray slacks. He’s also holding two bottles of wine. “You said you were making dinner, but I forgot to ask what, so… Shiraz and Chard both.”
I realize that my mouth is open, and I’m perilously close to drooling on myself. I shut my mouth and swallow.
This is not the way it was before. This is not Peter Burke in his sweaty basketball clothes. This also isn’t Peter Burke, FBI, in his vaguely nauseating tie.
This is… I don’t know who this is.
I only know one thing:
He’s beautiful.
And I’m screwed.
…
The problem is that I’ve always had to fight this thing. I can’t remember a day since I met Peter Burke that it wasn’t there, that I haven’t felt it. I’ve just gotten quite good at handling it. I think of El, I think of the anklet, I have my various ways of dealing with my attraction to Peter.
But this could be a problem. This could be a big problem.
I’ve always sort of counted on Peter’s paternal instincts. That and the way heterosexuality seems to ooze from his very pores. Those two things – that and his beautiful wife who Peter adores – have really made a big difference for me – helped me get a handle on myself when otherwise I might…
Well, I might be right where I am now – wishing I could just go down on my knees in front of this delicious man and-
“Smells great,” he says. Then, “Can I come in, Neal?”
“Oh. Oh, yeah. Sorry,” I say, opening the door and stepping back. How he can resist my considerable charms, I just don’t know.
I catch his sly smile as he steps over the threshold. He looks me up and down. “I interrupt you painting?”
“No,” I say dumbly. He smells like some goddamned men’s cologne that’s been clinically proven to make everyone in sniffing distance have a spontaneous orgasm. How does El deal? “Uh, you like Italian, right?”
He follows me to the kitchen and sets the wine down on the counter. “I love Italian. Great first date food.”
When I look at him, vaguely shocked, he winks.
I start. “Oh right. You and El.” I turn around and stir my sauce so that he won’t see that I’m blushing.
“Hand me a cork screw?” he asks. “I’ll get the red breathing and then go down and get my things.”
I get it out of the drawer and hand it to him. Our fingers briefly touch. His are still cold from outside.
“What are you doing without gloves on? It must be twenty degrees.”
He shrugs -- a gesture I interpret as, El usually reminds me.
“You can borrow a pair of mine – they’re in the—“
“That’s never gonna work,” he says. “Have you seen my hands?”
I glance over my shoulder, stirring way more than I have to, and see him holding them up. Yes, I have seen his hands. I’ve felt them on me, large and comforting. Large and warm and thrilling. “All right, OJ, you’re acquitted. I can come down and help you then,” I say.
“You’re busy. I’ve got it.”
His long strides take him out of the apartment, and I have a moment to breathe. I have a chance to wonder why this is all happening. Why is Peter dressed to kill? To kill me, specifically. Why is he being…thoughtful? Why is he showing me his hands, for Christ’s sake?
Why didn’t I tell him to go get a nice hotel room and have phone sex with his wife instead of letting him come over here and be beautiful and tempting in front of me?
I’m grateful for one thing: I’m only half hard. My body is reeling from the smell of him and that smirk he gave me. But I don’t think he’ll notice in these jeans at least.
He’s back quicker than I’d anticipated, dropping a duffle and blowing on his hands. “Shit, it’s cold.”
Peter rarely curses. It’s an unexpected treat. It also drives home the fact that, right now, he’s not so much my boss. Right now, he’s not so much a father figure. Maybe right now he’s just…Peter. Although, I’ve never seen him curse around El, either. I get this warm feeling inside – this thing like anticipation, although I don’t know for what. I’m just starting to wonder if I get Peter like no one else does.
“Where can I put this that it’ll be out of the way?” he asks, nodding toward the bag, breathing hard, his big confident hands on his hips.
New Jersey, I think.
It’s going to be a long few days.
…
At least the wine is good. I like to think Peter’s learned something from me (well, I know he has) about good wine. He poured while I got the salad out of the fridge and tested the pasta against the wall.
“El does that, too,” he mused.
I chanced a look at him, leaned against the counter, taking a sip of his wine. His shirt – I swear I’m not seeing things – was unbuttoned one more button. I mean, maybe it had always been unbuttoned to that extent, but it was then that I noticed it, and I had to look away or really embarrass myself.
Now we’re sitting at the table, and he’s lifting his glass. I follow suit, and he toasts, “To Neal Caffrey: chef, artist, provider of warm, dry housing.”
“Technically, that last part’s June.”
“Shut up, Neal. I’m thanking you.”
I have to stop looking at him. The way he’s smiling at me sort of hurts. We sip.
“You did good,” I tell him. “The wine.”
His smile turns mischievous. “This is the bottle you left at the house a month ago when we had you for dinner.” He coughs. “Over for dinner.”
I swallow. He sips and I watch him. I watch his sexy throat. My gaze drops. His collarbone is peeking through the snowy white of his shirt, through the tantalizing gap. I want to groan. Not the collarbone. Jesus….
“Well, way to regift,” I say, taking a long, soothing drink.
We eat then. We talk. There’s something about talking to Peter. It’s easy. With everyone else – and I mean everyone else: Moz, Sara, even Kate when she was alive – I tailor what I say to their expectations of me. Moz expects the con. I give him the con. Sara likes the flirt. I give her the flirt. Kate loved the artist. I made art for her. But with Peter…I don’t know. He’s okay with all of it. I mean, sure, he has a preference for Good Neal. I think. I don’t know. He seems to have a great deal of patience of Bad Neal, too. We can talk about baseball (I listen and learn for the most part), art, heists, work, women, the weather…. We can exchange funny stories. We can even exchange sad stories. I’ve never known a man who was so open with his heart like Peter. He doesn’t guard it like doing so can keep him safe. Like I do. He lets me see what he’s made of. It’s one of the things I most admire in him.
