Caught
Title: Caught
Author: laulan
Rating: light NC-17
Genre and/or Pairing: Peter/Neal
Spoilers: general S1
Warnings: mild anklet kink
Word Count: ~2600
Summary: Peter proves a point.
Notes: This is pretty much just plotless porn--my first posted. /o\ See, I return from my hiatus bearing gifts of questionable value! Call it a celebration of the return of show. Cut text from "Unguided" by The New Pornographers.
-
So somehow Peter's got him spread out on the bed, and Neal can't remember how he got there. Or he could, maybe, if his fingers weren't twisted in Peter's hair and Peter's mouth wasn't pulling him to pieces kiss by kiss--but as it is, he's thinking of nothing but the way their bodies are pressed together, the way his skin is thrilling under Peter's hands, the way Peter's tongue feels dragging over his own. His lungs and his heart are both going crazy, kicked up into double-time, and he's breathless and giddy and burning up.
He wasn't expecting this to happen, some part of him's thinking dizzily--all the miracles and luck he's trained himself to expect and this was the thing he thought he couldn't have. Every brush of Peter's lips on his skin is proving him wrong, though, and he's never been happier to be wrong. Never been harder, either, he thinks, shifting; his arousal is a powerful ache, and Peter's just taking his sweet time, working on Neal's neck with his lips and teeth and tongue. Typical, Neal has time to think, and then Peter's saying something, and he has to pay attention.
"It's 4-0, now, you know," he breathes into Neal's ear as he smooths his thumbs over Neal's stomach, drawing a shudder down Neal's spine from the base of his neck.
"Is not," Neal protests. He slides his bare heel up the leg of Peter's tacky work pants, because it's not fair that Peter's still halfway dressed, not when Neal's aching like this. He wants them off, dammit, and he's not above teasing to get there. "I caught you, this time," he says, making it so hot and soft it's like velvet, hoping.
Peter just snorts, though, breath huffing warm over Neal's skin. "Oh yeah?" he mutters. He catches Neal's foot in his hand and drags his teeth over Neal's pulse. "Coulda sworn I caught you a long time ago, Caffrey," he goes on into Neal's skin. "This is just the culmination, y'know."
Neal swallows and opens his mouth to correct Peter, or try. But then suddenly Peter's fingers are sliding under his anklet and rubbing over the skin there, and Neal's twisting up his hips sharp and hard, because God it feels--it feels--it's only been three years, but it feels like no one's ever touched him there, crazy-sensitive and so, so good, jolting curls of heat down his spine and in his stomach--
He must make some kind of noise, because Peter's mouth slows on his neck, and he tips his head up a little to pin Neal with those too-smart brown eyes. Before Neal can play it off, Peter's fingers flutter over the skin more deliberately, a test. And Neal wants to play it cool, but it's Peter--Peter's always been the one to make him stumble, make him show his hand too quickly, and this time's no different. All he has to do is scrape a fingernail over the soft skin there, and Neal can't help but arch his hips against empty air, because he needs some friction, he needs Peter's hands on him, everywhere, he needs, he needs--
"Case in point," Peter says, hooking a thumb into the anklet and tugging. Neal gives up and just moans, rocking his hips helplessly against the leg Peter slips between his thighs, gripping hard at Peter's back while Peter makes short work of his own pants. He's kissing along Neal's jawline with a fervor and wildness that shouldn't feel as steady and rock-solid it does, Neal thinks. But it does. Like a promise.
"Yeah? You like that?" Peter asks, running his thumbnail over Neal's ankle again. His voice is low and hoarse, scraped raw, and it hits Neal in a wash of warmth all over, how hot Peter sounds when he's opening up like this.
"You're the FBI agent; you figure it out," he gets out, hooking his other foot around Peter's knee to pull him closer. He can't stop his hips from moving, and once, maybe, that would have made him feel trapped--but it's Peter. It's okay to want this so bad, he thinks, to let it reach right inside him and fuck him up, pull at his heart till he can't keep it inside, because it's Peter. He thinks maybe he could come just like this. The cheap roughness of Peter's boxers rubbing up over his skin, Peter's mouth hovering wet and hot above his own, breathing on Neal's lips--he closes his eyes tightly.
"God, please, Peter, get these off before you kill me," he says, digging a thumb under the elastic. His voice comes out in an unflattering rasp, but he doesn't care. He can't concentrate on words right now anyway.
