Kodachrome, AU-Peter/Neal, NC-17, 1/2

[coffeethyme4me]

Title: Kodachrome
Pairing: AU!Peter/Neal (past Peter/El, past Neal/Keller)
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~19,000
Content: AU, exhibitionism, mild violence
Summary: Peter's a photographer; Neal's a model. Companionship didn't pay the bills. Taking nudie shots of college guys with giant erections would.
A/N: I started this story for elrhiarhodan…I don't know when. Two years ago? More? But I somehow lost my ability to keep going on it and couldn't get it back. She was alpha reading it for me at the time and gave it so much love and encouragement. I always felt bad that I couldn't finish it for her. So now, two years later, I somehow managed to finish it, and it gives me great pleasure to present it to my best friend as her birthday present this year. Elr, you're amazing. I hope you have the best year yet, my friend. Much love always! <3



He wasn’t exactly starving when he took the job, but things were bleak enough that a straight guy working on a gay skin mag didn’t seem like too bad of an idea. Ever since his girlfriend, Elizabeth, had told him she’d fallen for some MBA cohort of hers named Clinton Jones - “Clint”, said in barely disguised wistful tones - and she’d moved out, Peter had been having to pay the rent on the place they’d shared, and he was doing it without her financial aid. Things were getting tight. And lonely. But companionship didn’t pay the bills. Taking nudie shots of college guys with giant erections would.

He’d taken some pictures of, if not nude girls, scantily clad ones for another magazine about three months ago. They’d turned out all right. Good enough to get him recommended for this job. Good enough to keep him from having to work his father’s garage over the summer again.

Peter was twenty-seven, close to broke, and it was hard enough to ignore his father’s voice in his head telling him that that camera was a waste of good money, and pointing it at stuff wasn’t good for anything. Peter loved photography. He knew he had talent. He knew someday he’d be great at it; he’d be successful. He’d scrub the axle grease off forever and finally be his own person.

But first, he’d have to live with taking close-ups of guys’ shaved butts and coming home alone to eat microwave dinners.

He arrived on the set for his first day not knowing if he’d worn the right clothes (jeans and a dress shirt), if he was about to make a fool of himself, if he would live through this. He wasn’t homophobic in the least, but it was sort of a stretch to go from gay-is-okay to having a guy adjust the sit of his sac for you. He wiped his palms on his jeans and found the magazine’s editor in a corner talking to the lighting guy. Peter had to wonder how much control he’d have over his own shoot; the lady looked like she meant business. He waited off to the side until she was done.

“And I don’t want that pink gel from last time -- it made Dan look sunburned.”

“Sure thing, Ms. Berrigan,” the guy said in between smacks of his gum.

She turned to Peter and stuck out her hand. “Peter Burke. The new photographer. I’m Diana Berrigan, and you don’t have to call me Ms. Berrigan, all right? I don’t know why everybody does that.”

At her forceful handshake, Peter didn’t have to wonder why everyone did just that.

She didn’t give him a chance to speak. “Okay. So. You’ll have the set all to yourself this afternoon. You’ll have,” she looked at a clipboard, “Ben, then Josh, and then…” she flipped a page up, “Neal. It’s a monosyllabic day, what can I tell you? I’ll get you set up and started - you know, the basic ropes - but after what I saw in your portfolio, you really know your way around a camera, so I don’t foresee any problems, do you? Right. So this is Carl and Jimmy and Sandra. They’ll fix whatever you want, the way you want it - lighting, backdrop, props, what have you. But they don’t fluff. All right? That’s Kevin or Matthew, and that’s kept on the down low, so to speak, okay? We’re not a porn set, but we need the shots we need, understand?”

The entire time, she’d been pulling him along by the elbow, pointing to people, taking his bag from him. She was a type-A New York goddess. She made Peter speechless. But he was a man of few words anyway.

Fluffers.

They had fluffers.

Peter swallowed and tried to look professional.

“Anything you need, just ask. You’ve got free rein, pretty much. Just give me some great looks, all right?”

“But no pink gels,” he added, finally finding his voice.

She grinned and smacked him on the shoulder. “You’re gonna work out fine here, Peter Burke.” Then she said, “You’re straight, right?”

He swallowed again. “Uh, yeah?”

“That’s probably good. Better work ethic. I’m a lesbian, so the dick doesn’t distract me, you know? All right, well I gotta get home or Julie’s gonna have my ass.” She winked at him, smacked him on the shoulder again, and then was gone.

Carl, Jimmy, and Sandra looked at him expectantly, silent. He smiled and tried to feel confident. “Okay then. I’m Peter. Let’s get set up, all right?”

*

It was easier than he’d expected. Ben had come out in a robe. He had an easy smile. When he shook Peter’s hand, he kept his pelvis as far away as possible, and Peter took this for a sign of respect. Ben was just a normal, easy-going guy. Somebody he wouldn’t mind having a beer with.

And then he dropped his robe, and he was naked, and his dick was half-hard, and Peter watched him stroke himself almost absently as Peter told him how to sit on the barstool, how much to lean back, and Jimmy fussed over Ben’s hair with a spray bottle and a comb.

It was surreal. Peter only blushed a little bit. He never once choked on his words. He got some great shots. Vanilla, but great. Peter hoped it was a good start and that just having Ben touch himself and arch and things wasn’t too boring. He’d perused back issues of Rentboy to see what was appropriate, and while some shoots bordered on obscene, most seemed tasteful, geared toward people who rented "unrated" movies, not so much XXX. Peter decided to err on the side of caution, and if he could tell anything from the crew’s and Ben’s reactions, he’d done well.

“Pleasure working with you,” Ben told him, back in his robe. Poor guy was still erect. Peter wondered if other photographers asked him for the money shot so that he didn’t have to walk away with his cock a ramrod hard handle sticking out of the terrycloth. He did remember plenty of “satisfaction” shots in the magazine. He wondered if he could get away without…orchestrating…any of those for a good while until he was used to things.

Ben wandered away back to the dressing rooms, and Peter let out the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Okay,” he told his crew. “Let’s get a bed set up for the next one.”

*

Josh was a fussy, arrogant ass, and it seemed nothing Peter did or asked for was to his liking. “This isn’t my good side,” “I don’t like these sheets,” “That light is glaring in my eyes,” “No, now it’s too dark,” “My dick is going down.”

Peter averted his eyes when one of the fluffers, possibly Kevin, came out and squeezed Josh’s balls for him.

Sandra leaned over and whispered to him reassuringly, “He’s always like this.”

Peter blocked out Josh’s little whines of pleasure, cleared his throat as Kevin left the set again, and couldn’t help but notice that Josh’s cock was now slick with Kevin’s spit.

Peter adjusted the lens of his camera. “Shall we?” he said.

“I’m waiting,” Josh answered petulantly.

Peter couldn’t wait for this one to be over.

