An Officer and the Noble Woman, Part 50
An Officer and the Noble Woman, Part 50
Author: dtstrainers
Paring: Donna Noble/Peter Carlisle
Rating: Angsty Porn
Word Count: 3,510
Disclaimer: Donna and Peter- not mine, but in my mind.
Part 1 | Part 10 | Part 20.1 | Part 30 | Part 40 | Part 45
She’s standing before him, right now, no more than four, maybe four and a half feet away, and everything about her reeks of passion. He watches her, somehow in the moment and yet standing outside himself. Donna is there, one full stride and an arms’ length away, flinging her hands and her accusations at him with equal vigor. She’s angry and so is he.
But, no.
No.
That’s not right.
She’s not angry, exactly. She’s furious, radiant with a pulsing, desperate outrage, a bright and terrible mirror to his own dark wrath and brooding resentment. He wants this to stop. He longs to fold her into his arms and hold her and never, never, ever let her go. He wants to kiss away her anger and her fear and have her tremble against him with a different kind of passion, no less violent but much more welcome than the tremors passing through them both now. He wants her to know that he loves her and that he’d never withstand the loss of her if she were ever to walk out of his life. But inside, he’s raging against the pitch-black suspicion that she has never truly been his in the first place, that she's been unconsciously marking time with him as she waits for the Other to simply waltz back into her life, take her down from the shelf where he abandoned her, and plonk her back in place at his side.
Donna's building herself up into a towering rage and he marvels at it, though he's no stranger to conflict, far from it. Peter grew up in a house where strife was the norm and, night after night, he hid behind doors, listening and praying. Night after night, he stood in the dark and when he was old enough to understand, he swore that when he was a man, it would be different. But when he married Roselyn, they had both been barely more than children and when it finally ended, it ended childishly. By the time she finally left him for an older, richer, more successful man, he knew he’d broken his oath and he'd long since run out of prayers.
But with Donna, it’s different. Donna’s no child and Peter’s not entirely sure she ever was, even when she was young. She’s a complex set of contradictions, confident and commanding one moment, vulnerable and insecure the next, and he’s dead set on puzzling her out, deciphering her cryptic clues, understanding her mysteries. She never fails to surprise him, from her quiet compassion to the symphony of indignation she's zealously conducting for his benefit alone. What amazes him most, though, what he knows but still can’t quite allow himself to fathom, is that the anger on full display before him isn’t born of bitter dissatisfaction and disappointment with him, but the exact opposite. Instead, she’s all but glowing with irrational fury because she’s afraid for him.
He and Natalie never fought like this. She was soft and tentative, even in her anger, barely ever raising her voice before quieting again, even at the worst of times. She always held back, always, even when he desperately tried to lay bare his soul to her. In his charitable moments, he attributes her reticence to being responsible for someone else’s happiness and well-being, to being a mother, accustomed to always putting her children's interests before her own. In his darker funks, he lays the blame squarely at his own feet, for letting her see the cruelty buried deep in his soul when she’d fled from the cold lies he’d flung at her, stood in the doorway of a seaside hotel room.
One door closed, and another one opens.
From somewhere far, far away, he somehow registers the tiny snick of the lock as the door behind them closes, and he knows without looking that Ian and Maddie have gone. Just as remarkable is the sudden realization that he's not heard the last three wickedly-barbed bon mots Donna's launched his way because his responses are on autopilot as his attention is instead focused on all the tiny, subtle clues in her that he's been searching for. The way her hands keep stretching out for his, only to snap back to her sides. The tiny, almost insubstantial waver in her voice as she fights to reign in her habitually offensive defense. The fire that flashes in her eyes that provides an almost-convincing smoke-screen to hide the price she’s paying in the torment of this display.
And there! There it is! That moment when she realizes that, no matter the cost to her injured pride, she can't possibly begin to imagine her life without him and the only thing preventing her from launching herself at him and never, ever letting him go is the sheer, stark terror that she's finally succeeded in pushing him away, and she's biting her lip and fighting back tears and not once- not one, single, bloody moment in this whole, horrible ordeal- not once has her right hand searched her left for a ring lost to her past - and he knows.