Peter makes a low noise and takes Neal's mouth in a deep, sloppy kiss, biting and sucking at his tongue and lower lip till Neal's lost all his breath. "You gotta, you gotta--tell me if it's not okay, okay," he tells Neal between harsh pants. "If it's too fast, if I step over a line. You hafta say, you got that?"
He leans down, brushing little biting kisses up the column of Neal's neck, and Neal struggles to keep down what feels like a wave of sound pulsing through him, because Peter's mouth is brand-hot and Peter's hands are firm but so gentle, wrapped around his ribs. The contrast is killing him, twisting up his body with arousal and affection.
"I will," he gets out, turning his head and closing his eyes. He sounds stupid and low and breathless, too, but that's okay. "Don't have to--God, don't have to ask, Peter, not you, okay, I'll say something if--just, just get these off," trying to tug his boxers down, hand shaking more than he'd like to admit, "come here--"
He looks up at Peter, heart fluttering in his chest and lungs working hard. He can see the way Peter's eyes have gone a little wide at the words, but he doesn't care how it sounds. He long ago passed the point where saying stuff like that would make him jitter and buzz with nerves, and every plan had to come with a back door or three. He doesn't need to be careful here; it's as simple as that. He can say what he wants. Peter's never going to be the guy who runs from something like this, who screws Neal over and leaves him with a broken heart. Never.
"Okay, okay, Jesus--hold still," Peter growls. He slides an arm over Neal's stomach to hold him down and leans back to get the stupid boxers off. Neal can't stop himself from making a frustrated noise at the loss of friction--fuck, he aches--and Peter presses down a little harder, groaning. "Hold on, hold on, almost, Neal," he murmurs.
"So slow," Neal breathes, and some teasing creeps into his voice again. "Never could keep up with me, huh?"
"Oh, don't you--" Peter says, eyes gleaming, "you damn--you asked for it, okay."
He tosses the boxers somewhere, and curls his hand over Neal's ankle before Neal can open his mouth, squeezing right under the anklet. Neal drops his head back and bites his lip over a moan, breathing in deep through his nose to keep his hold on things. Feeling like he'll never come down. Peter shifts up onto the bed but doesn't touch his body to Neal's, crowding in close but not close enough. Neal can feel the miles and miles of heat shimmering between them, and he arches up, trying to touch his skin to Peter's to put this to rest.
"Not yet," Peter whispers, inches above his mouth. Neal bites his lip harder, watching Peter's lips move, the surprisingly gentle little smile creasing his face--the stark and heated want resting so heavy in his eyes, matching the feelings rolling through Neal's body. Before he can even really think about any of that, Peter's kissing him, slow and so dirty; cupping his chin in one hand. Neal lets himself get lost in it, winding his fingers into Peter's short hair just for something to keep anchored to in the middle of all this.
"Condom," Peter murmurs against his mouth, pulling back a little, when Neal shifts up again. His voice wrecked, soft and rough. "And something to--Neal--"
"Bedside drawer," Neal pants. He feels the quirk of Peter's smile against his cheek, an electric zing right down to his bones.
"Convenient," says Peter.
Planning ahead; wishful thinking, Neal thinks, but saves his breath, closing his eyes as Peter leans over him to fumble in the drawer. "Hurry up," he breathes, trailing a thumb over Peter's ribs. Letting his palm slide up to cup Peter's shoulder, because he's allowed to touch, now; keeping his eyes closed because it feels like if he opened them it would be too much.
"So goddamn impatient," Peter grunts. Neal feels the hot damp of his breath over his ear, and tilts his head with a little moan, expecting teeth--but Peter never goes for what you'd expect, that's the thing. He kisses right under Neal's ear instead, fierce and possessive, and there's something so sweet about that it just slides down into Neal's lungs and knocks the breath right out of him, leaving him reeling.
"Even when I've got my hands all over you, huh," Peter's going on, over the noise of the condom wrapper. "Can't hold still--"
"You know how to fix that? Don't make me wait so long next time," Neal says, and pushes his mouth up blindly till he finds Peter's. He makes it a long kiss, a dizzy, wild kiss--knots his hands around Peter's neck to hold him there, winding everything he's feeling into it, this overwhelming mess of things inside him. Things the universe doesn't have words for, that ruin him and make it so he can't see straight, can't think right. Like he's going crazy. The way Peter kisses him back, though--like he's breathing Neal in to hold him there over his heart, and like he can't get more than a centimeter away--Neal thinks Peter gets it, too.