*

He wanted a coffee break. It wasn’t a long work day -- only five hours when all was said and done probably - but Josh had tried Peter’s patience, and he really just wanted to sit and relax before another possible prima donna made an appearance. But he only had his assistants for another hour and a half, and they were union, so he knew they’d be out the door when the minute hand touched the twelve, so he plugged on ahead.

He sighed, shoring up his reserves, at first barely looking up when the last one, Neal, entered the room and walked over to him.

“Hi,” came a soft but friendly voice. “Are you Peter?”

Peter looked up and did a double take. Before him was probably the prettiest person, man or woman, he’d ever seen. Thick dark hair, intelligent blue eyes, a hint of stubble along a jaw cut from marble. Peter couldn’t help but stare. Looking at this guy brought back memories of his advanced photography classes when they’d had to emulate the greats, to really try to make a piece of art out of their work. He was staring at art right now, and it was hard to look away.

Neal was holding out his hand.

“Shit,” Peter said, grabbing Neal’s hand quickly and pumping it up and down. “Sorry, it’s been a long day. Yeah, I’m Peter. You’re Neal?”

“Yeah. Neal Caffrey. It’s nice to meet you, Peter.” He smiled the whole time he talked. Even his teeth were beautiful. His eyes sparkled. “I’ll try not to make your day any longer than it has to be,” Neal promised then.

“Oh, no. It’s okay. I didn’t mean…” Peter said. He realized he was still holding Neal’s hand, no longer shaking. He snatched his hand back.

Neal looked slightly shy and mischievous both. “Josh?” he asked under his breath.

Peter felt the smile spread over his own face. “How’d you know?”

“Oh, who doesn’t know?” Neal laughed. “Rent doesn’t hire him often, just so you know. Angelo’s out sick.”

“Do they hire you a lot?” Son of a bitch. Did that sound like a pick-up line or what?

But Neal just nodded, shifting from one foot to the other. “Yeah, I’m a regular. Columbia’s not cheap.”

“What are you getting your master’s in?” Peter asked.

“Oh, I’m not,” Neal answered. “I’m still fourteen credits away from my undergrad degree. Political Science,” he added.

“Oh. Okay,” Peter said, feeling stupid. He’d thought the kid was his own age; he’d come off as so…together. Not that Peter was all that together. He’d never gone to Columbia. Hell, he’d never even gone to community college in Albany. He was nearing thirty and still living in the shadow of his father’s dashed hopes for him. Peter wondered how old Neal Caffrey really was. Twenty-three-ish? Younger? Peter hoped the kid was at least legal for a drink but then realized that it hardly mattered. The camera would love him no matter what. Peter’s shutter finger was practically itching.

Neal was starting to look nervous, and Peter realized he probably needed to start soon. For physical reasons. He couldn’t help but look down. There was a sizeable bulge under the hands Neal held clasped in front of himself. Very sizeable. No wonder he was a regular. A beauty and hung to boot.

“All right,” Peter said. He’d had a desk set up. Just your average office set: lamp, bookshelf, Ficus. He’d thought to put Neal in a pair of studious-looking glasses and have him perch on the desk. That was before he’d gotten a look at those eyes, of course. He didn’t think he could, in good conscience, hide them. He spoke as he checked the lighting one last time, “After you get your clothes off, if you could hop up on the…”

“I’m going to need just one more minute,” Neal said, and when Peter looked, he was nude, and that sizeable bulge he’d seen was free, and the enormous thing was only half-hard yet. Neal shrugged sheepishly.

Peter gulped. “Take, uh, take your time.”

Neal smiled. “Thanks, Peter.”

It was weird hearing his name from a man with a hard-on. But not bad weird, Peter decided. He busied himself with the boom, but then he couldn’t help sneaking peeks as Neal worked himself, turned away from the camera and crew. Peter got his first view of Neal’s butt, and he almost couldn’t look away. Neal Caffrey had…how could he put it? Well, he had an ass that wouldn’t quit. Peter almost couldn’t wait to take a picture of it.

But then Neal turned around again. “How did you want me?” And his cock was fucking HUGE. Easily nine. Easily. Nine and a half? Ten? It was practically dangerous. It was rosy and glistening at the head and perfect.

Peter forced his eyes to Neal’s face. “Could you lie on the desk?” Peter automatically rejected his original idea out of hand. This man shouldn’t sit; he should lounge. He should be bent over. He should be tied up. Peter couldn’t do anything ordinary with Neal Caffrey, that was for sure. He felt like he’d just been handed a $40,000 Hasselblad when before he’d been using a Polaroid.

“Sure,” Neal said easily. He hopped up on the desk and lay on his side, his head on his hand.

“Lie back,” Peter heard himself say, and this time Neal didn’t speak; he just obeyed, rolling onto his back, his arms loose, ready to be moulded. Someone started some dark and sensuous music playing over the speakers, setting the mood. Peter took a deep breath and looked through the camera, focusing. “Put one arm over your head, hold your cock, and close your eyes.”

He’d said ‘cock’. With the other two men, he’d used the conservative and vague, ‘Hold yourself,’ and they’d known what he wanted. With Neal, he’d said ‘cock’. And Neal did it.

Peter snapped the shot. “Touch the head,” he said. “Lightly.”

Neal did, ghosting his fingers up and tickling them around. The bass was slowly grinding, the music distinctly sexual.

“Good,” Peter said. “Less bright on four,” he called to Carl. “Yeah. Okay.” He snapped another shot. “Can you look at me?” he said then.

“Who, me?” Carl’s booming, inelegant voice came.

Peter watched Neal smile at that through the lens, and Peter, his reflexes honed, snapped the picture fast.

And wow. Neal smiling like that, his eyes still closed, touching himself. Peter could practically imagine winning some kind of porn Pulitzer for it. The shot was gorgeous.

Neal was gorgeous.

“Not you, Carl,” Peter said, smiling himself. “Neal. Look at me, Neal.” Peter felt his blood racing. Then Neal looked right into the camera and did something to his own cock that made him gasp in his breath. Peter took the shot.

He took fifteen more with Neal lying on the desk. It was…synergistic. He almost couldn’t keep up with the perfect moments. Neal knew just what he wanted; he obeyed every command. And the camera loved him. It loved him. Peter had never really seen anything else like it.

“We’ve got five more minutes,” Jimmy warned. “Then we gotta book. You wanna wrap this, Burke?”

“Yeah. Okay,” he said, feeling a strange disappointment. Then he said, impulsively, “No wait. I want to get a few of him bent over the desk.”

“Yeah, sure, all right,” Jimmy replied.

Neal blinked sedately, his cock dripping, and then he slid off the desk, turned around, and laid his chest on it, exposing his ass to the camera. “Like this, Peter?” he called. Peter thought maybe he heard his voice tremble.

“Perfect,” he said. “Just like that, Neal.” He snapped the shot. Without being told, Neal arched his lower back just the tiniest bit. Peter could see the shadow where is asshole was. He snapped the shot. “Can you…touch yourself? Back there?”