Peter Carlisle knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Donna Noble is his, and his alone. His Fetch, that Doppelgänger, his Evil Twin? That man holds no sway over her heart and the only reason she stands before him, trembling and on the brink of desperate, angry tears is that she loves him more than she can say and before he realizes it, he's closed that space between them and pulled her into his arms and he's kissing her, fiercely and possessively and she's kissing him back just as ruthlessly.
Her hands are twisting in his shirt, pulling him closer, and she’s sobbing as the tears course down her cheeks to soak her blouse and he’s wiping them away at the same time as he’s kissing her, as his breath leaves his body and enters hers, and in his soul, he’s defying the stars to try and separate them again. He won't share her. She's his and his alone. That Other, he can’t have her. He relinquished his claim on her the day he walked out and left her to the less-than-tender mercies of her mother and the brave vigilance of her grandfather. He abandoned her in a way Peter can never comprehend or condone but for which he's profoundly grateful nonetheless.
She knows him, inside and out. He’s bared his soul, revealed to her those darkest parts of himself and yet she loves him all the more for it. She looked into his darkness and he is filled with her light. He kisses his way down her neck, laying her back against one strong arm as his right hand deftly flicks open the buttons down the front of her dark linen blouse and dear God in Heaven, she’s breathless and bothered and her heaving bosom is straining against the sheer black silk of the basque she’s barely wearing. He wasn’t expecting this, he wasn’t, he’s only seen this garment in the pictures she sent him one terrible day shopping and he sighs with the most exquisite longing, pausing momentarily to ghost one finger across the tops of her breasts, to admire the way her nipples have tightened into peaks under the filmy silk and as her breathing stutters, she arches her back and he sees the dusky pink of her areola just peeking out beneath his fingers and he comes undone.
But they are too alike in their passions. At the same moment Peter begins to consciously act on his desires, Donna recovers from the delicious shock of finding his arms around her once more, his lips pressed desperately against hers. She finds her hands groping for the hem of his shirt and she’s tugging it up and she somehow manages to time it so that just as he finally breaks the kiss to allow the both of them some much-needs oxygen, she yanks his shirt over his head and flings it away, just in time for him to lunge back in and press his lips to hers once more. And all the while, that little voice in the back of her head, the one telling her to be reasonable, to back off, to be careful, to go slow? Donna grabs that little voice and she frog-marches it farther into the dark recesses of her mind, straight into a gloomy little cell, as far away from conscious thought as possible, and she crams that little voice in and slams the door shut, she locks it and promptly tosses away the key.
She can’t see anything but him, she can’t hear or smell or taste anything but him and that’s good, that’s fine, because she doesn’t want to anyway and she’s so happy, she’s so proud of his quick, responsive mind because when she decides she’s had enough of his soft, almost tentative caress, her lips and her hands and those sighs she’s making demand more of him and Peter readily complies. She's working the zip of his jeans and he’s stepping up and out of his trainers, kicking them off and away somewhere behind him at the same time his own clever fingers find first the drawstring that releases her trousers to fall to the floor, then the tiny row of hooks that run up the front of that gorgeous black silk barrier, the one that barely hides those spots he wants most to lap at, to nibble, to suck. She scrabbles frantically at his jeans and he wriggles his hips to help her work them off faster but that destroys his balance and he has to concentrate on staying upright just a few moments longer, at least until he can release all those asinine little fasteners that are preventing him from kissing all the way down her body, from the tiny little crease at the base of her neck and across her collarbone, over each magnificently lickable breast and finally into the valley between that leads unerringly to a pair of tiny black panties and the bright tangle of red-gold curls that conceal his eventual goal.
