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elrhiarhodanTitle: Fortune's Just a One-Night Stand – Part Three
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Mozzie, Elizabeth Mitchell, Diana Berrigan, Clinton Jones, Vincent Adler, Daniel Picah, mention of other canon characters in minor non-canon settings.
Pairings: Peter/Neal, Neal/Daniel, Peter/Adler, Adler/Neal
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Prostitution, rape, Domination/submission, dubious consent, fuck-or-die scenario, use of gender-specific insults
Word Count: ~56,000
Beta Credit:jrosemary, theatregirl7299 and hoosierbitch
Summary: In some alternate universe, Peter Burke is a wealthy and bored financial advisor and discovers that one of his clients, Elizabeth Mitchell, is using her event planning business to launder profits from an escort service catering to the wealthy gay elite in New York. Instead of turning her in, he asks her to hire him. Neal Caffrey has been recently released from a four-year sentence for bond forgery and learns that his girlfriend, Kate has married his old boyfriend, Matthew Keller and they’ve taken off for parts unknown. Determined not to return to prison, Neal turns to his friend, Mozzie, for help. Moz knows a guy – or in this case – a gal who’s willing to hire Neal. As an escort.
PART TWO - ON LJ | ON DW
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For the first time since they’d met, Peter pitied Neal Caffrey. He’d known Daniel Picah for well over a decade, and the man had gotten worse as he got older. This wasn’t the first time that he’d encountered a client from his other world, which was one of the reasons why he always used his real first time. The clients Elizabeth set him up with were usually smart enough to realize that if someone called him Peter Burke, they wouldn’t need an explanation. Though there were a few particularly dumb bunnies…
Dan’s parents had been his clients first, but they had been killed in a plane crash, leaving their son with too much money and not enough sense. Peter had been one of the estate’s trustees and over the years, had managed to corral the man’s excesses, but couldn’t cure him of bad taste. When Daniel had turned thirty, he inherited everything and Peter’s duties were discharged. It had been about five years since he’d seen him,
Peter had a hard time digesting the coincidence of him being Neal’s “Mr. Wonderful,” not that the world was so small but that he had never figured for Dan being gay. But his own gaydar was not infallible.
Vincent touched his arm, drawing his attention back to him.
He was also a man that Peter couldn’t quite figure out. Since he began working for Elizabeth, he’d been hired by many wealthy men, but no one in the same stratospheric category as Vincent Adler. From what he knew, there were few men as rich as Adler and even fewer who were as ruthless.
On the face of it, there was no earthly reason why he had to hire a companion. After their first “date”; however, Vincent explained it and it made sense. Sort of.
After that, Peter figured that he’d be shown the door and he’d never hear from the man again. El would probably give him a hard time about it, she was charging Adler a fortune, and he was paying it without complaint. But Peter was wrong.
Sex that night wasn’t particularly great, just on the par for most first encounters. Peter didn’t naturally bottom, but he did when he was paid for it. What came afterwards, however, was unexpected. Peter had excused himself and went to shower. He was almost done when the bathroom door opened and Adler joined him. Without a word, he dropped to his knees and started sucking him. Peter leaned back against the tile and let the water cascade as Vincent’s hot mouth worked at his dick. It was clear that he’d rarely given a blow job, but Peter gave him credit for his enthusiasm, and he even found the man’s inexpertness arousing. Maybe it was the incongruity of this master of the universe fumbling as he tried to give pleasure instead of receiving it.
They didn’t talk about it, but when Peter was dressed and walking out the door, Vincent put a hand on his arm, stopping him. “You’ll be available every Wednesday night from now on, without fail.” It wasn’t a question.
Peter thought it was amusing how this man, who, just a few hours ago, made such a point of telling him that he didn’t form ties and wanted only an occasional companion, was now demanding his company. He nodded. “Just let Elizabeth know, she’ll get everything set up. And remember, I do have a forty-eight hour cancellation requirement. You’ll be charged for my time if you don’t call before Tuesday morning.” He wondered if Adler would appreciate how he kept this on a commercial footing.
Adler just nodded and let him go.
They had been seeing each other for over a year before Neal Caffrey interrupted his well-ordered life. Nothing Vincent did bothered him, per se, but as time passed, he couldn’t help but feel that Adler was the one growing attached. Wednesday nights were sacrosanct, but lately he’d been trying to book Peter for days at a time, wanting him to travel with him, not only to his home in Connecticut, but to Europe and Asia. Although Elizabeth had put some pressure on him, she allowed Peter to keep his schedule open.
Tonight had been one of the few evenings when he had agreed to see Vincent on a Friday, and he wasn’t even sure why he had agreed. Maybe it was knowing that Neal would be at the same event. It gave him a perverse pleasure to see Neal in action, reminding him of that evening.
“You’re bored out of your skull, aren’t you?” Vincent’s smooth voice interrupted his musings.
He gave him a wry grin. “Yeah, sorry. Just thinking about what Dan said, back there.”
“Picah? That head-case?”
“He’s a little, well …”
“Crazy?”
“I was going to say, OCD. But he doesn’t have a mean bone in his body.”
“So why were you wasting your time on him?”
“Just thinking about the sword he was talking about. The Go Yoshihiro. I had helped broker his purchase of it about ten years ago. The guy selling it knew it was valuable – his uncle had ‘found’ it after the Japanese surrendered, but he didn’t have any official provenance. It could be the missing Honjo Masamune, a Japanese national treasure. Returning it would be quite a coup for your foundation.”
All Vincent would say was “I’ll consider it.”
Peter dropped the subject and tried to enjoy the meal, except that he was all too conscious of Neal, a dozen feet away. This wasn’t the first time they’d been at the same event, but it was the first time their paths had crossed directly. His gut, usually more reliable than his gaydar, told him that something was wrong. Neal was usually more outgoing, and even if Daniel Picah was a bit of a social idiot, Neal was smooth enough to cover for him. Except that this time, he seemed to deliberately stay in the background. Whether it was his own presence, or something else, he’d get an answer later, either when the met at the coffee shop or at home.
The servers came around with coffee and tea a few minutes before the Ballet’s chief fundraiser took the podium to thank everyone for their generous contributions and exhort them to give more. Vincent looked back at the table where Neal and Daniel were sitting, seemed to come to a decision and handed Peter one of his business cards.
“Do me a favor, give this Picah, tell him to call my office to make an appointment. I’ve got a few contacts with the Japanese Embassy, and if it is a missing National Treasure, we’ll broker the return.” Vincent got up. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Peter did as requested, and spent a few minutes chatting with Daniel, or rather, listening to him drone on about a dozen recent acquisitions. Peter didn’t know whether to be amused or dismayed. He wondered how long it was going to be before Daniel ran through the considerable amount of money his parents left him.
It was difficult to break free, but he excused himself when he spotted Vincent heading back to their table.
He wondered where Neal was, but then and again, Neal was a grown man who could take care of himself. They were at a fundraiser for the New York City Ballet, after all. What could happen to him in such refined company?
Vincent seemed unusually relaxed when Peter returned to the tables, his smile was broader, his manner much more expansive than usual in these settings. He almost jumped when Vincent’s hand curved around his thigh, and briefly cupped his groin. Of all the gestures he ever expected this man to make, a semi-public groping was the last on the list.
He looked at Adler, who seemed riveted by the speaker. When the man finished, Vincent was in no hurry to leave; he lingered to chat with several society matrons, even flirting with one unfortunately attired debutante who blushed and stammered for a good five minutes.
The room was almost empty by the time that he signaled Peter to go fetch their coats and have the car brought around. Peter scanned the room; of course Daniel and Neal were long gone.
Back at Vincent’s apartment, they indulged in the usual post-date ritual: a bumper of warmed brandy. Privately, Peter thought the process was a little too Continental, a little too precious, but then Peter Burke would have preferred a cold beer to anything else. Peter Lassen’s tastes were a little more refined.
They touched glasses – another ritual – and the interrogation began.
Adler was smiling at him, triumphant, like he’d just won a prize. “So, Peter, your chickens have come home to roost.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. You’re other life – the one you use to hide what you really do – is out in the open. What do you tell your family about your nights out on the town.”
Ah, so he was looking for leverage. “No family. And I really have nothing to hide. I’m a CPA and a certified financial adviser.”
“And you’re also a paid whore.”
It was interesting how Vincent seemed to relish that last word. “And you’re paying me for my services.”
Vincent started at him for a moment and there was something in his eyes that made the hair on the back Peter’s neck stand up. But the moment passed and Adler laughed. “You’re right, and I’m sorry.”
“No apologies needed. I know what I am; I’m not ashamed of it. No need to pretend otherwise.”
Vincent sipped his brandy. “I can’t figure you out. I’ve been very tempted to have your prints run, to find out who you really are.”
“And what you’d find would be extremely uninteresting, Vincent.”
“Somehow, I doubt that, Peter. You are a puzzle to me, now more than ever.”
He laughed. “Then I’m one of those puzzles without a picture – all of those tiny pieces are white. What you see is what you get.”
“Hmm.” Vincent put down his snifter and held out his hand. “Come on, it’s still early. I want to fuck you.”
Adler had that look in his eye. Peter, a bit irritated by his not-so-subtle attempts at blackmail, turned the tables. He wasn’t in the mood to bottom and something about Vincent’s challenging look told him he wasn’t going to have to. He stood up and took the other man’s arm, looming over him. “No, tonight I’m going to be the one fucking you.”
Vincent’s breath caught, and standing this close to him, Peter could see the desire in his eyes. They had played this game a few times, and Peter had to admit that it gave him a rush to dominate this master of the universe.
“I have something new, something special, if you want…” Adler’s voice was breathy, almost tentative, as if he were afraid of turning Peter off. He licked his lips.
It always amazed Peter how quickly Adler adopted the submissive role, how eager he was to please Peter, how much he wanted Peter’s approval. “Show me.” Peter commanded.