Neal reached a hand behind without hesitation and slid a finger down into the crevice.

It was that unfortunately intimate moment that his crew bailed on him.

“See ya, Peter,” Sandra smiled.

“Later,” said Carl.

Jimmy nodded.

Neal looked around. “Should I stay?”

“Can you?”

“Sure.” Neal's voice was breathy.

Peter waited until the sound of shoes on concrete faded, until a door opened and closed, and then they were alone except for the fluffers in the next room. Neal was stroking a slow finger over his entrance, petting it from the bottom up each time. Peter took shot after shot after shot. Neal’s legs began to shake a little. Peter wondered if it was from fatigue or arousal.

He wanted - wanted in a way that scared him - to make Neal penetrate himself.

But he didn’t.

“I think that should do it,” he called. He stepped back from the camera and turned, giving Neal privacy to stand up and shrug his robe back on.

When he heard Neal’s soft footfalls nearing he figured it was safe to look again. Neal was smiling, but it was less gregarious than before. His gaze flicked to Peter’s then away and then back again. He held out his hand once more. The other one. Peter took it. Neal’s hand was very warm. His eyes were dilated. “It was good to meet you, Peter,” Neal said softly.

Peter cleared his throat. He sounded too distant, too gruff, when he replied, “Yeah, you, too.” He noticed that Neal was in a blue silk Japanese robe. It was feminine and pretty and clung to his muscular chest and slim shoulders.

Peter watched Neal walk away, hardly breathing. “Neal!” he called. Neal turned back again. One side of his robe slipped off his shoulder. Peter took two steps toward him. “The shoot. Was it…okay for you?”

Neal smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “It was good.”

Then he turned and walked out of the room.

Peter only really registered in that silent, alone moment that he himself was half-hard.

*

He didn’t have a shoot the next couple of days, but Diana had already paid him for his first, so Peter did some much needed grocery shopping before he got home that evening. He was thrilled to finally have something to eat other than bologna and ramen. He’d gone to a nice market and bought fancy frozen things, some actual organic fruits and vegetables, even good coffee, a wedge of six dollar cheese, and some imported stout.

Driving home with his food and the remainder of his paycheck, Peter felt like a real man again. Maybe for the first time since El had split. Thinking of her still caused an ache. He’d thought she might be the one. He’d never been able to laugh with a woman like that. Elizabeth liked guy movies, and sometimes when she laughed she snorted. Peter really missed that.

He missed her smile across the kitchen table.

He missed her in his bed.

God, she was in bed with some guy named “Clint”. Like Eastwood! Except that he was black. “Is that why?” Peter had asked her.

“Christ, don’t get racist on me, Peter,” she’d said, and he’d flinched. “Sorry. I know you’re not. It’s just…” Her hand went through her long hair.

“What? It’s just what?”

And she’d never been able to actually answer. Peter wondered if that was because she wasn’t sure or if she was just sparing Peter’s feelings. He supposed it didn’t make much difference now. He’d never know, so it was useless to sweat it.

But sometimes he did sweat it. It would have been nice to know what he did wrong. He couldn’t help but think…. Well, what he always thought…what he had always feared since she came on to him in the park that day: smart lady on the fast track to success slumming it with the mechanic’s son who never went to college. It was never going to last.

Except it really seemed like she liked him. More than liked him. And she’d always told him how brilliant he was - that even with her A- in Calculus, she still couldn’t do the kind of math he did almost instantly in his head all the time. She called him “Mathlete”, and he never told her that he actually was one in high school. Until he dropped out junior year to help keep the garage afloat. It was that or not eat.

But now she was with “Clint”, the fellow MBA, future CEO of Hot Shit Industries and here he was: no girlfriend, one camera, and an eyeful of gay cock. And a box of fancy crackers he was maybe a little too excited about. In other words, a loser.

Peter turned up the radio to drown out his thoughts and drummed the wheel to 80s night on Q___ FM all the way home, pushing Elizabeth and “Clint” into the background where they belonged.

He got home, popped a dinner into the microwave, opened a beer, and flicked on ESPN. He ate while he watched SportsCenter and then got another beer for the baseball highlights.

Except that he kept forgetting to pay attention. His mind kept sliding back to the shoot. Not just the shoot. To that last guy. To Neal.

Peter sipped his beer and remembered:

…his beauty, his sweet smile, the warm hand in his, the thin robe making him look like a concubine, that intoxicating mix of masculinity and femininity. How Peter had made him stroke his own asshole. How he trembled. How he sounded saying Peter’s name. How he obeyed.

Peter wasn’t one to lie, not even to himself. He considered himself a forthright guy - no bullshit. And so he had to face facts: it had really felt too good. For a straight guy? Into pussy? Yeah. It had felt too good.

Peter watched the Braves win it in Philly and thought about Neal Caffrey, and he was surprised that he didn’t feel…well, weirder. He still felt like Peter Burke. He still missed El. He still didn’t want Ben or Josh or Kevin. But something in him responded in an inexplicably drastic way to Neal.

Some part of him - and what Peter wasn’t sure about was which parts and how much - but some pretty powerful part of him…wanted Neal.

It didn’t bother him as a straight man as much as it bothered him as a professional photographer. He had a job to do. It was Neal’s job to get an erection. Peter was pretty sure it would garner him a pink slip instead.

He knew he should go through the proofs for the day. Peter looked at his camera bag, abandoned by the front door. He got up and stretched. He retrieved the bag, knowing what was inside: shot after shot of Neal - the one with his eyes closed when he smiled, the one when he’d touched himself and gasped, all the ones with his fingertip nearly clearing the puckered rim of his asshole.

Peter opened his coat closet, slung the bag inside, and shut the door. He sat back down on the couch and flipped channels until midnight. He went to bed, got under the sheets, and touched himself in the silence. He thought of three women doing each other in order to come. In order to not think of anything, or anyone, else.

*

By Friday, Peter was feeling better. He’d looked through his proofs and sent them to Diana. He’d been able to appreciate Neal Caffrey as a fine piece of art rather than ass. He’d done good work, maybe even great work, and he’d gotten glowing, if brisk, feedback from Diana on his shots, particularly the ones of Neal. She said she wanted them to work together more often. Peter was okay with that. Neal was a fantastic subject. Peter was ready. He fully believed himself to be ready.

He showed up for the shoot early to get his props set up. Emailing Diana back and forth, he’d been able to secure some special stuff, a little more hardcore than Rentboy’s usual, but nothing grotesque. He was excited to push the envelope a little. He was a photographer. This is what he excelled at. The smell of the booms slowly melting their gels, the click of the shutter, that moment of capturing something real and vital and unusual - that was what got him off. Not the models. It had never been the models. Peter was absolutely sure of that.

He remained that way through the first three shoots. The lighting was perfect; the angles were interesting. It was practically Citizen Cane with cocks. But the cocks almost didn’t matter. They were the smile on the Mona Lisa; they were the Afghani girl’s eyes on the cover of National Geographic. They were beautiful, but they were just a part of the overall composition. Peter breathed freely, demanding poses, getting everything just right, from the shine on someone’s cheek to the way they held their little finger.