But Donna is no fool. She’s reaped the many benefits of his oral fixation, usually several times a night, and she knows exactly what will happen the moment he manages to free her and she’s too impatient to wait for what she craves. She doesn’t just want him now, she needs him, she’s needed him for hours, for days, for months, for her entire life, and yes, the things she knows he’ll do to her, given less than half a chance, are glorious, amazing even, and she wants everything he wants, but first, she has a few life-goals of her own, thank you very, very much! She starts to kneel, to tug that sublimely form-fitting denim down his body, dragging her fingertips over the perfect curve of his arse in the process and he inhales sharply in response, his arms tightening around her reflexively, pulling her up, firmly against him. He just manages to rid himself of his jeans, slinging them away with a convulsive twitch of his leg, off to join his trainers somewhere behind him but before Donna can divest him of his pants as well, he’s furiously working at those infernal hooks again.
She inhales deeply which causes her breasts to swell upwards, much to Peter’s delight and Donna leans back a tiny bit, granting him better access to the fasteners beneath her breasts and down her torso. He’s got most of them but, in his impatience, he’s futilely trying to shimmy the basque down and over her hips, entirely missing the original intent of the garment and completely ignoring the dimensional improbability of the tactic. Oh, really! Enough is enough, she decides, and in her considered opinion, this gothic confection she’s wearing should be classified as a torture device rather than a form of enticing lingerie. She pulls in her stomach and grabs both sides of the garment, pushing them together and away from her body in one fluid movement that pops free all the remaining hooks. Peter grins in admiration of her practical cleverness even as his eyes go wide, his eyebrows threatening to disappear from his forehead entirely at the sight of her finally bouncing free. He growls her name from deep in his chest and wraps one long arm around her, pulling her close and diving in to lick the skin just between her breasts as his other hand tugs impatiently at the scrap of silk still around her hips, in effect trapping her hands between them.
She releases the breath she forgot she’d been holding in a frustrated huff and he hears it, loosens his hold on her and looks up in confusion from his possessive exploration of her body and that’s all the distraction she needs. She pushes him back as she whirls around and when the front of the sofa hits the back of his knees, he falls, but since he won’t release her, he’s taking her with him. Her hands are tangled in his hair and as she realizes what’s happening, she swivels so that she falls beside him and before she can catch her breath, he’s twisting and turning, pursuing her, pushing himself along with her, up and onto the sofa cushions.
Donna, however, steadfastly refuses to be outmaneuvered, and she digs in with her shoulders, halting her upwards movement as she snatches at his pants, managing to pull them down as he propels himself further up her body. He pauses as realization hits, holding himself above her with one hand as he struggles to help her in her goal with the other. When his underwear is finally tangled somewhere about his knees, Donna manages to lift one leg sufficient to plant her foot within the offending swath of cotton and drags it off his body completely. He laughs aloud, a single, triumphant bark of joy before he dives back to his chosen task of making her scream his name.
She won’t wait, she can't wait and besides, she’s pretty confident that there’ll be time enough for their more…creative...forms of self-expression later on, free from the concern that they might be disturbing the peace of their neighbors, but for right now, she wants him. Donna wants to feel Peter, hot and solid against her and over her and inside her. She wants his delicious weight above her, pushing her down. But Peter Carlisle is a man on a mission, dead set on climbing down her body and burying his face between her legs just to hear those bloody fucking gorgeous sounds she makes.
He’s hard for her, so hard it almost hurts, but he has his priorities. He wants her, now and forever but she has to know that he does, he has to prove it to her with both body and soul. He loves that he can make her cry out with just his tongue, and there’s something faintly ruthless in the way he presses a hand to her belly to keep her in place as he adds to her exquisite torment by bringing those long, slender fingers into play. She squirms beneath the dual onslaught of talented tongue and dancing digits, twining her own fingers into his hair as he swirls his tongue delicately over that tiny bud of nerves at her core. She’s beginning to pant now and Peter smiles against her, listening intently as her vocalizations slip up the chromatic scale of her sighs until she’s moaning outright, growing louder and more wanton with each lick and twist.
