First off, thank you guys SO MUCH for all the lovely reviews. I read and love each and every one of them.

Second, I'm SO SORRY for not getting around to finishing this story earlier. I had a difficult time figuring out an appropriate ending and finding something that felt right for them and for me. Many many thanks to Xeen Cyr and Nathalie for hashing this out with me. You guys are awesome ^^

Hopefully the new episodes will inspire a new story 'cause I love writing this pairing. They're just too much fun. Anyway, I'll stop talking. Enjoy!!


"You're thinking too hard."

It comes out as an accusation, and she smiles in spite of it, biting her lip. Ever the tease.

Cocking her head to the side she studies him for a moment, taking in his disheveled appearance and the copper tint of his hair in the fading sunlight. Her still-bare feet brush against the bare skin of his hips where his shirt has risen in their haste to their current position. He's less than a foot in front her and yet it somehow feels much too far. Tossing him a come-hither smile she wraps her legs about his waist, forcing him closer.

His eyes darken in response. Peter had always figured her to be the aggressor type, but he had only ever been on the professional receiving end of such pursuit. And this, he reminds himself is not exactly the definitely of "professional".

She meets him eyes with a challenge.

"So make me stop thinking."

That's all it takes for whatever restraint and composure they have left to be thrown aside and forgotten. Olivia needs him to touch her; to feel his hands, his mouth, his breath against her skin; to remind her that something in her crazy, fucked up world is real and solid and here.

When he kisses her it is hard and commanding, just as she knew their first kiss would be. He doesn't ask her permission or wait for the invite. As if it was ever needed. She should have known he would deny her no request. In fact, she had been counting on it. His hands are buried in her hair, pulling her so tight she knows it should hurt, but she can't feel anything more than the pressure of his mouth against her own, his lips setting an exquisite rhythm against hers, claiming her breath as his own.

Without thought or hesitation her hands find their way to his shirt, frantically making sloppy work of the stubborn buttons that refuse to cooperate with her. She groans in frustration against him and Peter laughs. She can taste his amusement - if that's even possible - and she returns the smile.

"I hate button-down shirts."

"I hate pants suits."

Peter halts her oncoming retort with a kiss, drawing her lower lip into his mouth, biting it just so. Olivia melts. God, why had she waited so long…

Nimble fingers make easy work of her dress shirt, and he flicks the starched white material aside carelessly. He has other destinations in mind. Peter's not sure how she does it, but she's somehow made unfussy white cotton more alluring than any secret Victoria may have. She's all sex and propriety, opposite ends of a dueling spectrum, and everything he wants to devour. It's not the first time he's seen her in such a state of undresses. Hell, he's seen her in far less than this.

But never before had it come with a lust-filled gaze and tousled hair, mused from his own fingers in a desperate attempt to pull her closer. His body tightens, watching the shallow heaves of her chest, the flushed color of her skin. God, how long had he dreamed of this moment? How many nights had he laid awake at the thought of her, wondering if she would kill him slowly of quickly if he ever just grabbed her and kissed her? Too many, he answers. Too many restless nights and unsatisfied urges that he had never been able to sate on his own.

This is the last place they need to be, he thinks. Though he's sure she's quite unamused at being man-handled so often in the past hour, Peter sweeps her up from the piano and carries her towards the couch, setting her to the ground carefully. Olivia doesn't refuse, just watches as he stands before her, unbuttoning his shirt.


Peter stops, suddenly afraid that she's going to change her mind and tell him all this is all a very big mistake. But she doesn't. Instead, she brushes his hands aside, searching his face for some sign of reassurance.

"I want to do it."

The urgency that had overridden them a moment earlier is replaced with a heavy feeling of intensity. Like an ignited fire that falls into a slow burn, frustrating in its rolling intensity. This time, her fingers cooperate. She takes her time, gauging his reactions, wanting to know his every habit, every detail. Peter Bishop was altogether a mystery to her, and she had never been able to resist investigation. Never one to sit back and observe, Peter's hands trail along her sides, brushing along the outside of her breasts, his arms circling her.

She sucks in a breath, willing her legs to remain beneath her.

Not five minutes ago they had been going at it like two love-starved teenagers in the back of her dad's 69 Chevy. Now they can't seem to slow time down enough.

There's a triangle of freckles dotting her right shoulder, marring the otherwise flawless skin. He lowers his mouth to taste them, pressing a slow trail of kisses along the column of her neck as her hands trace along the hem of his jeans. When he bites down gently on her shoulder his name gets caught in her throat and she groans. The sound goes straight to his groin and he vows to make her say his name, just like that, for as long as she'll let him.

"You have too many clothes on," he protests, laughing as he kisses her once more.

"Well I guess you'd better do something about that then."

Peter just shakes his head, deciding that he's never had this much fun on a 'first time'.

"You're so bossy."

Olivia winds her arms around his neck, enjoying the feel of the lean muscles of his shoulders.

"And don't you forget it."

She lets out an uncharacteristically girlish scream as Peter grabs her by the waist and throws them onto the couch, pulling her onto his lap. The not-quite-tackle takes her by surprise and she can't stop the laughter from bubbling up.