Peter and I have always been able to talk. Even with me sitting on Kate’s apartment floor fully aware that he’s going to have to arrest me. And now that we’ve worked together for more than two years, we can nearly finish one another’s sentences. He even talks about his team like I’m not part of it – like I’m above it, with him. Like I’m different. Like I’m even more to him.
When dinner’s through, Peter takes both our plates. I try to help, but he shoos me away. “I’ve got this. I’m not completely unhousebroken.”
Speaking of. “Where’s Satch?” I park my ass in a dining chair, sipping a new glass of wine and watching him.
“Oh, I dropped him off at El’s sister’s. She’s got a Malamute. They have times.”
Peter’s got his sleeves rolled up now, and he’s rinsing the plates and putting them into the dishwasher. Peter’s got killer forearms. I’d give up a Renoir to bite his forearms.
“You watching me, Caffrey?” he says over the running water and clink of glasses.
“No,” I tell him, staring at the way his shirt stretches across his back. When he turns, I become fixated on my wine, swirling it around.
“I’m gonna shower, get changed.”
“Yeah, all right.” I sound perfectly normal. I do not sound aroused by the idea of his shower. I inwardly congratulate myself. My hard-on and I go to the couch.
I turn the TV on and flip stations until I get to the Knicks game. I don’t really want to watch the Knicks game. I should really grab a book and head to bed, leaving the living room for Peter. Instead, though, I prop my feet up and try to understand what a pick and roll is.
Peter comes out of the bathroom in pajama pants and a grey t-shirt. He’s freshly shaven, his hair damp. He smells like my shampoo. It smells different, better, on him.
“Knicks are playing,” I tell him.
“Yeah?” He saunters over. “What’s the score?”
“Just started the third quarter. It’s 45/38 Knicks over the Heat.”
Peter sits down heavily right next to me. “Excellent,” he says. “You’re not for the Heat, are you?”
I know the right answer to this. I look at him, appalled, and say, “Never.”
He wraps his arm around my shoulders, jostling me good-naturedly. “That’s what I like to hear,” he says. Then he lets go and leans back to watch the second half of the game.
…
We spend the rest of the evening yelling for good three pointers and booing bad calls by the officials. The Heat pull away in the fourth and win by ten.
“My condolences,” I say. It seems like a good time to get away with touching him, so I put my hand on his knee and pat it. I apologize to El in my head.
I’m about to remove my hand so as not to wear out my welcome when Peter ever-so-slightly spreads his legs. He leans back into the couch, looking at me – me, with the hand that’s on his leg – that, with that subtle movement, now rests just inside his knee, and those two centimeters in that direction make a world of difference. So does the way he’s looking at me. I leave my hand there for two moments more – just long enough for us both to realize, and realize that the other realizes, that he’s not telling me to remove it.
He’s straight! He’s married! He’s my boss! All of these thoughts scream through my head even as my cock is getting hard and Peter’s eyes are most definitely hooded.
I take a deep breath. And then I stand up. I run a hand, the very same hand, through my hair. “I should go to bed,” I say.
He’s just leans there, one arm along the back of the couch, his legs spread like he owns the place – like he owns me. He inhales deeply and then takes just as much time to exhale. He slowly nods. “Good night, Neal,” he says, and there’s a gentleness in his voice that doesn’t make sense to me.
“Good night,” I tell him. And then, yes -- it can be said no other way – I flee.
…
I do a pretty good job of distracting myself until Peter’s asleep. I fantasize about pulling off a heist at the Guggenheim. I balance my checkbook. I rearrange my sock drawer. Then I just lay there staring at the ceiling until the TV goes off and soon I hear his deep breathing.
I do it surreptitiously then. I do it under the blankets even though the heat’s on, and it’s warm. I do it with hardly any noise, the whisper of the sheet on my knuckles, the hitch of breath here and there.
I do have to bury my face in the pillow when I come, though. It hits me hard. It hits me the moment I imagine him inside me, over me, a drop of sweat hanging off his collarbone until it’s flung onto my face. That’s what does it – that collarbone. That bead of sweat.
And then I’m a mess. I was going to use a tissue, but it shocked through me before I was ready with it. I sit up. It’s sort of all over me. And I stink.
Peter’s actually snoring, so I decide I can get away with a shower even though it’s one in the morning. I grab a towel, wrap it around myself, and pad to the bathroom.
The hot water feels wonderful on my boneless, satiated body. I stay for a long time, washing away all traces of my little sin. I stay until the water starts to go lukewarm. Until I feel reinvigorated rather than wiped out. I even feel like maybe I can withstand this visit. I think jerking off a couple (at least a couple) times a day is the key. I can maintain. I’ll have two rules: no more touching Peter, and a LOT more touching myself.
I’ll make it. I’ll survive.
These are my thoughts as I exit the bathroom.
These *were* my thoughts.
Now I’m thinking, Oh fucking God. Because Peter is standing right here at the bathroom door, barring my way. Because the t-shirt he was wearing is gone. Because he smells like a sleepy man, and I haven’t gotten near enough of that smell of late. Because I’m in big, big trouble.
“El told me, but I didn’t believe her,” he says. His hand – one of those big, beautiful hands – comes up and cups my face. His thumb brushes over my cheek. I’m wet and wrapped in a towel. I’m not cold, but suddenly, I’m shivering.