She wants to speak, to use words to persuade, to beg, to order him to comply with what she wants but in all honesty, she can’t remember how to do that, even if she could recall what she intended to demand. She’s swimming in a sea of sensations, centered upon the man at her center, and she's nearly drowning in him as he goes down for the third time. She’s a banquet laid out before, him a feast for all his senses and he’s determined to see her arch her back off the couch before moving into her embrace. She’s almost there, he can feel it in the tremble of her thighs as she unconsciously shifts her hips, tilting upwards, opening herself to him further even as one leg wraps around his waist and she presses her heel desperately into the small of his back.
“Peter,” she chokes out, almost sobbing in her need of him. “Oh, Peter…"
She’s so close, she’s there, yes, right there, right THERE and just as she screams, as she pulls her hands away so that she won’t accidentally yank out his hair, he’s suddenly back above her and then he’s inside her, plunging deeply, again and again in hard, fast strokes until he's riding the crest of her wave. Her world flares white hot behind her eyes as every nerve ending explodes at once in a wash of exquisite feeling and the sheer elation, the joy of being alive and of being loved. Donna’s floating on the edge of consciousness and the delicious ripples of her climax rolling throughout her body as Peter gently rocks against her. He's saying something, he’s breathing it against her neck, chanting it into her skin, and he has been for quite some time, she realizes as she comes back to her senses.
“Donna, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sor-“ he whispers until she silences him with a finger laid against his lips.
“No, Peter,” she says quietly, knowing that he can sense the command behind the words. “I never, ever want to hear those words from you, not now, not ever again, not like that.”
He raises up on one elbow, shifting his weight onto his hip and she speaks again before he can protest.
"Do you hear me, Policeman?” she quietly demands. "Never again. You can apologize if you have to, you can tell me you have regrets, you can even say you wish something had been different, but I never, ever want to hear you say you’re sorry for something again.” He opens his mouth to protest and Donna silences him with one word. "Ever.”
“Besides,” she goes on, closing her eyes as he tenderly smooths her hair away from her face, “you have nothing to be sorry for. I’m the one who should be asking for your forgiveness. I overreacted, I went all bolshie on you.”
"A chuisle mo chroí,” he murmurs, kissing her eyelids, “the fault was-“
“No,” she states vehemently, bracing her hands against his chest as her eyes fly open. “You were only doing your job. I know that, I do.” She shakes her head and bites her lip, looking over his head to avoid meeting his gaze. "I was being unreasonable and selfish, and I was...worried,” she finishes in a small voice.
“Worried?” he wonders, twisting a curl of flame-bright hair around his finger. He lets it slide free and drops his hand to her shoulder, following the curve of her arm down and taking her hand in his. “Whatever for?” he asks as he interlaces their fingers, pulling them up to rest against his chest. He takes a chance and lets his thumb softly caress that empty space on her left ring finger, just above her palm.
Her breath catches and she looks up into his face, her eyes large and luminous, bright with brimming tears. “I worry that one day, you’ll realize that I’m too much hard work and that you’re better off without me,” she confesses as the tears spill over and stream down into her hair. "I worry that I’ll drive you away with all my shouting and that you’ll leave me.” He lays down against her side and twists his free arm up and around her head to wipe away her tears, murmuring words of comfort that she doesn’t yet hear. "I worry that you’ll move on and forget me,” she sobs brokenly, turning her face into the crook of his neck, "and that I’ll never be able to survive being unable to forget you.”
He pulls back just far enough to silence her with a tender kiss, sweet and loving, and he can taste the salt of her tears on her skin. "Doubt that the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love,” he swears against her lips. He lifts her hand and brushes his lips across her knuckles and prays that soon, very, very soon, she'll never have to grope for that missing band again because the bare spot on the third finger of her left hand will be occupied by his ring, And he swears to heaven above and all the devils in hell besides that she'll never, never ever want to take it off, but especially not because of something he’s done.