Adler led him to a bedroom – not the one he used when he fucked Peter, but master suite, where Peter took control. He went to the closet and brought out a box.
“Put it on the bed, Vincent.”
He complied. Peter’s commands continued.
“Now, take off your jacket and vest.” It was interesting to see how badly his hands shook. Peter didn’t give him any quarter. “Hurry up.”
Vincent disrobed according to Peter’s instructions, and started to remove his shirt.
“Did I tell you to do that?”
“No.”
“No, what?”
“No sir, you didn’t tell me to take my shirt off.”
Peter had to smile. Vincent had, it seemed, a natural core of submission. “I should punish you for that, but I think, under the circumstances, I’ll let it slide.”
Vincent nodded, keeping his eyes down.
“Take off your shoes and socks.” Peter thought about adding some ridiculously impossible command, but decided against it. They really weren’t Dom/sub, and he wasn’t sure – even after all this time – how far he could push him before Adler would push back.
He walked around Vincent, stalking him. “Are you going to submit to me?”
“Yes. Yes, sir.”
“You like the thought of bending to my will, giving me what I want.” Peter leaned in, thoroughly engaged in the role now. “You like it when I top you. You want your paid whore to take you, to fuck you. You want me to shove my dick up your ass and make you cry.”
Of course he did. Adler’s own cock was tenting the front of his trousers, practically pulsing with desire. Peter cupped it, squeezing gently, and Adler moaned. He squeezed again, not so gently and that moan became a panting whimper. Peter let go.
He opened the box on the bed and his eyes went wide. Peter had expected a toy, maybe a butt plug, maybe a pair of cuff, a gag. He wasn’t expecting all of that, plus clamps and a cock ring. He picked up the hard plastic plug; it was as big as his two fists put together, ridged at the base. Something designed for someone with a lot more experience than his client, but …
He shoved it under Vincent’s nose. “You’re going to take this and you’re going to let me open you up like a ripe peach.”
Vincent licked it, as if he thought his spit would be enough lube.
“Maybe I shouldn’t use any lube. I can just split you, make you bleed.”
Adler reared back, going pale.
Ah, so that’s the boundary. He took the plug away, tossing it on the bed. “Maybe not. I think I want to breach your ass with my dick. You’re always so tight, like a virgin.” A part of Peter, the ordinary man who used to counsel people and companies about their finances, rolled his eyes at the dialogue, but Vincent always took so much pleasure in this type of humiliating dialogue. He was flush with arousal again, looking up to Peter, licking his lips.
He pulled Vincent’s tie loose, dropping in on the floor, then ripped his shirt open. The studs went flying, one pinging sharply against the furniture. “Maybe I should make you crawl around, picking them up.” Peter went back to the box. “Or maybe I should just make you wear these.”
He held up the nipple clamps. “I’m going to torture your tits, Vincent. I’m going to make them hurt, and you’re going to like it.” Peter spun him around, so they were front to back and began tugging at Adler’s nipples. The man had a decent physique, not rock hard but well maintained. His tits were tight and responsive, and Peter enjoyed playing with them. He always enjoyed nipple work.
Vincent writhed against him and Peter slapped his flank. “Did I say you could move? Did I give you permission to rub yourself against my cock? You’re just a fucking cat in heat; you want it so bad you can’t control yourself.”
Peter continued to pluck at Vincent’s tits, scuffing the rough edge of his cuticle against the hard buds before pulling and twisting them. They were both getting a thrill out of this, and despite his command not to move, Adler was writhing against him, his ass humping against Peter’s groin. He escalated, putting the nipple clamps on, tightening them slowly. He watched Vincent’s face in the mirror, making sure he wasn’t going too far. Vincent loved this, riding Peter’s fingers and he screwed the clamps down as far as he could.
“How pretty you look, all decorated like a Hunt’s Point hooker.” He tugged on the chain, the flesh distended and Vincent hissed. Peter wasn’t sure, though, what aroused his client more – the pain and submission or the degrading talk.
Holding on to Vincent’s hips, he bit down on the man’s earlobe and commanded, “Undo your pants; take your cock out, slut.”
This time, Adler was careful to obey the limits of his instruction, opening his fly with shaking hands, dragging out a monstrously erect cock. Peter didn’t think he’d ever seen the man so aroused.
“I bet you want me to touch your cock, you want to ride my hand and come all over yourself like a teenage boy.” No answer was required as Adler’s cock twitched and jerked. “But I’m not going to. I’m going to make you suffer. Get the cock ring out of the box.”
Adler walked, stiff-legged, back to the bed and retrieved the loop of pliable silicone, handing it to Peter with a pleading look.
“I was going to enjoy putting this on you, but somehow I think you’d enjoy it more.” He handed it back to Vincent. “Put it on; roll it all the way down to your balls.” He obeyed.
Peter examined Adler’s now-bound cock, giving it an experimental stroke. “Good – maybe next time I’ll get you a bright pink one with an attached butt plug. You can try and try and try to make yourself come and fail miserably.”
Adler whimpered again. It was definitely the verbal abuse he liked.
“You’re a failure, you know that. You need to come and you can only do it if you pay for it. You need whores. You are sick and twisted and pathetic, aren’t you?”
Vincent didn’t answer and Peter slapped his cock.
“Aren’t you?”
Adler nodded.
“Say it.”
“I’m pathetic, I need … I need to pay for sex. I can’t come unless I pay for it.”
“Good.” A little praise would keep things rolling. “On your knees, that’s where a pathetic freak like you belongs.” He stepped away from Adler.
Obedience was instant. Vincent dropped to the floor and opened his mouth. In the year or so that Adler had been paying him for sex, he’d topped the man maybe a dozen times. But Adler seemed to develop a preference for sucking his cock and had gotten better at it. Tonight, though, Peter was going to try something different. He opened his own pants and pulled out his cock, cradling it in his palm.
“Crawl.”
Adler shuffled over to him and Peter smacked his dick against his face, leaving streaks of precome across his cheek. He rubbed it against the man’s face, trailing his cock head against his eyelids, his brows, down the side of that too-patrician nose before smacking his face again. He held Vincent’s head still. “I’m going to use you like the cunt you are, so no dirty whore’s tricks, no sucking, no humming. Just open your mouth and make this last.”
Peter fucked Adler’s face, his hips lazily rocking back, taking his time. He was aroused but this whole exercise left him mentally cold. He was dominant, but the humiliation he inflicted on Adler was not something he particularly enjoyed. He’d do it, he’d come, collect his fee and leave.
Adler moaned, bringing his attention back to the task at hand. “If you can still make sounds, you can take more of my dick in your mouth. Peter thrust deeper, faster, only pulling out when he started to feel his balls tingle with the precursor to orgasm. There was no way he’d be up for a second round, and Vincent wouldn’t be pleased if he wasn’t fucked in the ass tonight.
“On the bed, slut. But crawl.” Adler fumbled to the bed, still half-dressed. Peter jeered at him, “Not very graceful, are you.”
He took a condom out of his wallet, stripped of his clothes, and rolled it on. He went over to the bed where Adler waited, face down, tuxedo pants and boxers around his knees, the torn shirt tangled up at his shoulder blades.
Peter slapped Vincent’s ass twice, hard. “Where’s the slick, you prissy bitch?” In his head, Peter blushed, he sounded worse than the cheesiest porno ever made. But Adler loved it, bucking back, trying to make contact with him.
“The night table. There’s lube in there.”
And there was, the type Peter preferred – silicone based, tasted nasty but was the best for anal sex. This and the toys made him wonder how long Vincent had been thinking about this scene.
Peter took his time with the prep, stretching Adler’s tight hole, all the while keeping up a stream of filthy, degrading talk. Vincent was rocking back and forth, fucking himself on Peter’s hand, whimpering and whining. “You’re such a bitch in heat. You’d fuck my hand if I let you.”
Which he wasn’t going to do. He had limits, even with clients, and fisting was on the other side of that line. Wiping his fingers against Vincent’s sweaty back, Peter slapped his ass again and positioned his cock against the now-stretched hole and pushed. He wasn’t gentle, he didn’t go slowly. He just sank in as far as he could go.
“Fuck yourself – do the work, slut.”
Absolutely obedient, Vincent rocked himself back and forth, slamming back hard. It didn’t take much to put Peter over the edge. He clamped his hands on the other man’s hips and held him still as he took over, whipping his own hips back and forth, riding out the pleasure.
Peter leaned over Vincent, exhausted. But he wasn’t done, not just yet. Adler was still hard and for the first time that night, Peter touched his dick. Unwilling to start again, Peter pulled out of the other man with little ceremony and started to stroke his partner, knowing that with the ring still on, it would be difficult for him to come, but not impossible.
“Should I leave you like this?”
“No, please, Peter. Don’t. I need to come.”
“You’re pathetic, you know that.”
“Yes, please.” Vincent was whining and thrusting into Peter’s fist. It took some work, but he was able to pull an orgasm out of him. Adler ejaculated onto his belly with a shout. Peter just was relieved it was over.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Adler didn’t move as Peter left the bedroom and headed to the shower. His body and mind completely satisfied for the first time in a long time. These forays into the sinkhole of submission were rare, but so pleasurable. He had recognized, from the first, that Peter was like him, a natural dominant, and he enjoyed the man’s submission to him. Twisting the natural order of things, perverting those needs, that was what he did best. And it was a natural extension of his nature to twist and pervert his own needs.
Peter came out of the bathroom and came over to the bed. “Are you okay?”
He might be a whore, but he certainly had manners.
“I’m fine. Thank you. Your tip is on the bar in the den.” Best to keep things on a commercial footing for now. But that was going to change soon enough.