Things were clicking. El was the farthest thing from his mind. Being a loser wasn’t an option anymore.

Then Neal Caffrey walked in And it was like the floor fell through.

He wore the same calf-length silk robe, the same comfortable, slightly shy smile. He greeted the make-up people with a little wave, said hello to Kevin the fluffer, and Peter found himself swallowing too hard, staring too long.

“Did you want a blue cast for this one, Peter?” Carl asked.

“What?”

“Blue for Neal, right?”

“Uh, yeah. Just that light one. Not too dark.”

“Sure thing.”

When Peter turned back, Neal was closer. Peter could hear the quiet timber of his voice as he spoke with the other fluffer, Matthew. Peter couldn’t help but watch, a slight frown settling over his face. Matthew stood close - too close for anyone but an intimate contact. He had hold of Neal’s elbow, and Neal was turned slightly away even though he was still smiling and nodding and talking.

“Hey,” Peter called over his shoulder to Carl. “Who’s that?”

“Matthew Keller. Why?”

“Nothing,” Peter said.

Carl snorted behind him. “Looks like he’s having another go at fluffing for Caffrey. Ain’t gonna happen.”

Peter tried to turn to him to talk, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Neal and this Keller person. “Why do you say that?”

“Well, you didn’t hear it from me, but they used to have a…thing. Caffrey called it quits. Hasn’t let Keller fluff for him since. Keller’s been a prick about it if you ask me.”

Peter nodded. “So…” he said, trying to sound casual, hardly interested enough to even ask. “Neal’s gay then.”

“As gay as I am straight,” Carl laughed.

That would be pretty gay, Peter decided.

He swallowed and watched as Keller tried to move in even closer and Neal slipped his elbow free and walked on -- toward Peter. Peter turned quickly and busied himself with his camera set-up.

“Hey.” There was a smile in Neal’s voice, and Peter hoped it wasn’t him Neal was talking to.

Peter turned, and there was Neal. Smiling. “Hey,” Peter said.

“Looks like an interesting one,” Neal said, nodding toward the set up.

“Interesting bad or interesting good?”

Neal’s smile brightened a little. Peter thought he saw just the hint of something mischievous. “Probably good. I’ll let you know after.”

“You can let me know during,” Peter said. He certainly didn’t want Neal doing anything he was uncomfortable with. “If it doesn’t feel right-“

“I’ll tell you,” Neal said. Peter might have imagined that Neal’s gaze dropped to his lips for a moment - he wasn’t certain. “We ready?”

“Yeah. Think so. You, uh, need some time?”

“That would be great,” Neal said easily.

Peter swallowed. “Do you need…one of the guys?”

Neal’s gaze flitted to Matthew so briefly that if Peter hadn’t seen the earlier exchange he would have thought nothing of it. “That won’t be necessary,” Neal said. Then he held out his hand for Peter’s. Peter extended it warily. Once again, Neal’s hand was warm and soft, and an invisible electric current seemed to hum between them. “It’s good to get to work with you again, Peter.”

Peter shook. But then their hands stilled. Against his better judgment, Peter let his thumb drift over the back of Neal’s hand, along the sensitive skin, over fine, delicate bones. “You, too,” he said.

Neal dropped his gaze, lifted it again, and Peter felt it like a physical touch. It was only for a moment, and then Neal was slowly slipping his hand free. Peter gulped and watched Neal walk onto the set, untying his robe and letting it fall from his shoulders, revealing his back, then his buttocks, shifting enticingly as he walked.

Peter scrubbed a hand over his face and then turned away so he wouldn’t have to see the full effect except through the camera’s lens.

That would be bad enough.

But then he remembered the set up. He thought about someone else helping Neal into position, and that thought made him turn back. Neal was stroking himself, once again turned away from the cameras and the crew, as if the erection wasn’t the private event but the journey to it was. Peter supposed he could understand. He’d have to think of something arousing, wouldn’t he? Neal would have to transport himself somewhere hot and wonderful. He’d have to fantasize.

Peter wondered where he’d gone - where he was, what he thought of to get himself there. What did Neal Caffrey fantasize about? Who got him hard?

Peter watched him, ostensibly mulling over his shot choices. And while he watched, Neal reached out a hand and took hold of one of the leather restraints. Peter had chosen soft ones that wouldn’t photograph that way. Neal’s thumb stroked the leather, and he worked himself with his other hand.

Peter took a deep breath in and let it out.

Neal turned, then, hard and ready. “I’m good to go,” he said.

It was then that Peter saw Keller moving in closer toward the edge of the set. “You want help with those?” Keller called, nodding at the leather cuffs hanging from chains in the ceiling.

Peter stepped in. “I got it,” he said and was surprised at the steel in his voice. He put his body between Keller’s and Neal’s, stepping in close to Neal, all but blocking everyone’s view. He lowered his voice so only Neal could hear. “You want me to boot him off the set?”

Neal shook his head. “No, he’s harmless. But thanks. I don’t exactly want him to be the one to put me in these.” Neal lifted his chin to the restraints. “That is what you want, right? Me in these?”

“Yeah,” Peter said. He felt like he was admitting something - confessing something. He could smell Neal’s freshly showered body, the hint of spice. “I can call someone else over to-“

Neal shook his head. “I prefer to take direction solely from you if that’s okay. You’re the photographer. You know how you want me, right?” Neal lifted his arms.

Peter reached up and fit Neal’s wrists into the restraints, tightening them. “That okay?”

“Yeah.”

Peter locked the restraints together so that Neal couldn’t move his arms. “Too tight?”

“No.”

“Can you hang like that for ten, fifteen minutes you think?”

“Yeah.”

“All right, you need anything, you let me know.”

Neal nodded.

“Lights!” Peter called to Jimmy, and the lights dimmed. Neal’s body was cast in ethereal blues. It was a beautiful effect, and Peter stood there looking at his body for three indulgent seconds. His hard cock rising out of the nest of black hair. His slender body hanging, his heels lifted off the ground. His nipples tight and small. Someone started the throbbing music again. Peter felt Neal’s breath growing harder, more irregular.

Peter backed away and then got behind his camera. “Amazing…” he said beneath his breath. Then, “Close your eyes, Neal,” to which Neal obeyed, and Peter started snapping shots. He figured the erection would be easier to maintain if Neal could close his eyes and fantasize. He couldn’t touch himself after all. Peter took shot after shot, and Neal’s cock didn’t flag once.

Peter took five and went over to let Neal down. Neal opened his eyes as Peter reached up to unfasten the restraints. Close up, Neal’s eyes were equal parts blue and aroused black. Neal swayed slightly, and their chests touched. Neal’s erection brushed along Peter’s thigh.

Peter cleared his throat. “Sorry.”

