you belong to me;
Peter Burke/Neal Caffrey;
Peter shows Neal who he really belongs to.
He’s on his stomach, face pressed hard into the mattress beneath him, one arm twisted up behind his back in a way that makes him whimper with the pain. Above him he hears a grunt, feels a shifting weight as the body pinning his hips down lifts just enough for him to wriggle his hips, his errant erection pressing sinfully against the silken sheets he lies upon. The weight resettles and he whimpers again, first with a neediness he can’t quite suppress, and then again with pain as his arm is pressed a little higher.
“Peter,” he breathes, his voice a plea; but to be let go or touched more, he’s not entirely certain. This is punishment, he knows, for straying eyes and easy smiles.
“You know better,” Peter says, his voice calm, his tone a practiced ease of indifference, hiding his true emotion beneath the shield of his carefully controlled words.
“Yes,” he agrees; his voice whispery as Peter leans over him, his breath hot and heavy against the back of his neck, his teeth a teasing graze against his skin. He shivers, turns his head, needing- wanting- to see Peter.
Peter allows the movement, the fingers around his wrist flexing and loosening just enough to allow the twist, to let him see Peter and the disapproval he wears so openly upon his brow.
“Please,” he whispers, mouth loose, inviting, and Peter leans in; his tongue a licking lave across his parted lips. He moans, tilting his jaw, trying to catch Peter’s mouth with his own.
He is rewarded only momentarily when Peter’s mouth falls on his, a searing kiss, the hard press of his lips not letting lose till he’s dizzy, lacking air, and then Peter pulls away only far enough to lick at his red-bruised lips; his teeth nipping and biting and sucking his bottom lip into his mouth, his tongue soothing even as his teeth hurt and he whimpers and moans; his body half-thrusting towards, half-pulling away from Peter.
“Please,” he says again, cheeks flushed high with colour, with need. His shoulder has long gone numb, his arm an irritating tingle pressed up against his back and trapped beneath Peter’s bare chest.
“Mine,” Peter says, his voice a rumbling command that he feels right through to the tips of his toes.
“Yes,” he breathes; his voice a pant of agreement. He feels Peter’s fingers relinquish their grip on his arm and eased gently down to lay at his side. He sighs, his eyes fluttering as the sudden blood flow sends a spike of pain through his arm.
Peter shifts above him, his weight lifting from the small of his back, his hands urging at his hips; lifting, touching, forgiving.
“Yours.” Neal breathes, moans; body arching into Peter’s touch. “Always, yours.”