Light bloomed and died as Peter left the room and shut the door behind him. Vincent relaxed and let sleep claim him. His last conscious thoughts were delicious; Peter fucking him as he plowed into Neal Caffrey’s sweet ass or maybe watching as Peter shoved is dick down Neal’s throat, making him cry and gag and choke. His satiated cock twitched at the memory of the humiliation he forced on Neal in the bathroom.
Maybe Peter would like to play those games on Neal, too.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
It was close to two-thirty AM when Peter left Adler’s apartment and headed for The Lantern on Broadway near 68th Street. The coffee shop was one of those traditional New York institutions where you could get any type of coffee you wanted, provided it came out of the automatic drip coffee maker behind the counter. The brew was terrible, but it was always hot and breakfast was on the menu twenty-four hours a day.
Peter slid into a booth facing the doorway and waited for Neal. They began this arrangement a week after Neal had moved it, although there was no reason for it, other than it was a nice way to reset the normal in his life. Most nights, meeting him here was a convenience, a way to spend a little more time on neutral ground with someone he liked a little too much.
But tonight, the scene with Adler left him off-kilter. One might think that doing what he did would mean lots of kinky, high-risk encounters, but the truth of it was that what most of his clients wanted plain vanilla sex. Scenes like tonight were rare, and it left him in a weird headspace. He was good at compartmentalizing, but sometimes it took a little more effort than usual.
Nothing, though, that a little coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs couldn’t fix. Seeing Neal would help, too, probably more that the coffee and eggs. Not that they’d talk about work, which was a rule he was adamant about following. Just enjoying his company, a little light conversation, it reoriented him, made it easier to separate the man he pretended to be with the man he really was.
And to be honest, just thinking about Neal made the scene with Adler recede into unimportance. It hadn’t taken long for him to realize that his new apartment mate was going to change his life, upset the quiet steadiness of his days. He resented it at first, and even now, after two months, Peter wasn’t quite sure why he gave into Elizabeth’s suggestion and let Caffrey move in. He didn’t need a roommate, he didn’t want a roommate, but there was something about Neal – and it wasn’t just the memory of their spectacular encounter – that spoke to the empty part of his soul.
Peter knew he should have asked Elizabeth for at least a few basic details about the man he was giving house space too, but he didn’t. In the back of his mind, Peter figured that he could have a background check run himself if it became necessary. But as the days became weeks that turned into months, he got to know a little more about Neal and he liked what he saw. There was a deep vulnerability beneath the charming surface, and an intelligence that almost bordered on genius. Going around his back, digging for his history seemed like an invasion of privacy.
El said he was okay, and Peter knew her long enough to know that she wouldn’t risk her business by hiring an axe-murderer. But someday soon, Peter was going to have a long talk with Neal. There were too many holes, too many gaps in what he had told Peter about himself that made Peter wonder just who he really was.
Waiting for Neal, he could admit it to himself that he was falling for Neal Caffrey. It showed in the craziness of meeting him at an all-night coffee show after they both spent the evening fucking for money. Except that he liked this hour, he liked seeing Neal when the other man was unguarded, open, less wary. Maybe because it reminded him of the night Peter Cullinan spent talking to Nick Halden. Maybe in his head, he was sitting here and drinking bad coffee with Nick, not Neal. Maybe he was in love with an phantom.
Maybe he was crazy.
Actually, he was sure he was crazy. He knew that Neal was attracted to him, and his gut told him that the attraction was real, not some holdover fascination from an extraordinary sexual encounter. Yet, every night he went to bed by himself. Every day he gently put Neal off. Every moment he spent in the man’s company was torture of the most refined sort.
He didn’t understand himself. But then, he was a wealthy man who got paid for fucking. What was the sense in that?
“Hon, you sure you don’t want to order?” The waitress, Stella, refilled his coffee from the orange rimmed pot. The decaf was only five percent less likely to burn a hole in his gut.
“No, I’ll wait.” It was a quarter to three and Neal was late. Another ten minutes passed before he thought to check his phone. Shit. The damn thing was still on mute. Neal had texted him over three hours ago.
Not feeling well, didn’t go to Dan’s. Came home.
Well, that explained why Neal wasn’t here. Peter dropped a five on the table and left. The coffee shop was conveniently close to the subway, but he was lucky. A cab was discharging a fare in front of the shop and Peter hopped in. At three in the morning, the cross-town trip took less than ten minutes.
The unease Peter had sensed earlier in the evening magnified when he entered the dark apartment. Neal’s bedroom door was shut and he didn’t want to disturb him if he was sick. He noticed, though, that the light was in the bathroom Neal used and went to see why. Peter was surprised to see that Neal, usually the most fastidious of men, had left his clothes piled on the floor.
The mess annoyed him, but it worried him too. Neal had been inordinately excited about buying a new tuxedo, dithering between this Tom Ford and a Briony. Both were ridiculously expensive, but Neal had argued that a good tuxedo was essential. Privately, Peter thought that five grand for a monkey suit was insane, but given their profession and who they “socialized” with, he could understand.
He should have stepped over the pile of clothes, leaving it for Neal to deal with in the morning, except that Neal wouldn’t have left this mess if he wasn’t sick. He picked everything up, putting the suit to one side and dumping the rest in hamper. Peter sighed and pulled Neal’s shirt out of the pile. That needed to go to the cleaners with his suit. But something caught his eye, an odd yellowish stain on the shirttail.
He fingered the stiff fabric, recognizing instantly what the stain was: dried semen.
Alarm bells went off in his gut as pieces fell into place: Neal’s odd behavior before dinner, his absence from the table when he was talking with Daniel, his “illness” afterwards. Peter took the shirt into his office and turned on his desk lamp, examining the fabric under the bright light. There were stains on the front, and the back, and stretching at the buttonholes across the chest.
Peter sat back, drawing conclusions he didn’t want to. And an earlier thought came back to haunt him, What could happen to him in such refined company? A lot, apparently.
He folded the shirt and turn off the lamp. His head hurt, his heart hurt, but he wondered if he was seeing things that weren’t there. There could be a dozen benign explanations for this – starting with a consensual encounter.
Peter went to bed but it was close to dawn before he slept.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Neal woke, disoriented, with an aching head and a sour stomach. For a few moments he wasn’t sure where he was. The bed was too soft for prison, there was way too much light for one of Mozzie’s safe houses (he only shared the underground facilities these days), and the scent of brewing coffee made him realize that this wasn’t a hotel, either.
The memory of last night came rushing back – Adler in the men’s room, Daniel taking him home. Home – Peter’s apartment. With that recognition came another realization. He was safe. Whatever happened last night wasn’t a precursor to anything. He’d just have to take care not to cross Adler’s path again.
Neal pushed back the covers, shocked to realize that he was naked. Prison had cured him of the any preference to sleeping so vulnerable. He must have been really out of it last night.
A check of the bedside clock showed in was almost eleven. Peter had probably been awake for hours, and would give him a dirty look when he went into the kitchen. That man never seemed to need much sleep, up at seven every damn morning, no matter what time he got home.
Neal went to the bathroom, and saw his tuxedo neatly piled on the counter. He vaguely remembered letting his clothes drop on the floor before getting into the shower and washing Adler’s stain off. He dressed and went in search of the coffee that woke him. He went in search of Peter.
True to form, Peter was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the Saturday portion of the Sunday times. But he looked remarkably disheveled, deep circles under his eyes, signs of strain at the corner of his mouth.
“How are you feeling?” The question seemed fraught with subtext, or maybe he was projecting.
“Much better – sorry about bailing on you last night. I think there was something in something I ate. Or maybe just a twelve-hour bug.” He smiled casually and poured himself a cup of coffee. “You have a good evening?” That thought gave him pause, Peter had been Adler’s companion that night and his brain shied away from the thought of Vincent doing to Peter what he used to do – what he did – to Neal.
“My evening was just fine.” Peter’s bland tone gave anything away. “Just a little worried about you.”
“I’m okay, and thanks for picking up after me. I won’t be such a slob again.”
“Don’t worry about it, you were ill.”
“But I’m fine now.”
Peter gave him a searching look, his face far too grave for Neal’s comfort. But then he asked a completely unexpected question. “If you’re free until Monday, would you like to go away for the weekend?”
Neal’s heart leaped at the offer. “I actually think I’m at loose ends today and tomorrow, but I thought you had that thing at the Met?”
“Nah – it got cancelled. Simon decided to go to Ibiza and I told Elizabeth not to rebook me. I could use some time away. Hope you’d like to join me.”
The offer was put casually, but Neal couldn’t help but hope. “Where do you want to go?”
“There’s a quiet place I know outside of Lake George, about a four hour drive from here. Good service, good food, nice rooms. It might be too cold out to paint, but you could do some sketching if you wanted.”
Neal was intrigued, Peter sounded so diffident. “I’ll pack my sketchbook and pencils.”
But Peter wasn’t quite done selling the weekend, even though Neal was sold. “Do you ride?”
“Horseback? Yeah?”
“They have a stable and some nice trails.”
“I don’t – I can’t picture you on horseback.” Neal chuckled, but suddenly aroused by the idea of Peter in riding clothes.
“Oh, yeah. I ride, even did show jumping in my long-gone youth.”
That image was even better. Peter in boots and very tight jodhpurs, carrying a crop, wearing leather gloves. He turned back to the counter, hiding his sudden erection.
“So, does any of this appeal?”
“Yeah, very much. When can we leave?”
“It’s a little before noon now. Can you be ready by one?”
“Yeah – are we renting a car?”
“Nope – no need. I’ve got one garaged.”
“You’re just full of surprises today, aren’t you?” Neal wondered what Peter drove, when he drove. Probably something practical.
It wasn’t. Neal waited at the curb, overnight bag slung over his shoulder, while Peter pulled up in a classic Corvette Sting Ray.
Peter grinned at him from the driver’s seat. “I know it’s not really practical for living in the city, but I can’t bear to part with it.”
