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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