“No problem.” Neal’s voice was all breath. He lowered his arms slowly, and Peter stepped back.

“Do your wrists hurt?”

Neal was rubbing them, one and then the other, but he shook his head. “Just a little numb, that’s all.”

“Do you need…ointment or…?”

Neal smiled, laughing a little. “I’m fine, Peter. But thanks.”

Peter realized he was still standing too close and stepped back. He grabbed Neal’s robe off the back of his chair and handed it over.

“Thanks,” Neal said, slipping it on. His cock was still going strong, Peter noticed.

“Listen, I’m going to send you to make-up now. They’re going to apply some…special effects, if you don’t mind.”

Neal blinked at him. “Is it…you want it…bigger?”

Peter had to stifle a laugh at that. “Uh, no. It’s…it’s for your…” Peter gestured awkwardly. “Your backside. Just some blush or something to make it look like you’ve been…”

“Spanked?”

“Paddled, actually.”

“Oh,” Neal said. “Okay. But, Peter…” Neal gave him a quizzical look. “There’s an easier way to do that.”

Peter just stared at him.

“Did Diana send over a paddle with the restraints?”

Peter swallowed. “Yeah. I wanted it sitting in foreground of the shot.”

“Well… What if it wasn’t just sitting there?” Neal was letting the tie of his robe slip through his hand repeatedly.

“You’d…do that?”

Neal smiled. “It’s better than rouge on my ass.”

Peter cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair. He sighed, completely unsure what to say or do. “Uh… I didn’t…schedule another model for this shoot.”

Neal looked at him with wide, beautiful eyes. “Would you do it?”

Peter blinked. “Me.”

Neal shrugged. “You know what you want it to look like, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You ever paddled someone?”

Peter laughed self-consciously. He looked around to see if anybody was close enough to hear their conversation. The music was down but not off. “It’s…it’s been a while,” he admitted.

“You look like you can handle yourself,” Neal said. “Besides. It’s like riding a bike.” His smile softened. “And I trust you.”

“You do? Why?”

“Are you untrustworthy, Peter Burke?”

“No.”

“Then see? I’m right.” Neal flashed him another smile. Peter checked the tent in his robe to find that it had diminished some. He wondered if this was a business deal for the kid and then had to kick himself for thinking it might be anything else. Neal wanted to be good at what he did; he didn’t want it to look cheesy and fake. Peter felt the same way. This was a good solution to a production problem. That’s all it was. Talking about it wasn’t even keeping Neal hard.

“I can get it back fast,” Neal said, interrupting his thoughts.

Peter flushed immediately, caught staring.

“I didn’t want you to worry. You looked worried.”

Peter nearly choked. “Uh, no. Not worried.”

“Good,” Neal said. He was playing with the robe tie again. “I won’t let you down, Peter.”

Peter had no doubt. “Why don’t you take a few minutes to relax,” he said.

“Sure. Thanks.” Neal turned and headed to the dressing rooms.

Peter needed someplace to sit for a while, too, before they did this. Somewhere to both comb through his regrets and secretly thank his lucky stars.

*

When the five minutes were up and everyone was back on set, Peter was all but ready to call the whole thing off. Was he really going to paddle this guy? In front of everyone? Should it be in front of everyone? He supposed witnesses were in order or else it could be…well…something else entirely. But how embarrassing was this about to get? Wouldn’t Neal be more comfortable with less or no people watching? Or was a crowd like a safety net for him?

Peter decided that, unless Neal indicated otherwise, he’d redden up his butt in front of everyone. He’d just act like it wasn’t a big deal. And maybe it wasn’t. Maybe Neal did shit like this all the time. Peter was afraid to ask. Afraid the answer would be no. Afraid the answer would be yes.

Neal dropped his robe and walked onto the set. He wasn’t hard anymore.

“Do you want some time?” Peter asked him, standing somewhere between the camera and where the paddle lay - wanting to hide behind the one and forget the other.

Neal shook his head. Peter thought he might be blushing just a little. “Won’t need it,” he said. Then, “Back in the restraints, right?”

“If you’re comfortable with that.”

“Yeah.” Neal was all business. “Will you help me again?”

“Of course,” Peter said. He walked over and, once again, fit Neal’s wrists into the leather, locking him in tight. Neal said nothing, and Peter tried to be quick about it. But then he realized something. “Uh, I’m going to need to turn you around.” These were going to be butt shots after all.

“It’s okay,” Neal told him. And then, so that no one else could hear, “You can touch me.”

Peter cleared his throat and then placed his hands on Neal’s waist. The muscles tightened reflexively under his thumbs. Peter maneuvered him gently, Neal tip-toeing around, until his backside was facing the camera. Peter went to fetch the paddle, trying to school his breathing.

He approached Neal again, the leather paddle soft and dangerous in his hand. “Are you sure about this?” he asked when he was close enough.

Neal nodded. “Yes, Peter.” No ‘yeah’ this time. ‘Yes.’ There was something about that yes that did something to Peter’s whole body.

Peter tested the weight of the paddle in his hand. It was beginning to warm, to feel good. “Tell me if you need to stop, Neal.”

“Okay.”

“Do you want some music? You know…to cover the sound?” Peter asked. God, there was going to be sound!

Neal just nodded.

“Lights,” Peter called. “Music.”

He could hear the others scurrying around behind them. He could sense their presence. But in front of him there was only Neal. He concentrated on that sleek body hanging there -- the smooth, pale buttocks, the muscles moving in his back and shoulders, so powerful, even in his helpless state.

The music started. He pulled back, not giving himself time to think about it, and landed a hard smack across Neal’s right cheek. The leather thwacked loudly, and Neal’s inhale was sharp and hard. The sound - Neal’s sound - was like popping a champagne cork. It was like driving way too fast on the interstate. It was sex itself.

It was like the moment of penetration.

Peter hit him again - right over the first mark - and Neal bit back a whine. The paddle made the flesh of Neal’s ass quiver, but each strike also provoked him to tense, so with every lay of the leather, Neal squeezed his ass tight. He relaxed his muscles again, and Peter set down a new barrage of hits.

He told himself it was for the shoot. This wasn’t a scene. Peter wasn’t trying to turn either one of them on - anyone watching could see that - could see that it was business.

Except that it wasn’t. Every strike aroused Peter more. He didn’t let it show on his face, even though, right now, no one could see his face, not even Neal. And he was grateful for the fit of his pants, which disguised his growing erection. But it was there. He was turned on - powerfully turned on - and every moment, every tensing of Neal’s body, every aborted cry of pain, every time Neal’s body swung and he had to scramble on the balls of his feet to regain his balance - everything just made it better and better and better.

Five minutes had gone by. Neal’s butt was really, really red. Red enough to last through a twenty minute shoot, Peter was sure. And still Peter hit him. He hit him and hit him, under his bottom, against that succulent and half-innocent curve, against the center of each bouncing cheek, in the middle…across the shy crack, everywhere. And then the worst thing of all happened: Neal, more undone than he’d let anyone believe, moaned.