“No need to apologize for driving a ‘73 ‘Vette. Where did you get it?”
“My college graduation present. I spent the next three summers restoring it. It was impractical then, too.”
Peter wasn’t inclined to conversation as they drove north out of the city. Neal had a connoisseur’s appreciation for fine automobiles, and while the Europeans often looked down at the American upstart, a Corvette, particularly this vintage, was a sweet ride. “Don’t suppose you’d let me drive?”
“Can you handle this?”
“I once drove a Ferrarri Enzo from Maranello to Geneva.”
“Oh?”
“It was a delivery run.” Neal wasn’t going to tell Peter that he was delivering the car to someone who hadn’t actually purchased it.
“Okay.” A little north of Tarrytown, Peter pulled off of the highway and let Neal get behind the wheel, a remarkably generous gesture.
The power felt good, and as they left the suburbs behind, Neal opened her up.
“You know, if we get a ticket, it’s going to be on your head, not mine.” Peter frowned. “You do have insurance, right?”
“Ummm, no need. I don’t own a car.”
“You have a license, though?”
Neal kept his eyes on the road, but he could help but lick his lips. “Actually, I kind of let it lapse. Haven’t lived where I needed to drive.” Well, for four years, Neal George Caffrey didn’t. His license had been up for renewal when he was in Sing-Sing, and this time around, he’d need an eye test and a new picture. That was just too much to manage from the confines of a maximum security prison. Nick Halden, however, had a very current driver’s license. Several, actually. Even one from New York State. Peter didn’t need to know that.
“Do me a favor, Neal…”
He figured that Peter was going to tell him to pull over and give him back the wheel.
“Keep it under the speed limit, okay? Bailing you out of jail isn’t on my agenda this weekend.”
Neal smiled, throttled down, and kept it under sixty-five. “Sure.”
The inn Peter had booked was a hell of a lot more than Neal expected (he somehow had the idea that they’d be staying in a converted farmhouse or a full service version of a bed and breakfast). Instead, this place was replica of a French chateau – probably built as some millionaire’s cottage before the world got small.
“A nice quiet place, Peter?”
Peter just shrugged and took the keys from Neal, only to toss them to the valet.
Neal knew that nothing was ever completely without problems – it was all how you managed them. At check-in, the receptionist was terribly sorry, but the two-bedroom suite Peter had reserved had been double booked and those guests had already checked in. Would they have a problem taking a lakeside suite with a king-sized bed, a hot tub on the terrace and complimentary Champagne? It was an upgrade.
Peter looked like he was about to make a stink, which seemed very unlike him. Neal stepped in, “Yes, that would be fine, if you include two horseback rentals for tomorrow.”
The woman smiled in relief. “Yes, that I can do.” She signaled to the bellhop and asked him to show them to their room. “Your bags will be brought up right away.”
Peter didn’t say anything until they got to the room, staring out the window at the darkening sky while they waited for their luggage.
Neal, however, explored the suite. The bed was huge, and if he couldn’t seduce Peter, they could practically sleep in separate time zones. The promised hot tub was already bubbling and with a flick of a switch, the gas fireplace burst into cheery flames. All in all, a very pleasant and romantic place to spend the next few nights.
Their luggage arrived, and on the heels of the bell boy, a waiter came with the complimentary bottle of Champagne, and from the orange label, Neal guessed it to be Veuve Cliquot. He was right. Peter tipped both men and shut the door behind them.
“Neal …”
“What’s the matter?” As if he didn’t know. “Are you afraid for your virtue?” Neal’s tone was lightly mocking.
“No, but I’m worried about yours.”
Neal stopped in the middle of removing the foil around the top of the bottle. His heart skipped a beat. “Oh, my virtue’s long gone.”
“Neal …” Peter repeated in that same strange tone.
“Peter…” Neal mocked him. “I’ve been sending out signals for months, I was beginning to wonder if that night was all just the test that El set up. Because whenever I think about it, it seems like there was a lot more than that.”
Peter sighed, he looked like he was about to say something and then thought better of it. He smiled and whatever cloud that had been hanging over him disappeared. “No, it wasn’t just a test, and yes – you’re right.”
“Then why have you been playing coy?” Neal put the Champagne back in the ice bucket and went over to Peter. “We’re both adult, well past the age of consent. And you can’t tell me it’s because of the work.”
“No. Not hardly.” Peter shook his head. “Sometimes life hands you something. Something so good that it’s almost impossible to believe it’s real. Something you haven’t earned. Something you don’t have the right to take.”
“I bet that if you found a wallet full of cash on the street, you’d move heaven and earth to return it.”
“Exactly right. That’s who I am. It’s old fashioned, and maybe I’m an old fashioned kind of guy, but the work I do – whether it’s accounting, escorting, or whoring – equals a certain things in the real world. Beautiful men don’t fall out of the sky and land at my feet.”
“So, you don’t trust me?”
“No, Neal. I don’t trust myself. And that’s the sad truth of the matter.”
“You’ve been hurt.” He wasn’t asking a question.
“I’ve learned my lesson.”
Neal was suddenly, blindingly angry. Who could break this wonderful man so badly that he couldn’t even trust his own heart? “I could have him killed, if you want. I’ve got friends.”
“Neal!” The way Peter said his name, that shocked laugh, told him volumes. He wasn’t completely ruined.
“I could…” He wanted to say so much more, he wanted to pour out his feelings, all the longing, but it was the wrong time for that. Soon, though. Very soon. Instead, he pulled Peter into his arms, close and tight. “The past is over, the future could be difficult, but the now … it’s perfect. Don’t look beyond that.”
“Carpe diem, Neal?”
“There’s nothing wrong with seizing the day. And here’s a perfect example of why.” He kissed Peter, all hunger and aggression. And Peter, true to his own nature, let Neal go so far and no further.
They waltzed back into the bedroom, clothes flying, shoes flying. Neal landed on his back, and looking up at Peter, he couldn’t help but think how much he looked like a lion about to pounce. Until Peter stopped, a look of panic on his face.
“What’s the matter?”
“Condoms – did you bring any?”
“You mean you brought me here really expecting to spend the weekend playing gin?”
“No – yes – fuck, I don’t know. I was out and meant to stop and get. I forgot.”
Neal rolled out from under Peter and pawed through his bag. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m such a boy scout.” He tossed a leather case on the bed. “A fresh box of Trojans, a fresh bottle of lube. I wasn’t planning on taking ‘no’ for an answer.”
He finished taking off his clothes and looked at Peter, stretched out on the bed like a pasha, wearing just his briefs, distorted by his erection and one black sock. This was perhaps the most erotic thing Neal had ever seen. That night at the Bryant Park Hotel, Neal hadn’t really had the chance to appreciate Peter’s body. He had loved the man’s heat and mass, the gentle way he used his strength. Peter was so perfectly dominant; he exercised control as naturally as breathing that Neal couldn’t image him as anything but that.
But maybe tonight, Peter would let him take charge, work his own brand of magic. And Peter did, until he decided that he needed to create some magic of his own, in his own gentle, indomitable fashion.
For a brief time in his life, Neal considered the night he spent in a New York hotel room with an over-worked businessman named Peter Cullinan to be the pinnacle of his sexual experiences. That night paled in comparison to this. They were more than two bodies seeking surcease, they were men discovering the truth about themselves, even if they weren’t ready for it.
END PART THREE - GO TO PART FOUR - ON LJ | ON DW
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Mozzie, Elizabeth Mitchell, Diana Berrigan, Clinton Jones, Vincent Adler, Daniel Picah, mention of other canon characters in minor non-canon settings.
Pairings: Peter/Neal, Neal/Daniel, Peter/Adler, Adler/Neal
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Prostitution, rape, Domination/submission, dubious consent, fuck-or-die scenario, use of gender-specific insults
Word Count: ~56,000
Beta Credit:
jrosemary, theatregirl7299 and hoosierbitch Summary: In some alternate universe, Peter Burke is a wealthy and bored financial advisor and discovers that one of his clients, Elizabeth Mitchell, is using her event planning business to launder profits from an escort service catering to the wealthy gay elite in New York. Instead of turning her in, he asks her to hire him. Neal Caffrey has been recently released from a four-year sentence for bond forgery and learns that his girlfriend, Kate has married his old boyfriend, Matthew Keller and they’ve taken off for parts unknown. Determined not to return to prison, Neal turns to his friend, Mozzie, for help. Moz knows a guy – or in this case – a gal who’s willing to hire Neal. As an escort.
PART TWO - ON LJ | ON DW
For the first time since they’d met, Peter pitied Neal Caffrey. He’d known Daniel Picah for well over a decade, and the man had gotten worse as he got older. This wasn’t the first time that he’d encountered a client from his other world, which was one of the reasons why he always used his real first time. The clients Elizabeth set him up with were usually smart enough to realize that if someone called him Peter Burke, they wouldn’t need an explanation. Though there were a few particularly dumb bunnies…
Dan’s parents had been his clients first, but they had been killed in a plane crash, leaving their son with too much money and not enough sense. Peter had been one of the estate’s trustees and over the years, had managed to corral the man’s excesses, but couldn’t cure him of bad taste. When Daniel had turned thirty, he inherited everything and Peter’s duties were discharged. It had been about five years since he’d seen him,
Peter had a hard time digesting the coincidence of him being Neal’s “Mr. Wonderful,” not that the world was so small but that he had never figured for Dan being gay. But his own gaydar was not infallible.
Vincent touched his arm, drawing his attention back to him.
He was also a man that Peter couldn’t quite figure out. Since he began working for Elizabeth, he’d been hired by many wealthy men, but no one in the same stratospheric category as Vincent Adler. From what he knew, there were few men as rich as Adler and even fewer who were as ruthless.
On the face of it, there was no earthly reason why he had to hire a companion. After their first “date”; however, Vincent explained it and it made sense. Sort of.