Part 1 | Part 10 | Part 20.1 | Part 30 | Part 40 | Part 45
Author: dtstrainers
Paring: Donna Noble/Peter Carlisle
Rating: Angsty Porn
Word Count: 3,510
Disclaimer: Donna and Peter- not mine, but in my mind.
Part 1 | Part 10 | Part 20.1 | Part 30 | Part 40 | Part 45
She’s standing before him, right now, no more than four, maybe four and a half feet away, and everything about her reeks of passion. He watches her, somehow in the moment and yet standing outside himself. Donna is there, one full stride and an arms’ length away, flinging her hands and her accusations at him with equal vigor. She’s angry and so is he.
But, no.
No.
That’s not right.
She’s not angry, exactly. She’s furious, radiant with a pulsing, desperate outrage, a bright and terrible mirror to his own dark wrath and brooding resentment. He wants this to stop. He longs to fold her into his arms and hold her and never, never, ever let her go. He wants to kiss away her anger and her fear and have her tremble against him with a different kind of passion, no less violent but much more welcome than the tremors passing through them both now. He wants her to know that he loves her and that he’d never withstand the loss of her if she were ever to walk out of his life. But inside, he’s raging against the pitch-black suspicion that she has never truly been his in the first place, that she's been unconsciously marking time with him as she waits for the Other to simply waltz back into her life, take her down from the shelf where he abandoned her, and plonk her back in place at his side.
Donna's building herself up into a towering rage and he marvels at it, though he's no stranger to conflict, far from it. Peter grew up in a house where strife was the norm and, night after night, he hid behind doors, listening and praying. Night after night, he stood in the dark and when he was old enough to understand, he swore that when he was a man, it would be different. But when he married Roselyn, they had both been barely more than children and when it finally ended, it ended childishly. By the time she finally left him for an older, richer, more successful man, he knew he’d broken his oath and he'd long since run out of prayers.
But with Donna, it’s different. Donna’s no child and Peter’s not entirely sure she ever was, even when she was young. She’s a complex set of contradictions, confident and commanding one moment, vulnerable and insecure the next, and he’s dead set on puzzling her out, deciphering her cryptic clues, understanding her mysteries. She never fails to surprise him, from her quiet compassion to the symphony of indignation she's zealously conducting for his benefit alone. What amazes him most, though, what he knows but still can’t quite allow himself to fathom, is that the anger on full display before him isn’t born of bitter dissatisfaction and disappointment with him, but the exact opposite. Instead, she’s all but glowing with irrational fury because she’s afraid for him.
He and Natalie never fought like this. She was soft and tentative, even in her anger, barely ever raising her voice before quieting again, even at the worst of times. She always held back, always, even when he desperately tried to lay bare his soul to her. In his charitable moments, he attributes her reticence to being responsible for someone else’s happiness and well-being, to being a mother, accustomed to always putting her children's interests before her own. In his darker funks, he lays the blame squarely at his own feet, for letting her see the cruelty buried deep in his soul when she’d fled from the cold lies he’d flung at her, stood in the doorway of a seaside hotel room.
One door closed, and another one opens.
From somewhere far, far away, he somehow registers the tiny snick of the lock as the door behind them closes, and he knows without looking that Ian and Maddie have gone. Just as remarkable is the sudden realization that he's not heard the last three wickedly-barbed bon mots Donna's launched his way because his responses are on autopilot as his attention is instead focused on all the tiny, subtle clues in her that he's been searching for. The way her hands keep stretching out for his, only to snap back to her sides. The tiny, almost insubstantial waver in her voice as she fights to reign in her habitually offensive defense. The fire that flashes in her eyes that provides an almost-convincing smoke-screen to hide the price she’s paying in the torment of this display.
And there! There it is! That moment when she realizes that, no matter the cost to her injured pride, she can't possibly begin to imagine her life without him and the only thing preventing her from launching herself at him and never, ever letting him go is the sheer, stark terror that she's finally succeeded in pushing him away, and she's biting her lip and fighting back tears and not once- not one, single, bloody moment in this whole, horrible ordeal- not once has her right hand searched her left for a ring lost to her past - and he knows.