“Told you what,” I manage.
His gaze drops to my lips. “This,” he says, and then he’s kissing me.
Peter Mother Fucking Burke is kissing me. And holy wow he can kiss.
His hand threads through my hair. His tongue enters my mouth slowly, his head tilting just right. He opens my mouth wide, but it’s all so slow and soft and long and good. He’s so good at it, I only register that his other hand has my towel in it once it’s gone. I’m naked. Peter’s got me naked. And even though I just came, I’m getting hard again.
I feel like I’ve been waiting hopelessly for this to happen forever.
Still, I have to break free of his kiss and gasp, “What are you doing?” because I probably should.
His arm wraps around my back. He pulls me in with the tenderness of a man seducing a virgin. “Do you want me to stop?” he asks. His voice is deep and caring and turned on.
I’m up against – fully up against – his body now. I can feel that he’s hard, too. And massive. Sweet Jesus, it’s really big.
“Are you kidding?” I breathe.
This makes him smile. This makes him kiss me again. This makes him haul me in, pick me up, and then resituate so that my back is against the wall. I’ve dreamed of Peter manhandling me, but the man actually picking me up puts those fantasies to shame. I can’t remember feeling this good maybe ever. It emboldens me, and I grab onto him, shoving one hand down the back of his pajama pants and moaning into his hot mouth. His ass is like a boulder in my hand, but warm. So warm and alive, the skin soft over the rock of muscle.
“Peter,” I say, breaking away again once I remember that I should. My sanity’s sort of going in and out.
“What?” he murmurs. Oh shit, he’s started moving against me, frotting me against the wall. His gigantic cock is rubbing against mine with only the thin sheath of pajama pants – damp pajama pants – to separate us.
“Oh Christ,” I moan. “Never mind.”
He laughs at me. The prick laughs at me, deep and throaty, and then he’s kissing me hard, and I’m shoving his pants down, and his cock springs out, and I want to suck it. Oh God, I want to suck it. I reach between us and find it, stroke it.
Peter pulls out of the kiss this time. He braces his arms, hands to elbow, on the wall by my head. He starts to fuck through my fist. He’s staring into my eyes and fucking my fist.
“I’m not gonna come this way, Neal,” he says.
For a second I think he’s saying that because I’m not doing it right. But his cock is leaking into my hand; I can feel his pulse throbbing in it. I think I’m definitely doing it right. I smile. Because I’m jacking off Peter Burke.
“Stop it,” he says. It’s sort of a growl, really.
I don’t stop it. I smile bigger. I squeeze his cock. I’m over the moon. I’m squeezing Peter’s cock!
He grabs me. It all happens so fast. All I know is that I wind up on my back on the floor with Peter on top of me, Peter hiking my legs up, resting my feet on his shoulders. I stare up at him in fear and amazement as he lines up.
“Easy,” he says. I’m not sure if he’s saying it to me or to himself. He’s leaking a lot. I mean, he’s leaking a LOT. Thank God. Because he’s pushing it inside of me.
“Oh fuck!” I cry out.
He goes slow. He’s practically trembling with restraint. His muscles stand out, working. He’s looking into my eyes – judging my capacity – caring even as he rips me in two.
“Peter,” I gasp. “Peter…”
“Quit saying my name like that, or I’m going to hurt you, Neal.”
I guess I’m just enough of a total shit, because I simply can’t help myself – it hurts, I’m aching, but I want it. I want him to hurt me. I say it again: “Peter… Please, Peter… Fuck me…”
“No,” he grits out. He’s only working an inch or so, in and out, killing me with wanting it.
“No?” I whine. “Wha-“
“Look at me,” he says. His hips keep up that infernal movement – just dipping into me. When I’m looking into his eyes, he touches my face, and he says, “I promised my wife I’d make love to you.”
That sort of takes my breath away. I see the emotion there in his eyes, too. I blink up at him.
He braces himself and adds, “This first time at least.” Then he’s sliding in deeper. And deeper. And deeper. Until I think I’m choking on it, and he’s holding me now, body to body, my legs slipping around his middle, and he’s cooing, “Shhh, shh, shh, shh,” trying to make it stop hurting, and I’m full of him. I’m full of him. There’s no more room for anything else. I can’t believe he’s inside me. And yet here he is. Here we are. Changing who we are. Reshaping us.
I grasp him around the neck and simply hold on as he starts thrusting. He’s breathing against my shoulder, both strong arms wrapped around me. “Neal,” he whispers, and it breaks me. “Neal…”
This is the man who caught me. This is the man I would consider changing my life for, even without the tracker to persuade me to stay.
This is the man I’ve been falling in love with.
This is the realization I’ve been trying not to have.
Peter starts going harder. Rearing back and taking longer strokes. It provokes a moan out of me. I touch his hair. It’s so soft. I pull and lift his head from my shoulder, find his lips. I tongue them open and kiss him deep. I start moving with him, urging him on. We lose our breath and our mouths tear away from each other.
“You feel so good,” he tells me.
I want to feel good to him. I want to be good for him. I want—
“Peter,” I say. “Have to—ask you—something.”
“Yeah?” The word is a grunt against my neck.
“Did your pipes—really break?”
He opens his mouth on my throat, licking, “Yes.”
“Really?” I tighten my legs around him.
“Yes, really.” Fucking me smooth. Fucking me so deep.
“And El’s in LA?”
“Uh huh.” Nice, hard thrusts. “We talked about this…”
“This?”