"Who's calling the shots, here?" Peter asks when they finally come apart, close into Neal's skin, hot words curling with affection and frustration. His voice is just a rough scratch in the air, fingers squeezing around Neal's ankle again. "Gonna get yourself in trouble again, the way you're always--always--running ahead without thinking, y'know, I gotta watch you so closely and make sure you don't get in over your head--"
Neal pulls his lip between his teeth and makes a noise. "Peter, dammit," he pants, screwing his eyes shut and pushing his head back into the pillow. "Will you--"
"Okay, okay, shh--hey, I got you, I got you," Peter murmurs. "We'll--here, hitch up," he urges, punctuated with a nudge at Neal's legs. Neal hooks his ankles over Peter's shoulder obediently; can't hold back the moan building in him when he feels a slick finger rubbing over and into him without hesitation. It's been a while, yeah--been a long while--and it's a painful stretch at first, but it's still so good, knowing it's Peter there, Peter right here with him. Peter's gentle but relentless, smoothing his finger over Neal's insides till Neal gets used to it and starts feeling like he's going to die from wanting more; opens him up carefully until Neal can't control his mouth anymore and he's twisting back, making a set of noises he'd probably be embarrassed about if he could think at all. Instead he just concentrates on how incredible it feels.
"Come on," he says when he feels like he can't stand it, "c'mon, ready." He forces his eyes open and locks his gaze onto Peter's blazing one--knocks Peter's shoulder clumsily with his heel, the best challenge he can muster. Peter's face twists sharply, and he draws in a harsh breath. Neal has time for one smug thrill of delight before Peter's pushing into him, slow and steady.
He has to open his mouth to breathe, then, because he feels like all the air's left him. He's full, and his body's just too much sensation, strings of nerves ringing and burning and making things bloom and flame inside him. Words have flown out of his mind, and the only thing he can concentrate on is the way Peter's dragging in and out of him, so slow, too slow. Too slow and good. It doesn't take long--Neal's been so worked up that a few minutes is all it takes to draw him up to the painful edge. When Peter twists two fingers under the anklet unexpectedly, pressing a nail hard and sharp over the bone, Neal comes hard, arching off the bed and gripping the back of Peter's neck to keep himself grounded under the hot wave of it. He feels Peter come, too, and that's better--amping him higher, juddering through his body, making his blood sing.
He comes down from it slowly--drifts back in pieces. He can hear Peter making his breathing calm down--FBI training--and the sound, familiar as his own breathing, draws him back to reality. He lets his eyes fall open. His heart is beating hard in his chest, and he doesn't know what to think yet--mind blasted clean of any thought--so he watches Peter for a moment instead of trying.
Peter's face is flushed a dull red and his hair is damp with sweat, but the line of his mouth when he smiles is so vibrant and alive that it makes Neal's heart flip, one-two-three, in his chest. He smiles back without meaning to, and Peter's face goes soft.
"So. You like the anklet thing, huh," he mutters, rubbing a thumb over Neal's bottom lip. His eyes are so warm with affection, so completely sure, that it starts to make Neal feel--new again, maybe, is the right word for it. Like he can't catch his breath, like he could fly off the Empire State Building or pull the biggest con New York City's ever seen without breaking a sweat--like he's invincible. His breathing's still harsh and shuddery, fluttering between them, but his body is boneless, melted and warm. He's safe here. Unquestionably so.
"Thought you woulda hated something like that," Peter goes on. Neal blinks and has to cast his mind back a little to remember what they're talking about--wrinkles his nose when he does. He shrugs, and glances down at his ankle. He can see the way the skin's a little red from Peter rubbing at it, the way Peter's fingers have left a mark on him, and it makes his breath catch. He wonders how long it'll stay that way, if it'll bruise--swallows hard.
"I guess not," he murmurs back. He flips his gaze over to Peter and let his eyelids drop a little. "Maybe we'll have to test this theory, Agent Burke," he purrs, shifting till his anklet bumps Peter's shin.
Peter shakes his head and smiles, then--a fuller, looser grin, crows' feet blooming at the corners of his eyes. "Toldja I caught you a long time ago," he teases, smile melting back into something a little smug and a lot tender. "Can't stay away."
"Maybe not," Neal says. He shifts closer into the circle of Peter's arms, smirking a little. "But let's see if you can convince me not to run," he whispers, and kisses Peter's collarbone.
"I think I can do that," Peter says, running his fingers through Neal's hair. Gentle and sure.