And he didn’t just moan. He moaned, “Peter!” - and the moan, the delicious, forbidden moan, ended on a gasp of pain and embarrassment.

Peter’s paddling arm was drawn back once more, but he stopped. His heart, his arm, his breathing, for that one moment, just stopped. He stepped in closer to Neal’s body. His voice was horribly changed when he asked, “Are you okay?” He stepped around to see Neal’s face in profile, and he saw several things at once:

That Neal’s face was streaked with tears.

That Neal had an enormous erection.

That Neal’s erection was leaking so bad there were lines of pre-come dripping down his thighs.

Peter had done this to Neal. Peter…had aroused Neal.

“Is it…red…enough?” Neal whispered.

Peter let himself peek once more at Neal’s bottom which was so red it was practically shiny. He looked again at Neal’s transformed face. “Yeah. It’s red. You okay for me to get some shots now? With the camera?” he stammered.

Neal’s eyes were closed. He nodded. Peter wanted to touch him reassuringly. Wanted to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder or against his back, but he didn’t dare.

He just walked to his camera, focused it, and began to take some truly brilliant pictures of Neal’s paddled bottom. The red showed up better than he’d expected, and he snapped shots quickly before it began to fade, ignoring his own erection, his own violent reaction to having put those angry marks there.

“Could you change number five, Carl? It’s a little green.”

“Yep.”

Peter took the moment to walk over to Neal again. “How are you holding up?”

Neal smiled a little. He met Peter’s eyes briefly. “Good. I’m okay.”

Peter nodded. He wanted to touch Neal so bad he had to clinch his hands into fists for a moment. “Can I turn you a little? I want…”

Neal gestured with his chin toward his absurd and beautiful cock. “That?”

Peter licked his lips. “Yeah. That.”

Neal nodded and shut his eyes again. Peter took his slender waist and turned him so that the red of his bottom was still the star, but his erection was plainly visible, too. It was still leaking, and Neal’s pubic hair was moist with it.

“Just a few more minutes, Neal,” Peter told him, his hands lingering, feeling the movement of Neal’s breath through his suspended body.

“Thank you,” Neal whispered. He was shivering.

“Somebody get the heat,” Peter yelled to the crew.

“But it’s up to 76 already,” Jimmy complained.

“Get the fucking heat!” Peter shouted, and Neal winced. Jimmy jumped up and jogged to the thermostat. “Sorry,” Peter said softly to Neal.

“’sokay.”

“Just a few more shots.”

“Okay.”

“Hang in there,” Peter said and then grimaced at the apt phrase.
Neal smiled, his eyes still closed. His smile was radiant, full of humor through his aroused tears. Surreally gorgeous.

Peter went back to his camera and took several more full-body shots, getting Neal’s ass, his cock, his enraptured face.

“Wrap it!” Peter called, and the music went off, the lights to house, and to his surprise, the crew clapped. And it wasn’t lewd clapping. It was…impressed…honoring of what Neal had done. Maybe what they’d both done, Peter wasn’t sure.

Peter walked back over to Neal as the others packed up to go. He unlocked him, letting him ease one arm down first, hissing, and then the other. Neal stumbled a little, and Peter caught him by the waist. “Whoa there,” he said.

Neal’s hands came up to Peter’s chest to steady himself. “Sorry. I’m a little rocky. And…I…”

Peter looked at Neal, this beautiful, naked, hard… Oh. “Do you need to…?”

“Yeah.” Neal wouldn’t look at him now. “I need to shower.”

Peter reached over and fetched his robe for him. The words came tumbling out of his mouth unchecked, “Is that where you take care of things?”

Neal smiled a little, his laugh quiet and self-deprecating. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry. That was rude as hell.”

“It’s okay. I’m just… I’m a little… This one was…intense.”

“I’m sorry for that,” Peter said, instantly missing Neal’s hands as he wrapped the robe around his shoulders and stood on his own two feet.

Neal looked him square in the eye then. “I don’t want you to be sorry. I meant, intense good, not intense bad, Peter.”

“Oh.”

“But I do need to go.”

“Yeah, okay,” Peter said, backing away, turning to his camera to get it packed up and ready to leave.

He heard Neal padding away and managed to only look back at him once.

*
Peter was just getting his bag hoisted onto his shoulder when Neal, clean and dressed - and no longer erect - walked out of the dressing rooms. Neal saw him and waved with a little smile. Peter tried not to tip his hand too badly; the kid might have been as tempting dressed as not. And he was no longer in his feminine robe; he was in raggedy jeans and a wrinkled white t-shirt -- black boots scuffing along the floor, his hair damp and going in different directions from his shower. When Peter didn’t wave back, Neal turned toward the door to leave.

“Neal!” Peter called belatedly.

Neal turned back, one hand still on the door handle, and he waited for Peter to approach.

Peter had no idea what he was going to say until he said it. Neal was looking at him with an endearingly open expression - like he hadn’t just gotten rock hard from Peter paddling his ass - and it just came out. “Would you like to get a cup of coffee?”

Neal’s smile became nearly blinding. “Really?”

“Well…yeah…” Peter wasn’t sure if it was a terrible idea or a good one or somewhere in between. He swallowed hard.

“Okay,” Neal said. “Did…you mean now?”

Peter shrugged. “If you don’t have to get to a class or something. Or a hot date.” Christ, he sounded like an absolute dork.

Neal was still smiling when he looked down at the floor and gave that little self-deprecating laugh. “No. No class tonight and no date.” He looked back up at Peter. “I’d love to get coffee with you.”

“You would?”

“Yeah.”

Peter smiled, relieved and excited, even though he wasn’t anywhere near certain that this was even a date. He just…wanted to be around him some more - get to know him.

He wanted to find out.

“I know a place a couple blocks from here if you want to walk?”

“Sure,” Neal said. “What about your camera stuff? I have a locker here if you want to use it.”

“That’d be good, thanks.”

Neal took his bag from him and Peter waited while Neal stowed it. When Neal appeared again, he was wearing a dazzling smile - and he’d fixed his hair. He looked genuinely pleased to have been asked out to coffee. Peter couldn’t quite believe it, actually. This guy had to be fighting them off, men and women alike. He just couldn’t be hurting for dates. Or coffee.

“Ready?” Neal asked when he neared.

“Yeah.” Peter smiled. And then he opened the door for Neal.

Neal gave him a shy glance as he stepped through. Peter thrilled at it all: his first (sort of) date with a man. He was holding the door for him. And it felt damn good. Peter followed Neal down the stairs and out the door onto the sidewalk, into the dusk, and for the first time in what felt like a long while, he felt really, really good.

*

“No, no,” Neal argued passionately. “Karl Malone is the best power forward the game has ever seen, are you kidding?”

“But Elvin Hayes-“ Peter began and Neal interrupted him.

“Would have been squashed by Karl Malone. The Mail Man, Peter. How can you vote against him?”