Another grunt, “Yeah. We talked about—me coming over here and—“
“Fucking me on my dining room floor?”
“Maybe. Not exactly.” He lifts his head, smiling at me, out of breath.
“And the pipes?”
He smirks. “Happy accident.”
“Kismet?”
“I think so, yeah.”
I think he knows he’s got the stroke just right. He sets a faster pace and keeps the angle just so.
“Shit, Peter, I’m gonna come.” My dick’s getting rubbed just right between us, and he’s getting my prostate. I’m staring up at him, his beautiful face pained with almost-orgasm. The working of his throat. The sweat pooling there beneath, clinging to his collarbone.
I want to tell him: This is my fantasy. This is the thing I thought I’d never have. This is what I’ve wanted for myself but haven’t hoped to deserve. This is the way I want to feel for the rest of my life.
But I don’t say any of it. Words are gone for me. There is only Peter’s hard cock. There’s him pinning me down, right where I want to be. There’s only this wailing sound ripping from my throat now. There’s the desperate quaking of my orgasm, the hot flood between us, his weight bearing down on me, the shine of awe in his eyes.
He rides me through it, whispering encouragement, whispering my name, sneaking a hand between our bodies and touching me. He’s tender with my cock, keeping it going and going until I’m spasming dry in his hand. I’m crying it feels so good and so bad.
When I’m as finished as I’m going to get, Peter says, “Hold on,” and then he pulls out carefully.
“Wh- No, Peter, finish. Please. Put it back.” I’ve been reduced to begging for his cock. I’m so empty now. I’m stretched and aching and empty.
“Turn over,” he says. I see him holding his cock. It’s reddish purple, huge, more than ready.
I roll over, and after that, Peter takes over. He gets me pulled back onto his lap, my head down on the floor. He slides back inside me, and the new angle is even deeper. I cry out, but he’s already fucking me, his balls slapping me from behind, his control slipping. He’s pulling on my hips, pulling me onto it, and the raw friction is perfect.
“Neal…” he practically sobs. “Oh God, Neal.”
Then Peter’s coming. He’s jerking on my hips and the sound that’s coming out of him is unlike anything I ever expected to hear from him. He’s taking short, hard thrusts, staying almost all the way inside, spilling deep inside me.
I move on it, trying to make it last for him – for me. I feel some of his come leaking out between us. It strikes me as impossibly romantic, believe it or not. An impossible intimacy. Something I’ll never forget. I memorize the feel of it – his slowing cock, his harsh breath, the wet slide, the sting and the throb of us.
He pulls out again, then he collapses on his back on the floor next to me. I roll over onto my back again, too. He turns his head, and I turn mine, and then we’re looking at each other. Peter smiles. He starts to laugh. He reaches out. “C’mere.”
I curl into his side. His hand strokes slow and soft over my body. He sighs. “I know it’s not fair to you,” he says. “Not while you’re wearing that.”
I hadn’t considered the implications of the anklet. Apparently, Peter has. “You’re a paragon of fairness, Peter. I realize you’re not trying to make me the FBI’s whore.”
He winces at my words, but his hand keep stroking. “Nothing like that,” he says, his voice gruff. “You’re not ever – I mean *ever* -- obligated to me, Neal.” He sighs again. “Though what else could you think?”
I think we’re lovers. No matter the tracker, no matter if he even has to send me back to prison one day. We’re lovers. That’s what this has to mean. But it all sticks in my throat.
“Neal,” he says.
“Peter?” I answer.
He takes a long breath. Then he says, simple and true, “I love you.”
I leverage up on my elbow to look down at his face, stunned.
He goes on, “It doesn’t solve anything. I realize that. I don’t know how this is going to work. We may even have to wait out your sentence. I don’t know. It’s not what I want, but I have to be fair to you. I just thought… Well, you have to know. I’ve been in love with you for a long time.”
Better than lovers. What Peter’s giving me is better than lovers.
Lovers, they can take away.
Love, they can’t.
He touches my face, my lips. I ask him, “Can I have three days?”
“You mean here? Now?”
I nod.
He smiles. “I’m yours, Neal. I’ll give you anything.” I straddle him and slide my hands up his chest. He tilts his head, looking at me with soft eyes. He says, “You have the most beautiful collarbone I’ve ever seen in my life.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. I lean down and kiss him. I kiss years of longing into his mouth. He rolls me over, kissing me back, and I have everything in this moment. Everything I want.
Author:
coffeethyme4mePairing: Peter/Neal (Peter/El, of course, but off-screen)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: The pipes burst at Chez Burke. Can Neal handle another home invasion?
Prompt: "Neal is turned on by Peter's collarbone" by the incomparable
elrhiarhodan!Warnings: Very mild (like you need to squint to see it) Daddy kink. Size differential kink.
Words: 4,725
A/N: This is set somewhere in the middle of S2.
I don’t know why I offered to let him stay here again – not after last time. Not after the sweating on the ten thousand dollar couch incident. Not that I minded Peter’s actual sweat. It was really more the presumption that I wouldn’t mind his sweat that I minded. And not even that really. I don’t know why I was so bothered by him. It wasn’t miserable. I just…minded him taking up my space as though he had every right to take up my space, because it wasn’t really my space at all.
And here I’ve gone and invited him over again. Because two hours after El got on a plane for Los Angeles to host one of the biggest events she’s ever organized in her life, three pipes burst at Chez Burke, their whole bottom floor flooded, and when Peter called to tell me, he left that pitiful pause in there – the one that communicated to me that if I wanted to offer up my couch (June’s ten thousand dollar, clean of sweat couch), now was the time. So I’d done it. I’d done it, because I could hear the loneliness, the un-Elness of him, and I have real trouble saying no to Peter Burke.