Author: laulan
Rating: light NC-17
Genre and/or Pairing: Peter/Neal
Spoilers: general S1
Warnings: mild anklet kink
Word Count: ~2600
Summary: Peter proves a point.
Notes: This is pretty much just plotless porn--my first posted. /o\ See, I return from my hiatus bearing gifts of questionable value! Call it a celebration of the return of show. Cut text from "Unguided" by The New Pornographers.
-
So somehow Peter's got him spread out on the bed, and Neal can't remember how he got there. Or he could, maybe, if his fingers weren't twisted in Peter's hair and Peter's mouth wasn't pulling him to pieces kiss by kiss--but as it is, he's thinking of nothing but the way their bodies are pressed together, the way his skin is thrilling under Peter's hands, the way Peter's tongue feels dragging over his own. His lungs and his heart are both going crazy, kicked up into double-time, and he's breathless and giddy and burning up.
He wasn't expecting this to happen, some part of him's thinking dizzily--all the miracles and luck he's trained himself to expect and this was the thing he thought he couldn't have. Every brush of Peter's lips on his skin is proving him wrong, though, and he's never been happier to be wrong. Never been harder, either, he thinks, shifting; his arousal is a powerful ache, and Peter's just taking his sweet time, working on Neal's neck with his lips and teeth and tongue. Typical, Neal has time to think, and then Peter's saying something, and he has to pay attention.
"It's 4-0, now, you know," he breathes into Neal's ear as he smooths his thumbs over Neal's stomach, drawing a shudder down Neal's spine from the base of his neck.
"Is not," Neal protests. He slides his bare heel up the leg of Peter's tacky work pants, because it's not fair that Peter's still halfway dressed, not when Neal's aching like this. He wants them off, dammit, and he's not above teasing to get there. "I caught you, this time," he says, making it so hot and soft it's like velvet, hoping.
Peter just snorts, though, breath huffing warm over Neal's skin. "Oh yeah?" he mutters. He catches Neal's foot in his hand and drags his teeth over Neal's pulse. "Coulda sworn I caught you a long time ago, Caffrey," he goes on into Neal's skin. "This is just the culmination, y'know."
Neal swallows and opens his mouth to correct Peter, or try. But then suddenly Peter's fingers are sliding under his anklet and rubbing over the skin there, and Neal's twisting up his hips sharp and hard, because God it feels--it feels--it's only been three years, but it feels like no one's ever touched him there, crazy-sensitive and so, so good, jolting curls of heat down his spine and in his stomach--
He must make some kind of noise, because Peter's mouth slows on his neck, and he tips his head up a little to pin Neal with those too-smart brown eyes. Before Neal can play it off, Peter's fingers flutter over the skin more deliberately, a test. And Neal wants to play it cool, but it's Peter--Peter's always been the one to make him stumble, make him show his hand too quickly, and this time's no different. All he has to do is scrape a fingernail over the soft skin there, and Neal can't help but arch his hips against empty air, because he needs some friction, he needs Peter's hands on him, everywhere, he needs, he needs--
"Case in point," Peter says, hooking a thumb into the anklet and tugging. Neal gives up and just moans, rocking his hips helplessly against the leg Peter slips between his thighs, gripping hard at Peter's back while Peter makes short work of his own pants. He's kissing along Neal's jawline with a fervor and wildness that shouldn't feel as steady and rock-solid it does, Neal thinks. But it does. Like a promise.
"Yeah? You like that?" Peter asks, running his thumbnail over Neal's ankle again. His voice is low and hoarse, scraped raw, and it hits Neal in a wash of warmth all over, how hot Peter sounds when he's opening up like this.
"You're the FBI agent; you figure it out," he gets out, hooking his other foot around Peter's knee to pull him closer. He can't stop his hips from moving, and once, maybe, that would have made him feel trapped--but it's Peter. It's okay to want this so bad, he thinks, to let it reach right inside him and fuck him up, pull at his heart till he can't keep it inside, because it's Peter. He thinks maybe he could come just like this. The cheap roughness of Peter's boxers rubbing up over his skin, Peter's mouth hovering wet and hot above his own, breathing on Neal's lips--he closes his eyes tightly.
"God, please, Peter, get these off before you kill me," he says, digging a thumb under the elastic. His voice comes out in an unflattering rasp, but he doesn't care. He can't concentrate on words right now anyway.