Peter Carlisle knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Donna Noble is his, and his alone. His Fetch, that Doppelgänger, his Evil Twin? That man holds no sway over her heart and the only reason she stands before him, trembling and on the brink of desperate, angry tears is that she loves him more than she can say and before he realizes it, he's closed that space between them and pulled her into his arms and he's kissing her, fiercely and possessively and she's kissing him back just as ruthlessly.
Her hands are twisting in his shirt, pulling him closer, and she’s sobbing as the tears course down her cheeks to soak her blouse and he’s wiping them away at the same time as he’s kissing her, as his breath leaves his body and enters hers, and in his soul, he’s defying the stars to try and separate them again. He won't share her. She's his and his alone. That Other, he can’t have her. He relinquished his claim on her the day he walked out and left her to the less-than-tender mercies of her mother and the brave vigilance of her grandfather. He abandoned her in a way Peter can never comprehend or condone but for which he's profoundly grateful nonetheless.
She knows him, inside and out. He’s bared his soul, revealed to her those darkest parts of himself and yet she loves him all the more for it. She looked into his darkness and he is filled with her light. He kisses his way down her neck, laying her back against one strong arm as his right hand deftly flicks open the buttons down the front of her dark linen blouse and dear God in Heaven, she’s breathless and bothered and her heaving bosom is straining against the sheer black silk of the basque she’s barely wearing. He wasn’t expecting this, he wasn’t, he’s only seen this garment in the pictures she sent him one terrible day shopping and he sighs with the most exquisite longing, pausing momentarily to ghost one finger across the tops of her breasts, to admire the way her nipples have tightened into peaks under the filmy silk and as her breathing stutters, she arches her back and he sees the dusky pink of her areola just peeking out beneath his fingers and he comes undone.
But they are too alike in their passions. At the same moment Peter begins to consciously act on his desires, Donna recovers from the delicious shock of finding his arms around her once more, his lips pressed desperately against hers. She finds her hands groping for the hem of his shirt and she’s tugging it up and she somehow manages to time it so that just as he finally breaks the kiss to allow the both of them some much-needs oxygen, she yanks his shirt over his head and flings it away, just in time for him to lunge back in and press his lips to hers once more. And all the while, that little voice in the back of her head, the one telling her to be reasonable, to back off, to be careful, to go slow? Donna grabs that little voice and she frog-marches it farther into the dark recesses of her mind, straight into a gloomy little cell, as far away from conscious thought as possible, and she crams that little voice in and slams the door shut, she locks it and promptly tosses away the key.
She can’t see anything but him, she can’t hear or smell or taste anything but him and that’s good, that’s fine, because she doesn’t want to anyway and she’s so happy, she’s so proud of his quick, responsive mind because when she decides she’s had enough of his soft, almost tentative caress, her lips and her hands and those sighs she’s making demand more of him and Peter readily complies. She's working the zip of his jeans and he’s stepping up and out of his trainers, kicking them off and away somewhere behind him at the same time his own clever fingers find first the drawstring that releases her trousers to fall to the floor, then the tiny row of hooks that run up the front of that gorgeous black silk barrier, the one that barely hides those spots he wants most to lap at, to nibble, to suck. She scrabbles frantically at his jeans and he wriggles his hips to help her work them off faster but that destroys his balance and he has to concentrate on staying upright just a few moments longer, at least until he can release all those asinine little fasteners that are preventing him from kissing all the way down her body, from the tiny little crease at the base of her neck and across her collarbone, over each magnificently lickable breast and finally into the valley between that leads unerringly to a pair of tiny black panties and the bright tangle of red-gold curls that conceal his eventual goal.