It’s not just the anklet either. Not just.
I like him.
I like him liking me.
He’s maybe the best friend I’ve ever had. (Don’t tell Moz I said that.) And frankly, I owe Peter my life. The least I could lend him is my couch for three nights.
The knock comes at the door as I’m stirring the Italian sausage into my “easy vodka sauce” that I found on the Internet. “Just a sec!” I yell. I don’t even have my shoes on yet. I look down at what I’m wearing, a paint-stained white t-shirt, ratty jeans, and bare feet. I guess I lost track of time. Not that Peter will give a rat’s ass what I’m wearing. It’s not as though I invited him for dinner. I invited him for a few days. That’s different. That means we don’t have to look any certain way.
At least I hope that’s what it means. I start having my doubts once I open the door and see him. He’s standing there in a sleek long black coat over a white dress shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, and nicely pressed gray slacks. He’s also holding two bottles of wine. “You said you were making dinner, but I forgot to ask what, so… Shiraz and Chard both.”
I realize that my mouth is open, and I’m perilously close to drooling on myself. I shut my mouth and swallow.
This is not the way it was before. This is not Peter Burke in his sweaty basketball clothes. This also isn’t Peter Burke, FBI, in his vaguely nauseating tie.
This is… I don’t know who this is.
I only know one thing:
He’s beautiful.
And I’m screwed.
…
The problem is that I’ve always had to fight this thing. I can’t remember a day since I met Peter Burke that it wasn’t there, that I haven’t felt it. I’ve just gotten quite good at handling it. I think of El, I think of the anklet, I have my various ways of dealing with my attraction to Peter.
But this could be a problem. This could be a big problem.
I’ve always sort of counted on Peter’s paternal instincts. That and the way heterosexuality seems to ooze from his very pores. Those two things – that and his beautiful wife who Peter adores – have really made a big difference for me – helped me get a handle on myself when otherwise I might…
Well, I might be right where I am now – wishing I could just go down on my knees in front of this delicious man and-
“Smells great,” he says. Then, “Can I come in, Neal?”
“Oh. Oh, yeah. Sorry,” I say, opening the door and stepping back. How he can resist my considerable charms, I just don’t know.
I catch his sly smile as he steps over the threshold. He looks me up and down. “I interrupt you painting?”
“No,” I say dumbly. He smells like some goddamned men’s cologne that’s been clinically proven to make everyone in sniffing distance have a spontaneous orgasm. How does El deal? “Uh, you like Italian, right?”
He follows me to the kitchen and sets the wine down on the counter. “I love Italian. Great first date food.”
When I look at him, vaguely shocked, he winks.
I start. “Oh right. You and El.” I turn around and stir my sauce so that he won’t see that I’m blushing.
“Hand me a cork screw?” he asks. “I’ll get the red breathing and then go down and get my things.”
I get it out of the drawer and hand it to him. Our fingers briefly touch. His are still cold from outside.
“What are you doing without gloves on? It must be twenty degrees.”
He shrugs -- a gesture I interpret as, El usually reminds me.
“You can borrow a pair of mine – they’re in the—“
“That’s never gonna work,” he says. “Have you seen my hands?”
I glance over my shoulder, stirring way more than I have to, and see him holding them up. Yes, I have seen his hands. I’ve felt them on me, large and comforting. Large and warm and thrilling. “All right, OJ, you’re acquitted. I can come down and help you then,” I say.
“You’re busy. I’ve got it.”
His long strides take him out of the apartment, and I have a moment to breathe. I have a chance to wonder why this is all happening. Why is Peter dressed to kill? To kill me, specifically. Why is he being…thoughtful? Why is he showing me his hands, for Christ’s sake?
Why didn’t I tell him to go get a nice hotel room and have phone sex with his wife instead of letting him come over here and be beautiful and tempting in front of me?
I’m grateful for one thing: I’m only half hard. My body is reeling from the smell of him and that smirk he gave me. But I don’t think he’ll notice in these jeans at least.
He’s back quicker than I’d anticipated, dropping a duffle and blowing on his hands. “Shit, it’s cold.”
Peter rarely curses. It’s an unexpected treat. It also drives home the fact that, right now, he’s not so much my boss. Right now, he’s not so much a father figure. Maybe right now he’s just…Peter. Although, I’ve never seen him curse around El, either. I get this warm feeling inside – this thing like anticipation, although I don’t know for what. I’m just starting to wonder if I get Peter like no one else does.
“Where can I put this that it’ll be out of the way?” he asks, nodding toward the bag, breathing hard, his big confident hands on his hips.
New Jersey, I think.
It’s going to be a long few days.
…
At least the wine is good. I like to think Peter’s learned something from me (well, I know he has) about good wine. He poured while I got the salad out of the fridge and tested the pasta against the wall.
“El does that, too,” he mused.
I chanced a look at him, leaned against the counter, taking a sip of his wine. His shirt – I swear I’m not seeing things – was unbuttoned one more button. I mean, maybe it had always been unbuttoned to that extent, but it was then that I noticed it, and I had to look away or really embarrass myself.
Now we’re sitting at the table, and he’s lifting his glass. I follow suit, and he toasts, “To Neal Caffrey: chef, artist, provider of warm, dry housing.”
“Technically, that last part’s June.”