Peter makes a low noise and takes Neal's mouth in a deep, sloppy kiss, biting and sucking at his tongue and lower lip till Neal's lost all his breath. "You gotta, you gotta--tell me if it's not okay, okay," he tells Neal between harsh pants. "If it's too fast, if I step over a line. You hafta say, you got that?"
He leans down, brushing little biting kisses up the column of Neal's neck, and Neal struggles to keep down what feels like a wave of sound pulsing through him, because Peter's mouth is brand-hot and Peter's hands are firm but so gentle, wrapped around his ribs. The contrast is killing him, twisting up his body with arousal and affection.
"I will," he gets out, turning his head and closing his eyes. He sounds stupid and low and breathless, too, but that's okay. "Don't have to--God, don't have to ask, Peter, not you, okay, I'll say something if--just, just get these off," trying to tug his boxers down, hand shaking more than he'd like to admit, "come here--"
He looks up at Peter, heart fluttering in his chest and lungs working hard. He can see the way Peter's eyes have gone a little wide at the words, but he doesn't care how it sounds. He long ago passed the point where saying stuff like that would make him jitter and buzz with nerves, and every plan had to come with a back door or three. He doesn't need to be careful here; it's as simple as that. He can say what he wants. Peter's never going to be the guy who runs from something like this, who screws Neal over and leaves him with a broken heart. Never.
"Okay, okay, Jesus--hold still," Peter growls. He slides an arm over Neal's stomach to hold him down and leans back to get the stupid boxers off. Neal can't stop himself from making a frustrated noise at the loss of friction--fuck, he aches--and Peter presses down a little harder, groaning. "Hold on, hold on, almost, Neal," he murmurs.
"So slow," Neal breathes, and some teasing creeps into his voice again. "Never could keep up with me, huh?"
"Oh, don't you--" Peter says, eyes gleaming, "you damn--you asked for it, okay."
He tosses the boxers somewhere, and curls his hand over Neal's ankle before Neal can open his mouth, squeezing right under the anklet. Neal drops his head back and bites his lip over a moan, breathing in deep through his nose to keep his hold on things. Feeling like he'll never come down. Peter shifts up onto the bed but doesn't touch his body to Neal's, crowding in close but not close enough. Neal can feel the miles and miles of heat shimmering between them, and he arches up, trying to touch his skin to Peter's to put this to rest.
"Not yet," Peter whispers, inches above his mouth. Neal bites his lip harder, watching Peter's lips move, the surprisingly gentle little smile creasing his face--the stark and heated want resting so heavy in his eyes, matching the feelings rolling through Neal's body. Before he can even really think about any of that, Peter's kissing him, slow and so dirty; cupping his chin in one hand. Neal lets himself get lost in it, winding his fingers into Peter's short hair just for something to keep anchored to in the middle of all this.
"Condom," Peter murmurs against his mouth, pulling back a little, when Neal shifts up again. His voice wrecked, soft and rough. "And something to--Neal--"
"Bedside drawer," Neal pants. He feels the quirk of Peter's smile against his cheek, an electric zing right down to his bones.
"Convenient," says Peter.
Planning ahead; wishful thinking, Neal thinks, but saves his breath, closing his eyes as Peter leans over him to fumble in the drawer. "Hurry up," he breathes, trailing a thumb over Peter's ribs. Letting his palm slide up to cup Peter's shoulder, because he's allowed to touch, now; keeping his eyes closed because it feels like if he opened them it would be too much.
"So goddamn impatient," Peter grunts. Neal feels the hot damp of his breath over his ear, and tilts his head with a little moan, expecting teeth--but Peter never goes for what you'd expect, that's the thing. He kisses right under Neal's ear instead, fierce and possessive, and there's something so sweet about that it just slides down into Neal's lungs and knocks the breath right out of him, leaving him reeling.
"Even when I've got my hands all over you, huh," Peter's going on, over the noise of the condom wrapper. "Can't hold still--"
"You know how to fix that? Don't make me wait so long next time," Neal says, and pushes his mouth up blindly till he finds Peter's. He makes it a long kiss, a dizzy, wild kiss--knots his hands around Peter's neck to hold him there, winding everything he's feeling into it, this overwhelming mess of things inside him. Things the universe doesn't have words for, that ruin him and make it so he can't see straight, can't think right. Like he's going crazy. The way Peter kisses him back, though--like he's breathing Neal in to hold him there over his heart, and like he can't get more than a centimeter away--Neal thinks Peter gets it, too.