“We’re voting now?” Peter laughed and took a sip of the decaf double espresso with whipped cream Neal had made him try. It was really pretty good, even though it had gotten cold fast.

Neal gestured with his biscotti. “I just think you can’t compare those old guys with-“

“Who are you calling old?”

“Elvin Hayes, that’s who.” Neal sipped and watched Peter over the rim of his little mug. “Did I hit a sore spot? You can’t be more than thirty.”

“I’m twenty-fucking-seven,” Peter huffed.

Neal laughed. “Sorry. It’s just that-“

“Just that what?”

“Well…” Neal suddenly wouldn’t look at him, even though they’d been carrying on for the better part of an hour like they were old friends getting reacquainted.

“Well, what?”

“You’re just…really strong. And smart. And I don’t meet many people in their twenties who want to do more than drink and party and try not to turn thirty.” He shrugged. “You just seem…together.”

Peter tried to quell the wry smile. “I’m sorry to have misled you.” He pushed a drop of water around with his finger, leaving trails of wet. But when Neal didn’t say anything, Peter finally lifted his gaze.

“I don’t think you’ve misled me,” Neal said seriously. “I think you’re one of those guys who doesn’t know what he’s worth.”

Peter laughed it off. Neal was too close to tweaking an over-sensitive nerve. Maybe the only one Peter had. “Psychologist and basketball aficionado, huh?”

“Neither,” Neal corrected. “I don’t know much about basketball, really. Just Karl Malone, because…well, just Karl Malone. Will it kill my chances if I’m not into sports?”

“Your chances?” Peter’s breath went shallow. It looked like Neal’s did, too.

“Yeah. My chances.” Neal’s eyes had darkened. Or maybe it was the café’s mood lighting.

“I wouldn’t mind teaching you,” Peter said, and apparently that was the right answer, because it got a shy smile out of Neal. “What are you into?” Peter hoped that didn’t sound too much like a sexual come-on. It wasn’t what he meant, first of all. And second of all, he already had at least one idea of what Neal Caffrey was into in that regard. Peter pushed away the fresh memory of the paddle in his hand, the smell of the leather, the sounds Neal had made. His name…

Neal took a deep breath. “You’re going to laugh.”

“No, I’m not.”

“All right then.” Neal sighed. “Art. I’m into art.”

“Why would that be funny?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’m used to people thinking that means I plan to starve my whole life or something.”

“So PoliSci’s just your day job?”

Neal took a contemplative sip. “I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve decided about that yet.”

“How old are you?” Peter blurted.

Neal blinked at him.

“Jesus, you’re not underage, are you?”

“Would you bust me if I was, Peter Burke?”

Peter sighed, considering, but Neal let him off the hook.

“I’m twenty-one.”

Peter nodded. He hadn’t been too far off. “And you’re an artist.”

Neal shrugged.

“I’d love to see some of your work.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely,” Peter told him. “Can I buy you another?”

“Sure,” Neal said, smiling. “Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Peter said. He meant it. He went back up to the counter and ordered two more. He tried to use the Italian name like Neal had and failed. “Gimme two of those,” Peter finally settled on, pointing to the board. He turned to see if Neal was laughing at him. He was. But he looked so goddamned pretty that Peter could hardly be offended. Peter just smiled at him and turned back to pay for the drinks.

They talked for another two hours. Peter bought them bottles of water, because the enormous amount of coffee they were both drinking in order to justify staying there was going to dehydrate them down to skin and bones.

“I’m hungry,” Neal said.

“Do you…would you like to…go to dinner?” Peter tried.

Neal looked at his watch. “I have an early class.” He thought for a long moment, and Peter felt like he was being held out over a cliff, three hundred feet up. “What if we just get a couple of pieces of that cheesecake I saw in the case?”

“You eat cheesecake?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Well…” Peter said. But everything he thought to say had something to do with how beautiful Neal’s body was, and he didn’t want to be creepy. Especially if he’d gotten his wires crossed and this wasn’t a date after all.

“I’m buying this time,” Neal said, getting up.

Everything in Peter revolted at that. He was an old-fashioned dater and he knew it, but it was a hard thing to tamp down. He sighed, frowning, and Neal rolled his eyes at him.

“Don’t worry,” he said then. “I’ll let you buy dinner some other time.” And he sparkled at Peter before he walked away.

Peter carefully adjusted his jeans to make room for the slight bulge in the crotch area, and then he unabashedly watched Neal’s scrumptious ass as he walked to the case and bent over to look into it. God, he knew what that looked like naked. He’d paddled it. Christ…

When Neal came back with the desserts, Peter couldn’t not ask. He waited for Neal to take his seat and then said, “What is this, Neal?”

Neal pressed his fork slowly through the slice. “What do you mean?”

“I think you know what I mean.”

Neal looked at him. And he took a bite. It wasn’t flirtatious. It was a delay. It was…considering.

It was hot as hell.

“Is this a date?” Peter finally asked.

Neal swallowed. “I think…that that should be up to you. Don’t you? I mean…you’re the straight guy at this table. Right?”

Peter blinked at him, leaving his cheesecake untouched for the time being. “You could tell?”

Neal shrugged.

“And if I decide that it is?” Peter said. “A date.”

Neal took a deep breath and let it out. “Then I can stop being so fucking scared that it’s not.”

Peter licked his lips. He looked down at the tabletop and then back up again. His heart was practically tachycardic. “You don’t have anything to be afraid of,” he said, the excitement like a drug through his body.

Neal smiled in his relief. Once again, Peter was struck by his utter humility. He could have anybody in the coffee shop, anybody walking by on the street. Anybody. And apparently he was afraid about whether or not Peter wanted him. Peter had half a mind to yank him into the single-user restroom and show him just how much. Even though he’d never actually had any kind of sex with a man before. It’s not like he’d never imagined it. And with Neal Caffrey sitting in front of him, looking edible as hell, it wasn’t hard to decide what he’d do with him if given the chance. He’d do everything.

He’d do fucking everything.

That realization should have been disturbing. But it wasn’t. It just wasn’t.

Neal Caffrey was different. Neal Caffrey changed everything.

And he wanted Peter, too. He wanted Peter to want him. Peter shifted a little, giving his plumping cock room, and he forked a huge bite of cheesecake, pausing before it got to his mouth. “What kind of art do you do, Neal?” He ate his bite of cheesecake, enjoying the thrum of sexual tension between them now that he knew it was mutual.

Neal cleared his throat, sitting forward in his chair, one hand on the table, playing with the napkin dispenser, just a couple of inches from Peter’s hand. “I’ve done a little of everything. Drawing, sketching, painting, sculpting.”

“What do you enjoy most?” Peter was watching Neal finger a napkin. He thought about touching the backs of Neal’s fingers with his own, but he held himself back.

“There’s something different that I like about each one. I don’t know… Painting probably.”

“Anything on display?”

Neal smiled. “Actually, yeah. At Viridian Artists. In Chelsea?”