“Shut up, Neal. I’m thanking you.”
I have to stop looking at him. The way he’s smiling at me sort of hurts. We sip.
“You did good,” I tell him. “The wine.”
His smile turns mischievous. “This is the bottle you left at the house a month ago when we had you for dinner.” He coughs. “Over for dinner.”
I swallow. He sips and I watch him. I watch his sexy throat. My gaze drops. His collarbone is peeking through the snowy white of his shirt, through the tantalizing gap. I want to groan. Not the collarbone. Jesus….
“Well, way to regift,” I say, taking a long, soothing drink.
We eat then. We talk. There’s something about talking to Peter. It’s easy. With everyone else – and I mean everyone else: Moz, Sara, even Kate when she was alive – I tailor what I say to their expectations of me. Moz expects the con. I give him the con. Sara likes the flirt. I give her the flirt. Kate loved the artist. I made art for her. But with Peter…I don’t know. He’s okay with all of it. I mean, sure, he has a preference for Good Neal. I think. I don’t know. He seems to have a great deal of patience of Bad Neal, too. We can talk about baseball (I listen and learn for the most part), art, heists, work, women, the weather…. We can exchange funny stories. We can even exchange sad stories. I’ve never known a man who was so open with his heart like Peter. He doesn’t guard it like doing so can keep him safe. Like I do. He lets me see what he’s made of. It’s one of the things I most admire in him.
Peter and I have always been able to talk. Even with me sitting on Kate’s apartment floor fully aware that he’s going to have to arrest me. And now that we’ve worked together for more than two years, we can nearly finish one another’s sentences. He even talks about his team like I’m not part of it – like I’m above it, with him. Like I’m different. Like I’m even more to him.
When dinner’s through, Peter takes both our plates. I try to help, but he shoos me away. “I’ve got this. I’m not completely unhousebroken.”
Speaking of. “Where’s Satch?” I park my ass in a dining chair, sipping a new glass of wine and watching him.
“Oh, I dropped him off at El’s sister’s. She’s got a Malamute. They have times.”
Peter’s got his sleeves rolled up now, and he’s rinsing the plates and putting them into the dishwasher. Peter’s got killer forearms. I’d give up a Renoir to bite his forearms.
“You watching me, Caffrey?” he says over the running water and clink of glasses.
“No,” I tell him, staring at the way his shirt stretches across his back. When he turns, I become fixated on my wine, swirling it around.
“I’m gonna shower, get changed.”
“Yeah, all right.” I sound perfectly normal. I do not sound aroused by the idea of his shower. I inwardly congratulate myself. My hard-on and I go to the couch.
I turn the TV on and flip stations until I get to the Knicks game. I don’t really want to watch the Knicks game. I should really grab a book and head to bed, leaving the living room for Peter. Instead, though, I prop my feet up and try to understand what a pick and roll is.
Peter comes out of the bathroom in pajama pants and a grey t-shirt. He’s freshly shaven, his hair damp. He smells like my shampoo. It smells different, better, on him.
“Knicks are playing,” I tell him.
“Yeah?” He saunters over. “What’s the score?”
“Just started the third quarter. It’s 45/38 Knicks over the Heat.”
Peter sits down heavily right next to me. “Excellent,” he says. “You’re not for the Heat, are you?”
I know the right answer to this. I look at him, appalled, and say, “Never.”
He wraps his arm around my shoulders, jostling me good-naturedly. “That’s what I like to hear,” he says. Then he lets go and leans back to watch the second half of the game.
…
We spend the rest of the evening yelling for good three pointers and booing bad calls by the officials. The Heat pull away in the fourth and win by ten.
“My condolences,” I say. It seems like a good time to get away with touching him, so I put my hand on his knee and pat it. I apologize to El in my head.
I’m about to remove my hand so as not to wear out my welcome when Peter ever-so-slightly spreads his legs. He leans back into the couch, looking at me – me, with the hand that’s on his leg – that, with that subtle movement, now rests just inside his knee, and those two centimeters in that direction make a world of difference. So does the way he’s looking at me. I leave my hand there for two moments more – just long enough for us both to realize, and realize that the other realizes, that he’s not telling me to remove it.
He’s straight! He’s married! He’s my boss! All of these thoughts scream through my head even as my cock is getting hard and Peter’s eyes are most definitely hooded.
I take a deep breath. And then I stand up. I run a hand, the very same hand, through my hair. “I should go to bed,” I say.
He’s just leans there, one arm along the back of the couch, his legs spread like he owns the place – like he owns me. He inhales deeply and then takes just as much time to exhale. He slowly nods. “Good night, Neal,” he says, and there’s a gentleness in his voice that doesn’t make sense to me.
“Good night,” I tell him. And then, yes -- it can be said no other way – I flee.
…
I do a pretty good job of distracting myself until Peter’s asleep. I fantasize about pulling off a heist at the Guggenheim. I balance my checkbook. I rearrange my sock drawer. Then I just lay there staring at the ceiling until the TV goes off and soon I hear his deep breathing.
I do it surreptitiously then. I do it under the blankets even though the heat’s on, and it’s warm. I do it with hardly any noise, the whisper of the sheet on my knuckles, the hitch of breath here and there.
I do have to bury my face in the pillow when I come, though. It hits me hard. It hits me the moment I imagine him inside me, over me, a drop of sweat hanging off his collarbone until it’s flung onto my face. That’s what does it – that collarbone. That bead of sweat.
And then I’m a mess. I was going to use a tissue, but it shocked through me before I was ready with it. I sit up. It’s sort of all over me. And I stink.