But Donna is no fool. She’s reaped the many benefits of his oral fixation, usually several times a night, and she knows exactly what will happen the moment he manages to free her and she’s too impatient to wait for what she craves. She doesn’t just want him now, she needs him, she’s needed him for hours, for days, for months, for her entire life, and yes, the things she knows he’ll do to her, given less than half a chance, are glorious, amazing even, and she wants everything he wants, but first, she has a few life-goals of her own, thank you very, very much! She starts to kneel, to tug that sublimely form-fitting denim down his body, dragging her fingertips over the perfect curve of his arse in the process and he inhales sharply in response, his arms tightening around her reflexively, pulling her up, firmly against him. He just manages to rid himself of his jeans, slinging them away with a convulsive twitch of his leg, off to join his trainers somewhere behind him but before Donna can divest him of his pants as well, he’s furiously working at those infernal hooks again.
She inhales deeply which causes her breasts to swell upwards, much to Peter’s delight and Donna leans back a tiny bit, granting him better access to the fasteners beneath her breasts and down her torso. He’s got most of them but, in his impatience, he’s futilely trying to shimmy the basque down and over her hips, entirely missing the original intent of the garment and completely ignoring the dimensional improbability of the tactic. Oh, really! Enough is enough, she decides, and in her considered opinion, this gothic confection she’s wearing should be classified as a torture device rather than a form of enticing lingerie. She pulls in her stomach and grabs both sides of the garment, pushing them together and away from her body in one fluid movement that pops free all the remaining hooks. Peter grins in admiration of her practical cleverness even as his eyes go wide, his eyebrows threatening to disappear from his forehead entirely at the sight of her finally bouncing free. He growls her name from deep in his chest and wraps one long arm around her, pulling her close and diving in to lick the skin just between her breasts as his other hand tugs impatiently at the scrap of silk still around her hips, in effect trapping her hands between them.
She releases the breath she forgot she’d been holding in a frustrated huff and he hears it, loosens his hold on her and looks up in confusion from his possessive exploration of her body and that’s all the distraction she needs. She pushes him back as she whirls around and when the front of the sofa hits the back of his knees, he falls, but since he won’t release her, he’s taking her with him. Her hands are tangled in his hair and as she realizes what’s happening, she swivels so that she falls beside him and before she can catch her breath, he’s twisting and turning, pursuing her, pushing himself along with her, up and onto the sofa cushions.
Donna, however, steadfastly refuses to be outmaneuvered, and she digs in with her shoulders, halting her upwards movement as she snatches at his pants, managing to pull them down as he propels himself further up her body. He pauses as realization hits, holding himself above her with one hand as he struggles to help her in her goal with the other. When his underwear is finally tangled somewhere about his knees, Donna manages to lift one leg sufficient to plant her foot within the offending swath of cotton and drags it off his body completely. He laughs aloud, a single, triumphant bark of joy before he dives back to his chosen task of making her scream his name.
She won’t wait, she can't wait and besides, she’s pretty confident that there’ll be time enough for their more…creative...forms of self-expression later on, free from the concern that they might be disturbing the peace of their neighbors, but for right now, she wants him. Donna wants to feel Peter, hot and solid against her and over her and inside her. She wants his delicious weight above her, pushing her down. But Peter Carlisle is a man on a mission, dead set on climbing down her body and burying his face between her legs just to hear those bloody fucking gorgeous sounds she makes.
He’s hard for her, so hard it almost hurts, but he has his priorities. He wants her, now and forever but she has to know that he does, he has to prove it to her with both body and soul. He loves that he can make her cry out with just his tongue, and there’s something faintly ruthless in the way he presses a hand to her belly to keep her in place as he adds to her exquisite torment by bringing those long, slender fingers into play. She squirms beneath the dual onslaught of talented tongue and dancing digits, twining her own fingers into his hair as he swirls his tongue delicately over that tiny bud of nerves at her core. She’s beginning to pant now and Peter smiles against her, listening intently as her vocalizations slip up the chromatic scale of her sighs until she’s moaning outright, growing louder and more wanton with each lick and twist.