“You mean in a gallery?”

Neal was blushing slightly. “Yeah.”

“Your shit’s in a gallery.”

“Yeah.”

“Like right now.”

“Yeah.”

“Show me.”

Neal laughed. “Tonight? I-“

“You have an early class. I don’t want to contribute to your delinquency. How about after that dinner. Tomorrow night?” Peter wondered that Neal could hear him over the pounding of his heart. He wondered if he was coming on too strong.

But Neal just said, “Tomorrow night. It’s a date.”

“Yeah. Damn right it is,” Peter said, and Neal blushed even more. It was awesome - making him do that. Peter remembered his bottom, that deep mottled red. He wondered if it hurt right now, this second. He decided that it couldn’t not. Something primal and animal in him felt pride in that, arousal in that knowledge. That he’d done that to Neal - in some ways was still doing that to Neal.

They finished their cheesecake amidst conversation that was innocuous on the surface but seemed to buzz with unspoken heat, like summer in the south.

“I should go,” Neal said finally, making no move to do so.

“Okay. Can you get my camera first?”

“Oh, yeah! Sure.”

“Great.” Peter stood and pulled Neal’s chair out for him. Standing that close felt fantastic. As good as paddling him had. Neal smiled at him and then led the way out of the café. Peter noticed how many people stared at him as he passed and felt pretty damned cocky.

Neal was his date.

Neal was his date.

They were dating.

They talked about this and that on the way back to the studio, and they walked close to one another although they never once touched. Peter unlocked and opened the door and they went up the stairs.

“It’s just in here,” Neal said, and Peter followed him into the dressing rooms. He’d never been in there, and it was surprisingly gym-locker-room-like. He’d expected something nicer, maybe. More feminine. Maybe he was playing into a stereotype in assuming that these guys would have padded benches in front of well-lit vanities. But this was just a row of lockers, some mirrors along a wall, some sinks, showers, bathroom stalls. It smelled muggy and masculine.

Neal opened one of the lockers and then handed Peter his camera. “Here you go,” Neal sighed. Their eyes met. Peter took the camera bag and set it down on the bench. Then Neal’s arms came around him and their lips crashed together and Peter slammed Neal back against the lockers with a bang. Neal’s tongue was in his mouth, his body sliding against Peter’s, and Peter tongue-fucked him, instinctively reaching for and grabbing Neal’s delectable ass. Neal hissed, his mouth opening against the kiss, and Peter growled into his mouth while Neal pressed his erection to Peter’s thigh and rubbed against him.

“Fuck you’re so hot,” Peter breathed, his hands sliding up into Neal’s t-shirt.

To his surprise, Neal flipped them and pressed Peter to the lockers, his tongue urgent, warm, and sweet in Peter’s mouth, his hands in Peter’s hair, at the back of his neck, sliding down his shoulders, down his chest, back up. They were both so fucking hard, and when Neal thrust his hips and their cocks slid on one another, they both groaned, and then Neal smiled, and he wrapped his arms around Peter’s neck and kissed him slow and deep.

And really nothing - not even seeing Neal naked and hard and leaking…paddled and red and restrained and moaning Peter’s name - nothing was as hot and lovely as this. As Neal all over him, their bodies colliding - pressed tight together, as Neal’s tongue in his mouth and then that sexy laugh on his lips.

Peter was more than raring to go. All of their options flashed into his mind simultaneously - shower, bathroom stall, right here on the bench, Neal bent over a sink. But Neal pulled back just enough, his lips still touching Peter’s, and he breathed, “Not here… I can’t… I’m sorry…”

Peter felt the two sides of him warring - the one that wanted to slam a hard fist into a locker and the side that wanted to be the consummate gentleman and tell Neal that of course he’d never ravish him at work on their first date. The truth of him was somewhere in between, so he just said, “Fuck. You’re right. Shit,” his hands still holding tight to Neal’s waist. Neal’s hands were on his shoulders, and neither one of them could resist when Neal dipped his tongue back into Peter’s mouth once more. They kissed long and hard and groaning, and Peter flipped them back, pinning Neal to the lockers again. Neal gasped. And he smiled. Then he said, “I’m sorry, Peter. I’ve been thinking about this since I first saw you.”

“You have?”

Neal nodded. “But I can’t do this where I work. Especially not with what I do. You know?”

“No, you’re right. You’re right.”

“Yeah, but I jumped you.” He looked adorably sheepish. “Sorry.”

“I think we jumped at the same time.” Peter smiled, and he noticed how Neal’s hot gaze dropped to his lips. “I’m gonna have a hard time letting you go,” he admitted.

Neal nodded. “Me, too.”

“On three?”

Neal sighed a laugh, and Peter made himself step back. His hard-on was obscene in his pants, and as Neal looked down at it, his eyes widened, and then he licked his lips. It felt good to impress a man with such an impressive package himself.

“Are we still on for tomorrow?” Peter had to ask, trying to stay the course.

Neal reached out and touched his forearm, slid his hand up Peter’s bicep, onto his chest again, and then snatched his hand away with a little moan. “That’d be a yes,” Neal said.

It was difficult to believe that Neal wanted him as much as he found himself wanting Neal, but he seemed to. He really seemed to. Peter ran a hand through his hair and picked up his camera bag. “Good,” he said. “I mean, that’s an understatement. You should know that.”

“Yeah,” Neal said. They smiled at each other. They each moved back in, the pull inevitable, almost undeniable. Peter touched his fingers to Neal’s jaw, and Neal held his bicep, obviously open for another kiss. Peter leaned down, and Neal’s lips parted, his eyes almost closing. It was then that the dressing room door opened and they both turned to see Matthew Keller walk through and stop dead in his tracks.

Peter dropped his hand, although it was much too late to have not been caught.

“Matthew,” Neal said.

“I’m just here for my gym bag,” Keller said slowly, his brows furrowed. Then he passed them and went to the next row of lockers where he proceeded to bang around.

“Let’s go,” Neal whispered.

Peter nodded and opened the door for Neal. Once they were out of earshot, Peter said, “I’ll walk you to your car.”

“It’s okay,” Neal told him. “I don’t think he’d do anything.”

“I’ll walk you to your fucking car, Neal,” Peter said more forcefully, and he placed his hand at Neal’s lower back.

When they got there, Neal opened the door and then turned back to Peter. “I want to kiss you again, but I’m afraid we’d just end up in the backseat.”

Peter swallowed. “Yeah.”

Neal leaned up and pecked him quickly on the cheek. “Here’s my number,” he said, slipping Peter a card. “Call me and we can talk about when tomorrow, okay?”

“Yeah.”

“I have classes till three.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Neal said, that shy smile back. “Good night, Peter.”

“Good night, Neal.”

Peter stepped back as Neal got in the car and shut the door. He smiled at Peter one last time as he started the engine. Peter waved, and then he watched Neal Caffrey, his maybe-boyfriend, drive away.

PART TWO