“I have no intention of forming any permanent attachments.”
They were relaxing in Vincent’s pied-à-terre – a relatively modest terraced apartment on Central Park West, after a performance of Boito’s “Mephistopheles”. Peter, who hated opera, spent the evening doing trigonometry in his head to stay awake. He was paying for that now, having a hard time focusing on anything except sine, cosine and tangent. Vincent’s bald pronouncement snapped his attention out of the mathematical.
“Sorry?”
“You’re probably wondering why I’ve hired you.”
“The thought had crossed my mind,” Peter replied cautiously.
Vincent’s smile was remarkably shark-like. “Like I said, I have no interest in having a wife – or a husband, for that matter. Dating, in the traditional sense, leads to all sorts of expectations, and keeping someone – let’s use the term ‘mistress’ even though it’s far too gender specific – isn’t practical.”
Peter understood what he was saying. “Since you’re not married, there would always be some level of expectation.”
“Right. Hiring your services, however, eliminates that. If we keep our relationship to a series of transactions, I’m not going to worry that you’ll get clingy and jealous. You’ll have your own interests, your own life.”
Peter thought that this logic was flawed, but said nothing. He had no interest in permanency, either especially not with a client, even one as wealthy and handsome as Vincent Adler. Come to think of it, even if their paths had crossed in a less mercenary fashion, he still wouldn’t have that urge.
“So, we’re clear, Peter? I hire you for an evening now and then, and you treat me as you’d treat any of your professional engagements.”
“I’m not sure what you mean by that?”
“You let me fuck you, collect your fee and leave.”
Ah. Never one to fully close off his options, Peter idly noted, “Or you’d let me fuck you, then pay my fee, and I’d leave.”
That seemed to throw Adler off. He stood there, blinking, as if the thought of bottoming had never occurred to him at any point in his life. Even in the half light of the library, Peter could see Vincent swallow and lick his lips. “Yes, well, that’s always a possibility.”
They were relaxing in Vincent’s pied-à-terre – a relatively modest terraced apartment on Central Park West, after a performance of Boito’s “Mephistopheles”. Peter, who hated opera, spent the evening doing trigonometry in his head to stay awake. He was paying for that now, having a hard time focusing on anything except sine, cosine and tangent. Vincent’s bald pronouncement snapped his attention out of the mathematical.
“Sorry?”
“You’re probably wondering why I’ve hired you.”
“The thought had crossed my mind,” Peter replied cautiously.
Vincent’s smile was remarkably shark-like. “Like I said, I have no interest in having a wife – or a husband, for that matter. Dating, in the traditional sense, leads to all sorts of expectations, and keeping someone – let’s use the term ‘mistress’ even though it’s far too gender specific – isn’t practical.”
Peter understood what he was saying. “Since you’re not married, there would always be some level of expectation.”
“Right. Hiring your services, however, eliminates that. If we keep our relationship to a series of transactions, I’m not going to worry that you’ll get clingy and jealous. You’ll have your own interests, your own life.”
Peter thought that this logic was flawed, but said nothing. He had no interest in permanency, either especially not with a client, even one as wealthy and handsome as Vincent Adler. Come to think of it, even if their paths had crossed in a less mercenary fashion, he still wouldn’t have that urge.
“So, we’re clear, Peter? I hire you for an evening now and then, and you treat me as you’d treat any of your professional engagements.”
“I’m not sure what you mean by that?”
“You let me fuck you, collect your fee and leave.”
Ah. Never one to fully close off his options, Peter idly noted, “Or you’d let me fuck you, then pay my fee, and I’d leave.”
That seemed to throw Adler off. He stood there, blinking, as if the thought of bottoming had never occurred to him at any point in his life. Even in the half light of the library, Peter could see Vincent swallow and lick his lips. “Yes, well, that’s always a possibility.”
After that, Peter figured that he’d be shown the door and he’d never hear from the man again. El would probably give him a hard time about it, she was charging Adler a fortune, and he was paying it without complaint. But Peter was wrong.
Sex that night wasn’t particularly great, just on the par for most first encounters. Peter didn’t naturally bottom, but he did when he was paid for it. What came afterwards, however, was unexpected. Peter had excused himself and went to shower. He was almost done when the bathroom door opened and Adler joined him. Without a word, he dropped to his knees and started sucking him. Peter leaned back against the tile and let the water cascade as Vincent’s hot mouth worked at his dick. It was clear that he’d rarely given a blow job, but Peter gave him credit for his enthusiasm, and he even found the man’s inexpertness arousing. Maybe it was the incongruity of this master of the universe fumbling as he tried to give pleasure instead of receiving it.
They didn’t talk about it, but when Peter was dressed and walking out the door, Vincent put a hand on his arm, stopping him. “You’ll be available every Wednesday night from now on, without fail.” It wasn’t a question.
Peter thought it was amusing how this man, who, just a few hours ago, made such a point of telling him that he didn’t form ties and wanted only an occasional companion, was now demanding his company. He nodded. “Just let Elizabeth know, she’ll get everything set up. And remember, I do have a forty-eight hour cancellation requirement. You’ll be charged for my time if you don’t call before Tuesday morning.” He wondered if Adler would appreciate how he kept this on a commercial footing.
Adler just nodded and let him go.
They had been seeing each other for over a year before Neal Caffrey interrupted his well-ordered life. Nothing Vincent did bothered him, per se, but as time passed, he couldn’t help but feel that Adler was the one growing attached. Wednesday nights were sacrosanct, but lately he’d been trying to book Peter for days at a time, wanting him to travel with him, not only to his home in Connecticut, but to Europe and Asia. Although Elizabeth had put some pressure on him, she allowed Peter to keep his schedule open.
Tonight had been one of the few evenings when he had agreed to see Vincent on a Friday, and he wasn’t even sure why he had agreed. Maybe it was knowing that Neal would be at the same event. It gave him a perverse pleasure to see Neal in action, reminding him of that evening.
“You’re bored out of your skull, aren’t you?” Vincent’s smooth voice interrupted his musings.
He gave him a wry grin. “Yeah, sorry. Just thinking about what Dan said, back there.”
“Picah? That head-case?”
“He’s a little, well …”
“Crazy?”
“I was going to say, OCD. But he doesn’t have a mean bone in his body.”
“So why were you wasting your time on him?”
“Just thinking about the sword he was talking about. The Go Yoshihiro. I had helped broker his purchase of it about ten years ago. The guy selling it knew it was valuable – his uncle had ‘found’ it after the Japanese surrendered, but he didn’t have any official provenance. It could be the missing Honjo Masamune, a Japanese national treasure. Returning it would be quite a coup for your foundation.”
All Vincent would say was “I’ll consider it.”
Peter dropped the subject and tried to enjoy the meal, except that he was all too conscious of Neal, a dozen feet away. This wasn’t the first time they’d been at the same event, but it was the first time their paths had crossed directly. His gut, usually more reliable than his gaydar, told him that something was wrong. Neal was usually more outgoing, and even if Daniel Picah was a bit of a social idiot, Neal was smooth enough to cover for him. Except that this time, he seemed to deliberately stay in the background. Whether it was his own presence, or something else, he’d get an answer later, either when the met at the coffee shop or at home.
The servers came around with coffee and tea a few minutes before the Ballet’s chief fundraiser took the podium to thank everyone for their generous contributions and exhort them to give more. Vincent looked back at the table where Neal and Daniel were sitting, seemed to come to a decision and handed Peter one of his business cards.
“Do me a favor, give this Picah, tell him to call my office to make an appointment. I’ve got a few contacts with the Japanese Embassy, and if it is a missing National Treasure, we’ll broker the return.” Vincent got up. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Peter did as requested, and spent a few minutes chatting with Daniel, or rather, listening to him drone on about a dozen recent acquisitions. Peter didn’t know whether to be amused or dismayed. He wondered how long it was going to be before Daniel ran through the considerable amount of money his parents left him.
It was difficult to break free, but he excused himself when he spotted Vincent heading back to their table.
He wondered where Neal was, but then and again, Neal was a grown man who could take care of himself. They were at a fundraiser for the New York City Ballet, after all. What could happen to him in such refined company?
Vincent seemed unusually relaxed when Peter returned to the tables, his smile was broader, his manner much more expansive than usual in these settings. He almost jumped when Vincent’s hand curved around his thigh, and briefly cupped his groin. Of all the gestures he ever expected this man to make, a semi-public groping was the last on the list.
He looked at Adler, who seemed riveted by the speaker. When the man finished, Vincent was in no hurry to leave; he lingered to chat with several society matrons, even flirting with one unfortunately attired debutante who blushed and stammered for a good five minutes.
The room was almost empty by the time that he signaled Peter to go fetch their coats and have the car brought around. Peter scanned the room; of course Daniel and Neal were long gone.
Back at Vincent’s apartment, they indulged in the usual post-date ritual: a bumper of warmed brandy. Privately, Peter thought the process was a little too Continental, a little too precious, but then Peter Burke would have preferred a cold beer to anything else. Peter Lassen’s tastes were a little more refined.
They touched glasses – another ritual – and the interrogation began.
Adler was smiling at him, triumphant, like he’d just won a prize. “So, Peter, your chickens have come home to roost.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. You’re other life – the one you use to hide what you really do – is out in the open. What do you tell your family about your nights out on the town.”
Ah, so he was looking for leverage. “No family. And I really have nothing to hide. I’m a CPA and a certified financial adviser.”
“And you’re also a paid whore.”
It was interesting how Vincent seemed to relish that last word. “And you’re paying me for my services.”
Vincent started at him for a moment and there was something in his eyes that made the hair on the back Peter’s neck stand up. But the moment passed and Adler laughed. “You’re right, and I’m sorry.”
“No apologies needed. I know what I am; I’m not ashamed of it. No need to pretend otherwise.”
