Peter lies back in the bath and thinks about Neal's ankle. He once read somewhere that a forbidden flash of ankle could arouse a Victorian man unbearably and he can understand that reaction better now. Neal's tagged, collared, captured, owned…by him. It’s a rush, no doubt about it.

He pictures the tracker snug around the fine-boned ankle, always present, a comforting weight -- or a chafing, irritating reminder to Neal of his own failure to win a single round of the game they're playing. Maybe both. The times it's been removed, Peter's always been quick to replace it with the cool clasp of metal (a watch to go around Neal's thin, strong wrist; how appropriate. It's all that he does -- watch Neal, study him, learn him) or a replacement. The thought of Neal without the tracker makes Peter's skin itch and crawl, his hands clasping, clutching air, the way they're…busy now.

He's got to stop giving Neal orders at work. He's hard before he's finished speaking, his mouth dry with lust. Neal protests, gracefully, politely, but he always submits, walking away to search for a file, look up a number, fetch a coffee Peter will sip once and leave to go cold.

He's training Neal. It's a process.

But as come clouds the cooling water he lies in, a visible, if fleeting reminder of how easily Neal can mess with his head -- both of them -- Peter wonders if it doesn't go both ways, if he's not giving Neal exactly what's wanted by the man he's obsessed with.

A floorboard creaks and he looks up to see Elizabeth watching him, a smile shaping her mouth into a curve he wants to kiss, her knowing eyes telling him that she's been standing there a while, hearing him grunt out a name that's not hers, and that she wants him, needs him inside her, inside that slick, welcoming, demanding heat.

She's more patient than he is, but she won't have to wait long before he's hard again. He's never had a problem satisfying both of them in their different ways, and when there's more than just the conjured thought of Neal in their bed, he'll prove it.

He gets out and reaches for the towel. If it were Neal in front of him, smiling like this, Peter would make him fetch it, make Neal use it with a careful respect to dry him, but he doesn't -- ever -- give Elizabeth orders. He just follows hers. And she wants Neal as much as he does.

Peter thinks of Elizabeth with Neal and shivers, his nipples hardening, his breath coming quick and unsteady as his cocks fills and rises.

It's going to be good. It's going to be so fucking good --

 

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