Peter’s actually snoring, so I decide I can get away with a shower even though it’s one in the morning. I grab a towel, wrap it around myself, and pad to the bathroom.
The hot water feels wonderful on my boneless, satiated body. I stay for a long time, washing away all traces of my little sin. I stay until the water starts to go lukewarm. Until I feel reinvigorated rather than wiped out. I even feel like maybe I can withstand this visit. I think jerking off a couple (at least a couple) times a day is the key. I can maintain. I’ll have two rules: no more touching Peter, and a LOT more touching myself.
I’ll make it. I’ll survive.
These are my thoughts as I exit the bathroom.
These *were* my thoughts.
Now I’m thinking, Oh fucking God. Because Peter is standing right here at the bathroom door, barring my way. Because the t-shirt he was wearing is gone. Because he smells like a sleepy man, and I haven’t gotten near enough of that smell of late. Because I’m in big, big trouble.
“El told me, but I didn’t believe her,” he says. His hand – one of those big, beautiful hands – comes up and cups my face. His thumb brushes over my cheek. I’m wet and wrapped in a towel. I’m not cold, but suddenly, I’m shivering.
“Told you what,” I manage.
His gaze drops to my lips. “This,” he says, and then he’s kissing me.
Peter Mother Fucking Burke is kissing me. And holy wow he can kiss.
His hand threads through my hair. His tongue enters my mouth slowly, his head tilting just right. He opens my mouth wide, but it’s all so slow and soft and long and good. He’s so good at it, I only register that his other hand has my towel in it once it’s gone. I’m naked. Peter’s got me naked. And even though I just came, I’m getting hard again.
I feel like I’ve been waiting hopelessly for this to happen forever.
Still, I have to break free of his kiss and gasp, “What are you doing?” because I probably should.
His arm wraps around my back. He pulls me in with the tenderness of a man seducing a virgin. “Do you want me to stop?” he asks. His voice is deep and caring and turned on.
I’m up against – fully up against – his body now. I can feel that he’s hard, too. And massive. Sweet Jesus, it’s really big.
“Are you kidding?” I breathe.
This makes him smile. This makes him kiss me again. This makes him haul me in, pick me up, and then resituate so that my back is against the wall. I’ve dreamed of Peter manhandling me, but the man actually picking me up puts those fantasies to shame. I can’t remember feeling this good maybe ever. It emboldens me, and I grab onto him, shoving one hand down the back of his pajama pants and moaning into his hot mouth. His ass is like a boulder in my hand, but warm. So warm and alive, the skin soft over the rock of muscle.
“Peter,” I say, breaking away again once I remember that I should. My sanity’s sort of going in and out.
“What?” he murmurs. Oh shit, he’s started moving against me, frotting me against the wall. His gigantic cock is rubbing against mine with only the thin sheath of pajama pants – damp pajama pants – to separate us.
“Oh Christ,” I moan. “Never mind.”
He laughs at me. The prick laughs at me, deep and throaty, and then he’s kissing me hard, and I’m shoving his pants down, and his cock springs out, and I want to suck it. Oh God, I want to suck it. I reach between us and find it, stroke it.
Peter pulls out of the kiss this time. He braces his arms, hands to elbow, on the wall by my head. He starts to fuck through my fist. He’s staring into my eyes and fucking my fist.
“I’m not gonna come this way, Neal,” he says.
For a second I think he’s saying that because I’m not doing it right. But his cock is leaking into my hand; I can feel his pulse throbbing in it. I think I’m definitely doing it right. I smile. Because I’m jacking off Peter Burke.
“Stop it,” he says. It’s sort of a growl, really.
I don’t stop it. I smile bigger. I squeeze his cock. I’m over the moon. I’m squeezing Peter’s cock!
He grabs me. It all happens so fast. All I know is that I wind up on my back on the floor with Peter on top of me, Peter hiking my legs up, resting my feet on his shoulders. I stare up at him in fear and amazement as he lines up.
“Easy,” he says. I’m not sure if he’s saying it to me or to himself. He’s leaking a lot. I mean, he’s leaking a LOT. Thank God. Because he’s pushing it inside of me.
“Oh fuck!” I cry out.
He goes slow. He’s practically trembling with restraint. His muscles stand out, working. He’s looking into my eyes – judging my capacity – caring even as he rips me in two.
“Peter,” I gasp. “Peter…”
“Quit saying my name like that, or I’m going to hurt you, Neal.”
I guess I’m just enough of a total shit, because I simply can’t help myself – it hurts, I’m aching, but I want it. I want him to hurt me. I say it again: “Peter… Please, Peter… Fuck me…”
“No,” he grits out. He’s only working an inch or so, in and out, killing me with wanting it.
“No?” I whine. “Wha-“
“Look at me,” he says. His hips keep up that infernal movement – just dipping into me. When I’m looking into his eyes, he touches my face, and he says, “I promised my wife I’d make love to you.”
That sort of takes my breath away. I see the emotion there in his eyes, too. I blink up at him.
He braces himself and adds, “This first time at least.” Then he’s sliding in deeper. And deeper. And deeper. Until I think I’m choking on it, and he’s holding me now, body to body, my legs slipping around his middle, and he’s cooing, “Shhh, shh, shh, shh,” trying to make it stop hurting, and I’m full of him. I’m full of him. There’s no more room for anything else. I can’t believe he’s inside me. And yet here he is. Here we are. Changing who we are. Reshaping us.