Vincent sipped his brandy. “I can’t figure you out. I’ve been very tempted to have your prints run, to find out who you really are.”
“And what you’d find would be extremely uninteresting, Vincent.”
“Somehow, I doubt that, Peter. You are a puzzle to me, now more than ever.”
He laughed. “Then I’m one of those puzzles without a picture – all of those tiny pieces are white. What you see is what you get.”
“Hmm.” Vincent put down his snifter and held out his hand. “Come on, it’s still early. I want to fuck you.”
Adler had that look in his eye. Peter, a bit irritated by his not-so-subtle attempts at blackmail, turned the tables. He wasn’t in the mood to bottom and something about Vincent’s challenging look told him he wasn’t going to have to. He stood up and took the other man’s arm, looming over him. “No, tonight I’m going to be the one fucking you.”
Vincent’s breath caught, and standing this close to him, Peter could see the desire in his eyes. They had played this game a few times, and Peter had to admit that it gave him a rush to dominate this master of the universe.
“I have something new, something special, if you want…” Adler’s voice was breathy, almost tentative, as if he were afraid of turning Peter off. He licked his lips.
It always amazed Peter how quickly Adler adopted the submissive role, how eager he was to please Peter, how much he wanted Peter’s approval. “Show me.” Peter commanded.
Adler led him to a bedroom – not the one he used when he fucked Peter, but master suite, where Peter took control. He went to the closet and brought out a box.
“Put it on the bed, Vincent.”
He complied. Peter’s commands continued.
“Now, take off your jacket and vest.” It was interesting to see how badly his hands shook. Peter didn’t give him any quarter. “Hurry up.”
Vincent disrobed according to Peter’s instructions, and started to remove his shirt.
“Did I tell you to do that?”
“No.”
“No, what?”
“No sir, you didn’t tell me to take my shirt off.”
Peter had to smile. Vincent had, it seemed, a natural core of submission. “I should punish you for that, but I think, under the circumstances, I’ll let it slide.”
Vincent nodded, keeping his eyes down.
“Take off your shoes and socks.” Peter thought about adding some ridiculously impossible command, but decided against it. They really weren’t Dom/sub, and he wasn’t sure – even after all this time – how far he could push him before Adler would push back.
He walked around Vincent, stalking him. “Are you going to submit to me?”
“Yes. Yes, sir.”
“You like the thought of bending to my will, giving me what I want.” Peter leaned in, thoroughly engaged in the role now. “You like it when I top you. You want your paid whore to take you, to fuck you. You want me to shove my dick up your ass and make you cry.”
Of course he did. Adler’s own cock was tenting the front of his trousers, practically pulsing with desire. Peter cupped it, squeezing gently, and Adler moaned. He squeezed again, not so gently and that moan became a panting whimper. Peter let go.
He opened the box on the bed and his eyes went wide. Peter had expected a toy, maybe a butt plug, maybe a pair of cuff, a gag. He wasn’t expecting all of that, plus clamps and a cock ring. He picked up the hard plastic plug; it was as big as his two fists put together, ridged at the base. Something designed for someone with a lot more experience than his client, but …
He shoved it under Vincent’s nose. “You’re going to take this and you’re going to let me open you up like a ripe peach.”
Vincent licked it, as if he thought his spit would be enough lube.
“Maybe I shouldn’t use any lube. I can just split you, make you bleed.”
Adler reared back, going pale.
Ah, so that’s the boundary. He took the plug away, tossing it on the bed. “Maybe not. I think I want to breach your ass with my dick. You’re always so tight, like a virgin.” A part of Peter, the ordinary man who used to counsel people and companies about their finances, rolled his eyes at the dialogue, but Vincent always took so much pleasure in this type of humiliating dialogue. He was flush with arousal again, looking up to Peter, licking his lips.
He pulled Vincent’s tie loose, dropping in on the floor, then ripped his shirt open. The studs went flying, one pinging sharply against the furniture. “Maybe I should make you crawl around, picking them up.” Peter went back to the box. “Or maybe I should just make you wear these.”
He held up the nipple clamps. “I’m going to torture your tits, Vincent. I’m going to make them hurt, and you’re going to like it.” Peter spun him around, so they were front to back and began tugging at Adler’s nipples. The man had a decent physique, not rock hard but well maintained. His tits were tight and responsive, and Peter enjoyed playing with them. He always enjoyed nipple work.
Vincent writhed against him and Peter slapped his flank. “Did I say you could move? Did I give you permission to rub yourself against my cock? You’re just a fucking cat in heat; you want it so bad you can’t control yourself.”
Peter continued to pluck at Vincent’s tits, scuffing the rough edge of his cuticle against the hard buds before pulling and twisting them. They were both getting a thrill out of this, and despite his command not to move, Adler was writhing against him, his ass humping against Peter’s groin. He escalated, putting the nipple clamps on, tightening them slowly. He watched Vincent’s face in the mirror, making sure he wasn’t going too far. Vincent loved this, riding Peter’s fingers and he screwed the clamps down as far as he could.
“How pretty you look, all decorated like a Hunt’s Point hooker.” He tugged on the chain, the flesh distended and Vincent hissed. Peter wasn’t sure, though, what aroused his client more – the pain and submission or the degrading talk.
Holding on to Vincent’s hips, he bit down on the man’s earlobe and commanded, “Undo your pants; take your cock out, slut.”
This time, Adler was careful to obey the limits of his instruction, opening his fly with shaking hands, dragging out a monstrously erect cock. Peter didn’t think he’d ever seen the man so aroused.
“I bet you want me to touch your cock, you want to ride my hand and come all over yourself like a teenage boy.” No answer was required as Adler’s cock twitched and jerked. “But I’m not going to. I’m going to make you suffer. Get the cock ring out of the box.”
Adler walked, stiff-legged, back to the bed and retrieved the loop of pliable silicone, handing it to Peter with a pleading look.
“I was going to enjoy putting this on you, but somehow I think you’d enjoy it more.” He handed it back to Vincent. “Put it on; roll it all the way down to your balls.” He obeyed.
Peter examined Adler’s now-bound cock, giving it an experimental stroke. “Good – maybe next time I’ll get you a bright pink one with an attached butt plug. You can try and try and try to make yourself come and fail miserably.”
Adler whimpered again. It was definitely the verbal abuse he liked.
“You’re a failure, you know that. You need to come and you can only do it if you pay for it. You need whores. You are sick and twisted and pathetic, aren’t you?”
Vincent didn’t answer and Peter slapped his cock.
“Aren’t you?”
Adler nodded.
“Say it.”
“I’m pathetic, I need … I need to pay for sex. I can’t come unless I pay for it.”
“Good.” A little praise would keep things rolling. “On your knees, that’s where a pathetic freak like you belongs.” He stepped away from Adler.
Obedience was instant. Vincent dropped to the floor and opened his mouth. In the year or so that Adler had been paying him for sex, he’d topped the man maybe a dozen times. But Adler seemed to develop a preference for sucking his cock and had gotten better at it. Tonight, though, Peter was going to try something different. He opened his own pants and pulled out his cock, cradling it in his palm.
“Crawl.”
Adler shuffled over to him and Peter smacked his dick against his face, leaving streaks of precome across his cheek. He rubbed it against the man’s face, trailing his cock head against his eyelids, his brows, down the side of that too-patrician nose before smacking his face again. He held Vincent’s head still. “I’m going to use you like the cunt you are, so no dirty whore’s tricks, no sucking, no humming. Just open your mouth and make this last.”
Peter fucked Adler’s face, his hips lazily rocking back, taking his time. He was aroused but this whole exercise left him mentally cold. He was dominant, but the humiliation he inflicted on Adler was not something he particularly enjoyed. He’d do it, he’d come, collect his fee and leave.
Adler moaned, bringing his attention back to the task at hand. “If you can still make sounds, you can take more of my dick in your mouth. Peter thrust deeper, faster, only pulling out when he started to feel his balls tingle with the precursor to orgasm. There was no way he’d be up for a second round, and Vincent wouldn’t be pleased if he wasn’t fucked in the ass tonight.
“On the bed, slut. But crawl.” Adler fumbled to the bed, still half-dressed. Peter jeered at him, “Not very graceful, are you.”
He took a condom out of his wallet, stripped of his clothes, and rolled it on. He went over to the bed where Adler waited, face down, tuxedo pants and boxers around his knees, the torn shirt tangled up at his shoulder blades.
Peter slapped Vincent’s ass twice, hard. “Where’s the slick, you prissy bitch?” In his head, Peter blushed, he sounded worse than the cheesiest porno ever made. But Adler loved it, bucking back, trying to make contact with him.
“The night table. There’s lube in there.”
And there was, the type Peter preferred – silicone based, tasted nasty but was the best for anal sex. This and the toys made him wonder how long Vincent had been thinking about this scene.
Peter took his time with the prep, stretching Adler’s tight hole, all the while keeping up a stream of filthy, degrading talk. Vincent was rocking back and forth, fucking himself on Peter’s hand, whimpering and whining. “You’re such a bitch in heat. You’d fuck my hand if I let you.”
Which he wasn’t going to do. He had limits, even with clients, and fisting was on the other side of that line. Wiping his fingers against Vincent’s sweaty back, Peter slapped his ass again and positioned his cock against the now-stretched hole and pushed. He wasn’t gentle, he didn’t go slowly. He just sank in as far as he could go.
“Fuck yourself – do the work, slut.”
Absolutely obedient, Vincent rocked himself back and forth, slamming back hard. It didn’t take much to put Peter over the edge. He clamped his hands on the other man’s hips and held him still as he took over, whipping his own hips back and forth, riding out the pleasure.