"Who's calling the shots, here?" Peter asks when they finally come apart, close into Neal's skin, hot words curling with affection and frustration. His voice is just a rough scratch in the air, fingers squeezing around Neal's ankle again. "Gonna get yourself in trouble again, the way you're always--always--running ahead without thinking, y'know, I gotta watch you so closely and make sure you don't get in over your head--"
Neal pulls his lip between his teeth and makes a noise. "Peter, dammit," he pants, screwing his eyes shut and pushing his head back into the pillow. "Will you--"
"Okay, okay, shh--hey, I got you, I got you," Peter murmurs. "We'll--here, hitch up," he urges, punctuated with a nudge at Neal's legs. Neal hooks his ankles over Peter's shoulder obediently; can't hold back the moan building in him when he feels a slick finger rubbing over and into him without hesitation. It's been a while, yeah--been a long while--and it's a painful stretch at first, but it's still so good, knowing it's Peter there, Peter right here with him. Peter's gentle but relentless, smoothing his finger over Neal's insides till Neal gets used to it and starts feeling like he's going to die from wanting more; opens him up carefully until Neal can't control his mouth anymore and he's twisting back, making a set of noises he'd probably be embarrassed about if he could think at all. Instead he just concentrates on how incredible it feels.
"Come on," he says when he feels like he can't stand it, "c'mon, ready." He forces his eyes open and locks his gaze onto Peter's blazing one--knocks Peter's shoulder clumsily with his heel, the best challenge he can muster. Peter's face twists sharply, and he draws in a harsh breath. Neal has time for one smug thrill of delight before Peter's pushing into him, slow and steady.
He has to open his mouth to breathe, then, because he feels like all the air's left him. He's full, and his body's just too much sensation, strings of nerves ringing and burning and making things bloom and flame inside him. Words have flown out of his mind, and the only thing he can concentrate on is the way Peter's dragging in and out of him, so slow, too slow. Too slow and good. It doesn't take long--Neal's been so worked up that a few minutes is all it takes to draw him up to the painful edge. When Peter twists two fingers under the anklet unexpectedly, pressing a nail hard and sharp over the bone, Neal comes hard, arching off the bed and gripping the back of Peter's neck to keep himself grounded under the hot wave of it. He feels Peter come, too, and that's better--amping him higher, juddering through his body, making his blood sing.
He comes down from it slowly--drifts back in pieces. He can hear Peter making his breathing calm down--FBI training--and the sound, familiar as his own breathing, draws him back to reality. He lets his eyes fall open. His heart is beating hard in his chest, and he doesn't know what to think yet--mind blasted clean of any thought--so he watches Peter for a moment instead of trying.
Peter's face is flushed a dull red and his hair is damp with sweat, but the line of his mouth when he smiles is so vibrant and alive that it makes Neal's heart flip, one-two-three, in his chest. He smiles back without meaning to, and Peter's face goes soft.
"So. You like the anklet thing, huh," he mutters, rubbing a thumb over Neal's bottom lip. His eyes are so warm with affection, so completely sure, that it starts to make Neal feel--new again, maybe, is the right word for it. Like he can't catch his breath, like he could fly off the Empire State Building or pull the biggest con New York City's ever seen without breaking a sweat--like he's invincible. His breathing's still harsh and shuddery, fluttering between them, but his body is boneless, melted and warm. He's safe here. Unquestionably so.
"Thought you woulda hated something like that," Peter goes on. Neal blinks and has to cast his mind back a little to remember what they're talking about--wrinkles his nose when he does. He shrugs, and glances down at his ankle. He can see the way the skin's a little red from Peter rubbing at it, the way Peter's fingers have left a mark on him, and it makes his breath catch. He wonders how long it'll stay that way, if it'll bruise--swallows hard.
"I guess not," he murmurs back. He flips his gaze over to Peter and let his eyelids drop a little. "Maybe we'll have to test this theory, Agent Burke," he purrs, shifting till his anklet bumps Peter's shin.
Peter shakes his head and smiles, then--a fuller, looser grin, crows' feet blooming at the corners of his eyes. "Toldja I caught you a long time ago," he teases, smile melting back into something a little smug and a lot tender. "Can't stay away."
"Maybe not," Neal says. He shifts closer into the circle of Peter's arms, smirking a little. "But let's see if you can convince me not to run," he whispers, and kisses Peter's collarbone.
"I think I can do that," Peter says, running his fingers through Neal's hair. Gentle and sure.