She wants to speak, to use words to persuade, to beg, to order him to comply with what she wants but in all honesty, she can’t remember how to do that, even if she could recall what she intended to demand. She’s swimming in a sea of sensations, centered upon the man at her center, and she's nearly drowning in him as he goes down for the third time. She’s a banquet laid out before, him a feast for all his senses and he’s determined to see her arch her back off the couch before moving into her embrace. She’s almost there, he can feel it in the tremble of her thighs as she unconsciously shifts her hips, tilting upwards, opening herself to him further even as one leg wraps around his waist and she presses her heel desperately into the small of his back.
“Peter,” she chokes out, almost sobbing in her need of him. “Oh, Peter…"
She’s so close, she’s there, yes, right there, right THERE and just as she screams, as she pulls her hands away so that she won’t accidentally yank out his hair, he’s suddenly back above her and then he’s inside her, plunging deeply, again and again in hard, fast strokes until he's riding the crest of her wave. Her world flares white hot behind her eyes as every nerve ending explodes at once in a wash of exquisite feeling and the sheer elation, the joy of being alive and of being loved. Donna’s floating on the edge of consciousness and the delicious ripples of her climax rolling throughout her body as Peter gently rocks against her. He's saying something, he’s breathing it against her neck, chanting it into her skin, and he has been for quite some time, she realizes as she comes back to her senses.
“Donna, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sor-“ he whispers until she silences him with a finger laid against his lips.
“No, Peter,” she says quietly, knowing that he can sense the command behind the words. “I never, ever want to hear those words from you, not now, not ever again, not like that.”
He raises up on one elbow, shifting his weight onto his hip and she speaks again before he can protest.
"Do you hear me, Policeman?” she quietly demands. "Never again. You can apologize if you have to, you can tell me you have regrets, you can even say you wish something had been different, but I never, ever want to hear you say you’re sorry for something again.” He opens his mouth to protest and Donna silences him with one word. "Ever.”
“Besides,” she goes on, closing her eyes as he tenderly smooths her hair away from her face, “you have nothing to be sorry for. I’m the one who should be asking for your forgiveness. I overreacted, I went all bolshie on you.”
"A chuisle mo chroí,” he murmurs, kissing her eyelids, “the fault was-“
“No,” she states vehemently, bracing her hands against his chest as her eyes fly open. “You were only doing your job. I know that, I do.” She shakes her head and bites her lip, looking over his head to avoid meeting his gaze. "I was being unreasonable and selfish, and I was...worried,” she finishes in a small voice.
“Worried?” he wonders, twisting a curl of flame-bright hair around his finger. He lets it slide free and drops his hand to her shoulder, following the curve of her arm down and taking her hand in his. “Whatever for?” he asks as he interlaces their fingers, pulling them up to rest against his chest. He takes a chance and lets his thumb softly caress that empty space on her left ring finger, just above her palm.
Her breath catches and she looks up into his face, her eyes large and luminous, bright with brimming tears. “I worry that one day, you’ll realize that I’m too much hard work and that you’re better off without me,” she confesses as the tears spill over and stream down into her hair. "I worry that I’ll drive you away with all my shouting and that you’ll leave me.” He lays down against her side and twists his free arm up and around her head to wipe away her tears, murmuring words of comfort that she doesn’t yet hear. "I worry that you’ll move on and forget me,” she sobs brokenly, turning her face into the crook of his neck, "and that I’ll never be able to survive being unable to forget you.”
He pulls back just far enough to silence her with a tender kiss, sweet and loving, and he can taste the salt of her tears on her skin. "Doubt that the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love,” he swears against her lips. He lifts her hand and brushes his lips across her knuckles and prays that soon, very, very soon, she'll never have to grope for that missing band again because the bare spot on the third finger of her left hand will be occupied by his ring, And he swears to heaven above and all the devils in hell besides that she'll never, never ever want to take it off, but especially not because of something he’s done.
Part 1 | Part 10 | Part 20.1 | Part 30 | Part 40 | Part 45