Peter leaned over Vincent, exhausted. But he wasn’t done, not just yet. Adler was still hard and for the first time that night, Peter touched his dick. Unwilling to start again, Peter pulled out of the other man with little ceremony and started to stroke his partner, knowing that with the ring still on, it would be difficult for him to come, but not impossible.
“Should I leave you like this?”
“No, please, Peter. Don’t. I need to come.”
“You’re pathetic, you know that.”
“Yes, please.” Vincent was whining and thrusting into Peter’s fist. It took some work, but he was able to pull an orgasm out of him. Adler ejaculated onto his belly with a shout. Peter just was relieved it was over.
Adler didn’t move as Peter left the bedroom and headed to the shower. His body and mind completely satisfied for the first time in a long time. These forays into the sinkhole of submission were rare, but so pleasurable. He had recognized, from the first, that Peter was like him, a natural dominant, and he enjoyed the man’s submission to him. Twisting the natural order of things, perverting those needs, that was what he did best. And it was a natural extension of his nature to twist and pervert his own needs.
Peter came out of the bathroom and came over to the bed. “Are you okay?”
He might be a whore, but he certainly had manners.
“I’m fine. Thank you. Your tip is on the bar in the den.” Best to keep things on a commercial footing for now. But that was going to change soon enough.
Light bloomed and died as Peter left the room and shut the door behind him. Vincent relaxed and let sleep claim him. His last conscious thoughts were delicious; Peter fucking him as he plowed into Neal Caffrey’s sweet ass or maybe watching as Peter shoved is dick down Neal’s throat, making him cry and gag and choke. His satiated cock twitched at the memory of the humiliation he forced on Neal in the bathroom.
Maybe Peter would like to play those games on Neal, too.
It was close to two-thirty AM when Peter left Adler’s apartment and headed for The Lantern on Broadway near 68th Street. The coffee shop was one of those traditional New York institutions where you could get any type of coffee you wanted, provided it came out of the automatic drip coffee maker behind the counter. The brew was terrible, but it was always hot and breakfast was on the menu twenty-four hours a day.
Peter slid into a booth facing the doorway and waited for Neal. They began this arrangement a week after Neal had moved it, although there was no reason for it, other than it was a nice way to reset the normal in his life. Most nights, meeting him here was a convenience, a way to spend a little more time on neutral ground with someone he liked a little too much.
But tonight, the scene with Adler left him off-kilter. One might think that doing what he did would mean lots of kinky, high-risk encounters, but the truth of it was that what most of his clients wanted plain vanilla sex. Scenes like tonight were rare, and it left him in a weird headspace. He was good at compartmentalizing, but sometimes it took a little more effort than usual.
Nothing, though, that a little coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs couldn’t fix. Seeing Neal would help, too, probably more that the coffee and eggs. Not that they’d talk about work, which was a rule he was adamant about following. Just enjoying his company, a little light conversation, it reoriented him, made it easier to separate the man he pretended to be with the man he really was.
And to be honest, just thinking about Neal made the scene with Adler recede into unimportance. It hadn’t taken long for him to realize that his new apartment mate was going to change his life, upset the quiet steadiness of his days. He resented it at first, and even now, after two months, Peter wasn’t quite sure why he gave into Elizabeth’s suggestion and let Caffrey move in. He didn’t need a roommate, he didn’t want a roommate, but there was something about Neal – and it wasn’t just the memory of their spectacular encounter – that spoke to the empty part of his soul.
Peter knew he should have asked Elizabeth for at least a few basic details about the man he was giving house space too, but he didn’t. In the back of his mind, Peter figured that he could have a background check run himself if it became necessary. But as the days became weeks that turned into months, he got to know a little more about Neal and he liked what he saw. There was a deep vulnerability beneath the charming surface, and an intelligence that almost bordered on genius. Going around his back, digging for his history seemed like an invasion of privacy.
El said he was okay, and Peter knew her long enough to know that she wouldn’t risk her business by hiring an axe-murderer. But someday soon, Peter was going to have a long talk with Neal. There were too many holes, too many gaps in what he had told Peter about himself that made Peter wonder just who he really was.
Waiting for Neal, he could admit it to himself that he was falling for Neal Caffrey. It showed in the craziness of meeting him at an all-night coffee show after they both spent the evening fucking for money. Except that he liked this hour, he liked seeing Neal when the other man was unguarded, open, less wary. Maybe because it reminded him of the night Peter Cullinan spent talking to Nick Halden. Maybe in his head, he was sitting here and drinking bad coffee with Nick, not Neal. Maybe he was in love with an phantom.
Maybe he was crazy.
Actually, he was sure he was crazy. He knew that Neal was attracted to him, and his gut told him that the attraction was real, not some holdover fascination from an extraordinary sexual encounter. Yet, every night he went to bed by himself. Every day he gently put Neal off. Every moment he spent in the man’s company was torture of the most refined sort.
He didn’t understand himself. But then, he was a wealthy man who got paid for fucking. What was the sense in that?
“Hon, you sure you don’t want to order?” The waitress, Stella, refilled his coffee from the orange rimmed pot. The decaf was only five percent less likely to burn a hole in his gut.
“No, I’ll wait.” It was a quarter to three and Neal was late. Another ten minutes passed before he thought to check his phone. Shit. The damn thing was still on mute. Neal had texted him over three hours ago.
Not feeling well, didn’t go to Dan’s. Came home.
Well, that explained why Neal wasn’t here. Peter dropped a five on the table and left. The coffee shop was conveniently close to the subway, but he was lucky. A cab was discharging a fare in front of the shop and Peter hopped in. At three in the morning, the cross-town trip took less than ten minutes.
The unease Peter had sensed earlier in the evening magnified when he entered the dark apartment. Neal’s bedroom door was shut and he didn’t want to disturb him if he was sick. He noticed, though, that the light was in the bathroom Neal used and went to see why. Peter was surprised to see that Neal, usually the most fastidious of men, had left his clothes piled on the floor.
The mess annoyed him, but it worried him too. Neal had been inordinately excited about buying a new tuxedo, dithering between this Tom Ford and a Briony. Both were ridiculously expensive, but Neal had argued that a good tuxedo was essential. Privately, Peter thought that five grand for a monkey suit was insane, but given their profession and who they “socialized” with, he could understand.
He should have stepped over the pile of clothes, leaving it for Neal to deal with in the morning, except that Neal wouldn’t have left this mess if he wasn’t sick. He picked everything up, putting the suit to one side and dumping the rest in hamper. Peter sighed and pulled Neal’s shirt out of the pile. That needed to go to the cleaners with his suit. But something caught his eye, an odd yellowish stain on the shirttail.
He fingered the stiff fabric, recognizing instantly what the stain was: dried semen.
Alarm bells went off in his gut as pieces fell into place: Neal’s odd behavior before dinner, his absence from the table when he was talking with Daniel, his “illness” afterwards. Peter took the shirt into his office and turned on his desk lamp, examining the fabric under the bright light. There were stains on the front, and the back, and stretching at the buttonholes across the chest.
Peter sat back, drawing conclusions he didn’t want to. And an earlier thought came back to haunt him, What could happen to him in such refined company? A lot, apparently.
He folded the shirt and turn off the lamp. His head hurt, his heart hurt, but he wondered if he was seeing things that weren’t there. There could be a dozen benign explanations for this – starting with a consensual encounter.
Peter went to bed but it was close to dawn before he slept.
Neal woke, disoriented, with an aching head and a sour stomach. For a few moments he wasn’t sure where he was. The bed was too soft for prison, there was way too much light for one of Mozzie’s safe houses (he only shared the underground facilities these days), and the scent of brewing coffee made him realize that this wasn’t a hotel, either.
The memory of last night came rushing back – Adler in the men’s room, Daniel taking him home. Home – Peter’s apartment. With that recognition came another realization. He was safe. Whatever happened last night wasn’t a precursor to anything. He’d just have to take care not to cross Adler’s path again.
Neal pushed back the covers, shocked to realize that he was naked. Prison had cured him of the any preference to sleeping so vulnerable. He must have been really out of it last night.
A check of the bedside clock showed in was almost eleven. Peter had probably been awake for hours, and would give him a dirty look when he went into the kitchen. That man never seemed to need much sleep, up at seven every damn morning, no matter what time he got home.
Neal went to the bathroom, and saw his tuxedo neatly piled on the counter. He vaguely remembered letting his clothes drop on the floor before getting into the shower and washing Adler’s stain off. He dressed and went in search of the coffee that woke him. He went in search of Peter.
True to form, Peter was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the Saturday portion of the Sunday times. But he looked remarkably disheveled, deep circles under his eyes, signs of strain at the corner of his mouth.
“How are you feeling?” The question seemed fraught with subtext, or maybe he was projecting.
“Much better – sorry about bailing on you last night. I think there was something in something I ate. Or maybe just a twelve-hour bug.” He smiled casually and poured himself a cup of coffee. “You have a good evening?” That thought gave him pause, Peter had been Adler’s companion that night and his brain shied away from the thought of Vincent doing to Peter what he used to do – what he did – to Neal.
“My evening was just fine.” Peter’s bland tone gave anything away. “Just a little worried about you.”
“I’m okay, and thanks for picking up after me. I won’t be such a slob again.”
“Don’t worry about it, you were ill.”
“But I’m fine now.”
Peter gave him a searching look, his face far too grave for Neal’s comfort. But then he asked a completely unexpected question. “If you’re free until Monday, would you like to go away for the weekend?”
Neal’s heart leaped at the offer. “I actually think I’m at loose ends today and tomorrow, but I thought you had that thing at the Met?”
“Nah – it got cancelled. Simon decided to go to Ibiza and I told Elizabeth not to rebook me. I could use some time away. Hope you’d like to join me.”
The offer was put casually, but Neal couldn’t help but hope. “Where do you want to go?”
“There’s a quiet place I know outside of Lake George, about a four hour drive from here. Good service, good food, nice rooms. It might be too cold out to paint, but you could do some sketching if you wanted.”