I grasp him around the neck and simply hold on as he starts thrusting. He’s breathing against my shoulder, both strong arms wrapped around me. “Neal,” he whispers, and it breaks me. “Neal…”
This is the man who caught me. This is the man I would consider changing my life for, even without the tracker to persuade me to stay.
This is the man I’ve been falling in love with.
This is the realization I’ve been trying not to have.
Peter starts going harder. Rearing back and taking longer strokes. It provokes a moan out of me. I touch his hair. It’s so soft. I pull and lift his head from my shoulder, find his lips. I tongue them open and kiss him deep. I start moving with him, urging him on. We lose our breath and our mouths tear away from each other.
“You feel so good,” he tells me.
I want to feel good to him. I want to be good for him. I want—
“Peter,” I say. “Have to—ask you—something.”
“Yeah?” The word is a grunt against my neck.
“Did your pipes—really break?”
He opens his mouth on my throat, licking, “Yes.”
“Really?” I tighten my legs around him.
“Yes, really.” Fucking me smooth. Fucking me so deep.
“And El’s in LA?”
“Uh huh.” Nice, hard thrusts. “We talked about this…”
“This?”
Another grunt, “Yeah. We talked about—me coming over here and—“
“Fucking me on my dining room floor?”
“Maybe. Not exactly.” He lifts his head, smiling at me, out of breath.
“And the pipes?”
He smirks. “Happy accident.”
“Kismet?”
“I think so, yeah.”
I think he knows he’s got the stroke just right. He sets a faster pace and keeps the angle just so.
“Shit, Peter, I’m gonna come.” My dick’s getting rubbed just right between us, and he’s getting my prostate. I’m staring up at him, his beautiful face pained with almost-orgasm. The working of his throat. The sweat pooling there beneath, clinging to his collarbone.
I want to tell him: This is my fantasy. This is the thing I thought I’d never have. This is what I’ve wanted for myself but haven’t hoped to deserve. This is the way I want to feel for the rest of my life.
But I don’t say any of it. Words are gone for me. There is only Peter’s hard cock. There’s him pinning me down, right where I want to be. There’s only this wailing sound ripping from my throat now. There’s the desperate quaking of my orgasm, the hot flood between us, his weight bearing down on me, the shine of awe in his eyes.
He rides me through it, whispering encouragement, whispering my name, sneaking a hand between our bodies and touching me. He’s tender with my cock, keeping it going and going until I’m spasming dry in his hand. I’m crying it feels so good and so bad.
When I’m as finished as I’m going to get, Peter says, “Hold on,” and then he pulls out carefully.
“Wh- No, Peter, finish. Please. Put it back.” I’ve been reduced to begging for his cock. I’m so empty now. I’m stretched and aching and empty.
“Turn over,” he says. I see him holding his cock. It’s reddish purple, huge, more than ready.
I roll over, and after that, Peter takes over. He gets me pulled back onto his lap, my head down on the floor. He slides back inside me, and the new angle is even deeper. I cry out, but he’s already fucking me, his balls slapping me from behind, his control slipping. He’s pulling on my hips, pulling me onto it, and the raw friction is perfect.
“Neal…” he practically sobs. “Oh God, Neal.”
Then Peter’s coming. He’s jerking on my hips and the sound that’s coming out of him is unlike anything I ever expected to hear from him. He’s taking short, hard thrusts, staying almost all the way inside, spilling deep inside me.
I move on it, trying to make it last for him – for me. I feel some of his come leaking out between us. It strikes me as impossibly romantic, believe it or not. An impossible intimacy. Something I’ll never forget. I memorize the feel of it – his slowing cock, his harsh breath, the wet slide, the sting and the throb of us.
He pulls out again, then he collapses on his back on the floor next to me. I roll over onto my back again, too. He turns his head, and I turn mine, and then we’re looking at each other. Peter smiles. He starts to laugh. He reaches out. “C’mere.”
I curl into his side. His hand strokes slow and soft over my body. He sighs. “I know it’s not fair to you,” he says. “Not while you’re wearing that.”
I hadn’t considered the implications of the anklet. Apparently, Peter has. “You’re a paragon of fairness, Peter. I realize you’re not trying to make me the FBI’s whore.”
He winces at my words, but his hand keep stroking. “Nothing like that,” he says, his voice gruff. “You’re not ever – I mean *ever* -- obligated to me, Neal.” He sighs again. “Though what else could you think?”
I think we’re lovers. No matter the tracker, no matter if he even has to send me back to prison one day. We’re lovers. That’s what this has to mean. But it all sticks in my throat.
“Neal,” he says.
“Peter?” I answer.
He takes a long breath. Then he says, simple and true, “I love you.”
I leverage up on my elbow to look down at his face, stunned.
He goes on, “It doesn’t solve anything. I realize that. I don’t know how this is going to work. We may even have to wait out your sentence. I don’t know. It’s not what I want, but I have to be fair to you. I just thought… Well, you have to know. I’ve been in love with you for a long time.”
Better than lovers. What Peter’s giving me is better than lovers.
Lovers, they can take away.
Love, they can’t.
He touches my face, my lips. I ask him, “Can I have three days?”
“You mean here? Now?”
I nod.
He smiles. “I’m yours, Neal. I’ll give you anything.” I straddle him and slide my hands up his chest. He tilts his head, looking at me with soft eyes. He says, “You have the most beautiful collarbone I’ve ever seen in my life.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. I lean down and kiss him. I kiss years of longing into his mouth. He rolls me over, kissing me back, and I have everything in this moment. Everything I want.