Neal was intrigued, Peter sounded so diffident. “I’ll pack my sketchbook and pencils.”
But Peter wasn’t quite done selling the weekend, even though Neal was sold. “Do you ride?”
“Horseback? Yeah?”
“They have a stable and some nice trails.”
“I don’t – I can’t picture you on horseback.” Neal chuckled, but suddenly aroused by the idea of Peter in riding clothes.
“Oh, yeah. I ride, even did show jumping in my long-gone youth.”
That image was even better. Peter in boots and very tight jodhpurs, carrying a crop, wearing leather gloves. He turned back to the counter, hiding his sudden erection.
“So, does any of this appeal?”
“Yeah, very much. When can we leave?”
“It’s a little before noon now. Can you be ready by one?”
“Yeah – are we renting a car?”
“Nope – no need. I’ve got one garaged.”
“You’re just full of surprises today, aren’t you?” Neal wondered what Peter drove, when he drove. Probably something practical.
It wasn’t. Neal waited at the curb, overnight bag slung over his shoulder, while Peter pulled up in a classic Corvette Sting Ray.
Peter grinned at him from the driver’s seat. “I know it’s not really practical for living in the city, but I can’t bear to part with it.”
“No need to apologize for driving a ‘73 ‘Vette. Where did you get it?”
“My college graduation present. I spent the next three summers restoring it. It was impractical then, too.”
Peter wasn’t inclined to conversation as they drove north out of the city. Neal had a connoisseur’s appreciation for fine automobiles, and while the Europeans often looked down at the American upstart, a Corvette, particularly this vintage, was a sweet ride. “Don’t suppose you’d let me drive?”
“Can you handle this?”
“I once drove a Ferrarri Enzo from Maranello to Geneva.”
“Oh?”
“It was a delivery run.” Neal wasn’t going to tell Peter that he was delivering the car to someone who hadn’t actually purchased it.
“Okay.” A little north of Tarrytown, Peter pulled off of the highway and let Neal get behind the wheel, a remarkably generous gesture.
The power felt good, and as they left the suburbs behind, Neal opened her up.
“You know, if we get a ticket, it’s going to be on your head, not mine.” Peter frowned. “You do have insurance, right?”
“Ummm, no need. I don’t own a car.”
“You have a license, though?”
Neal kept his eyes on the road, but he could help but lick his lips. “Actually, I kind of let it lapse. Haven’t lived where I needed to drive.” Well, for four years, Neal George Caffrey didn’t. His license had been up for renewal when he was in Sing-Sing, and this time around, he’d need an eye test and a new picture. That was just too much to manage from the confines of a maximum security prison. Nick Halden, however, had a very current driver’s license. Several, actually. Even one from New York State. Peter didn’t need to know that.
“Do me a favor, Neal…”
He figured that Peter was going to tell him to pull over and give him back the wheel.
“Keep it under the speed limit, okay? Bailing you out of jail isn’t on my agenda this weekend.”
Neal smiled, throttled down, and kept it under sixty-five. “Sure.”
The inn Peter had booked was a hell of a lot more than Neal expected (he somehow had the idea that they’d be staying in a converted farmhouse or a full service version of a bed and breakfast). Instead, this place was replica of a French chateau – probably built as some millionaire’s cottage before the world got small.
“A nice quiet place, Peter?”
Peter just shrugged and took the keys from Neal, only to toss them to the valet.
Neal knew that nothing was ever completely without problems – it was all how you managed them. At check-in, the receptionist was terribly sorry, but the two-bedroom suite Peter had reserved had been double booked and those guests had already checked in. Would they have a problem taking a lakeside suite with a king-sized bed, a hot tub on the terrace and complimentary Champagne? It was an upgrade.
Peter looked like he was about to make a stink, which seemed very unlike him. Neal stepped in, “Yes, that would be fine, if you include two horseback rentals for tomorrow.”
The woman smiled in relief. “Yes, that I can do.” She signaled to the bellhop and asked him to show them to their room. “Your bags will be brought up right away.”
Peter didn’t say anything until they got to the room, staring out the window at the darkening sky while they waited for their luggage.
Neal, however, explored the suite. The bed was huge, and if he couldn’t seduce Peter, they could practically sleep in separate time zones. The promised hot tub was already bubbling and with a flick of a switch, the gas fireplace burst into cheery flames. All in all, a very pleasant and romantic place to spend the next few nights.
Their luggage arrived, and on the heels of the bell boy, a waiter came with the complimentary bottle of Champagne, and from the orange label, Neal guessed it to be Veuve Cliquot. He was right. Peter tipped both men and shut the door behind them.
“Neal …”
“What’s the matter?” As if he didn’t know. “Are you afraid for your virtue?” Neal’s tone was lightly mocking.
“No, but I’m worried about yours.”
Neal stopped in the middle of removing the foil around the top of the bottle. His heart skipped a beat. “Oh, my virtue’s long gone.”
“Neal …” Peter repeated in that same strange tone.
“Peter…” Neal mocked him. “I’ve been sending out signals for months, I was beginning to wonder if that night was all just the test that El set up. Because whenever I think about it, it seems like there was a lot more than that.”
Peter sighed, he looked like he was about to say something and then thought better of it. He smiled and whatever cloud that had been hanging over him disappeared. “No, it wasn’t just a test, and yes – you’re right.”
“Then why have you been playing coy?” Neal put the Champagne back in the ice bucket and went over to Peter. “We’re both adult, well past the age of consent. And you can’t tell me it’s because of the work.”
“No. Not hardly.” Peter shook his head. “Sometimes life hands you something. Something so good that it’s almost impossible to believe it’s real. Something you haven’t earned. Something you don’t have the right to take.”
“I bet that if you found a wallet full of cash on the street, you’d move heaven and earth to return it.”
“Exactly right. That’s who I am. It’s old fashioned, and maybe I’m an old fashioned kind of guy, but the work I do – whether it’s accounting, escorting, or whoring – equals a certain things in the real world. Beautiful men don’t fall out of the sky and land at my feet.”
“So, you don’t trust me?”
“No, Neal. I don’t trust myself. And that’s the sad truth of the matter.”
“You’ve been hurt.” He wasn’t asking a question.
“I’ve learned my lesson.”
Neal was suddenly, blindingly angry. Who could break this wonderful man so badly that he couldn’t even trust his own heart? “I could have him killed, if you want. I’ve got friends.”
“Neal!” The way Peter said his name, that shocked laugh, told him volumes. He wasn’t completely ruined.
“I could…” He wanted to say so much more, he wanted to pour out his feelings, all the longing, but it was the wrong time for that. Soon, though. Very soon. Instead, he pulled Peter into his arms, close and tight. “The past is over, the future could be difficult, but the now … it’s perfect. Don’t look beyond that.”
“Carpe diem, Neal?”
“There’s nothing wrong with seizing the day. And here’s a perfect example of why.” He kissed Peter, all hunger and aggression. And Peter, true to his own nature, let Neal go so far and no further.
They waltzed back into the bedroom, clothes flying, shoes flying. Neal landed on his back, and looking up at Peter, he couldn’t help but think how much he looked like a lion about to pounce. Until Peter stopped, a look of panic on his face.
“What’s the matter?”
“Condoms – did you bring any?”
“You mean you brought me here really expecting to spend the weekend playing gin?”
“No – yes – fuck, I don’t know. I was out and meant to stop and get. I forgot.”
Neal rolled out from under Peter and pawed through his bag. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m such a boy scout.” He tossed a leather case on the bed. “A fresh box of Trojans, a fresh bottle of lube. I wasn’t planning on taking ‘no’ for an answer.”
He finished taking off his clothes and looked at Peter, stretched out on the bed like a pasha, wearing just his briefs, distorted by his erection and one black sock. This was perhaps the most erotic thing Neal had ever seen. That night at the Bryant Park Hotel, Neal hadn’t really had the chance to appreciate Peter’s body. He had loved the man’s heat and mass, the gentle way he used his strength. Peter was so perfectly dominant; he exercised control as naturally as breathing that Neal couldn’t image him as anything but that.
But maybe tonight, Peter would let him take charge, work his own brand of magic. And Peter did, until he decided that he needed to create some magic of his own, in his own gentle, indomitable fashion.
For a brief time in his life, Neal considered the night he spent in a New York hotel room with an over-worked businessman named Peter Cullinan to be the pinnacle of his sexual experiences. That night paled in comparison to this. They were more than two bodies seeking surcease, they were men discovering the truth about themselves, even if they weren’t ready for it.
Tags:
- character: clinton jones,
- character: daniel picah,
- character: diana berrigan,
- character: elizabeth burke,
- character: mozzie,
- character: neal caffrey,
- character: peter burke,
- character: sara ellis,
- character: vincent adler,
- genre: alternative universe,
- genre: angst,
- genre: case fic,
- genre: emotional trauma,
- genre: first time,
- genre: hurt/comfort,
- genre: neal as artist,
- genre: romance,
- kink: d/s,
- kink: dirty talk,
- kink: dub-con/non-con,
- kink: fuck-or-die,
- kink: leather,
- kink: nipple play,
- kink: prostitution,
- pairing: neal/adler,
- pairing: peter/adler,
- pairing: peter/neal,
- type: fan fiction,
- type: longfic,
- white collar,
- written for: wcpairings,
- year: 2013
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2013-07-07 12:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-09 04:06 pm (UTC)And maybe if I hadn't run out of time, you might have gotten more!
no subject
Date: 2013-07-09 04:13 pm (UTC)That said...
Timestamps??? :-D
no subject
Date: 2013-07-09 04:15 pm (UTC)Neal and Peter recovering
Moz and El's friendship
And maybe El and Diana (that had always been planned...just ran out of time).
no subject
Date: 2013-07-09 04:54 pm (UTC)