"Peter !--"

Her protest is stilled by his fingers, which have begun easing the zipper of her pants down with an audible scrap of metal on metal.


It was his turn to take the lead. Motioning for her help she lifts her hips off his lap, allowing him to push the cotton pants over her hips, his hands skimming the curve of her ass as he frees her legs from their constraints, adding the article of clothing to the growing collection on the floor. He can feel her heat through the thin satin of her panties. His tongue sneaks out to wet his lips in anticipation. Olivia follows suit.

Just breathe, she reminds herself.

Without speaking or breaking his gaze, she reaches behind her back and undoes the clasp of her bra. She swears she can hear the audible rush of cool air that replaces the heated material. Taking a breath to steady herself she bites her bottom lip, suddenly nervous, and slides the straps off her shoulders. First the left one, then the right.

Peter doesn't move, but she can feel his growing arousal stir beneath her. Despite it all, she blushes.

Her voice interrupts the heavy silence.

"If you're waiting for permission, you already have it." She smiles, dipping her chin in sincerity. "You always have."

Needing no further encouragement, Peter grins and captures her mouth with his. The heat of his bare skin against hers is almost more than she can stand and she moans into the kiss, rubbing herself against him without reserve, finally finding the friction she was looking for.

He tastes of single malt whiskey and the sticky sweetness of cotton candy, a combination that should make her laugh but only fuels her onwards. He is unlike anyone she has ever tasted, ever given herself to.

He reminds her of no one. And she wouldn't have it any other way.

Peter takes his time, giving and taking at even pulses, his tongue tasting and exploring her mouth. She feels better than anything he has ever touched. His hands and mouth play her like the artist he is, plucking at all the right strings and hitting all the perfect chords. She wishes she could return the favor.

Olivia leans into him. They breathe against, into, in rhythm with each other. Her lips are swollen and quivering, all the frustration and haste leaving her exhausted. She feels heavy and complacent, but happy, despite it all. And she kisses him once more, smiling as she does, telling him more than her feeble words ever could.

It's warm.

His hands are warm, insistent, moving in tempo with his mouth, which she's quickly discovering she can't quite get enough of.

For a moment she thinks of the passages from those clichéd two-cent novels Rachel was always so fond of, and she wonders if the authors weren't on to something. Because right now, right now, Peter Bishop was becoming nothing short of an addiction.

Could she risk such an addiction?

It doesn't take long for the absurdity of it all to hit her. And when it does, Olivia begins to laugh, not bothering to conceal it or even worry that Peter would think her strange for laughing at such an inappropriate time. But it doesn't matter because before she has a chance to apologize Peter's laughter collides with her own. Funny, she thinks, that she had never heard him truly laugh before now.

His lips are swollen and tinged an incriminating shade of pink that suits him more than she would ever tell him.

The silence feels thick, almost heavy, a seemingly endless fermata that tries vainly to keep the chorus from truly ending. Yet for all its suspended purposes, she's never felt more comfortable. Peter's hands rest on her hips, his sun-tanned skin a stark contrast against her own pale features.

"You're going to tell me this can't happen, aren't you?"

It should have sounded rhetorical; more of a statement of fact than a voiced acceptance of defeat.

Pursing her lips Olivia gathers her composure, and giving him a soft smile, stands to her feet. Peter watches the sudden crescendo of modesty rise in her cheeks as she slips her shirt over her head, not bothering with – or perhaps forgetting about – her discarded bra.

Her eyes never leave his own as she silently dresses, pulling her hair out from the collar of her shirt. Letting out a sigh she stands still, and holds out her hand to Peter. An offering. Of sorts.

His brows knit together in confusion.

Wasn't she just telling him 'no'?

Olivia dips her head, nodding once and extending her hand further. Her bottom lip pales as she bites down in silent anticipation. Peter shakes his head. It's always a surprise with her. No one else, save for Walter –and insanity was an entirely different matter – kept him on his toes like Olivia Dunham.

That's for damn sure.

Olivia lets out a breath she doesn't realize she's holding as Peter takes a hold of her hand and allows her to pull him to his feet. The kiss comes as a surprise. He was expecting a hasty apology and a 'let's just forget about this moment of weakness' speech, but he's more than pleased that it doesn't come.

Shit, he swears, she's going to be the death of me.

It leaves as quick as it had come, and before Peter can pull her closer to him, she's retreated just out of his reach, eyes glued to the floor beneath her feet, which suddenly feels as if it's about to open up and swallow them whole.

He almost wishes it would.

"We can't do this here…"

And just as quickly as it had begun, it's over. No more refrains.

Olivia's voice trails off as Peter drops his head, laughing ironically. His chin drops to his chest and he lets out a breath, somehow hoping she can't read the disappointment he knows is written all over his body. But he also knows he'd be a fool to think that she can't read him like an open book. He scratches his neck out of nervous habit and scrubs his hand over his face.

God he could be such a fuck-up sometimes.

Forcing a grim smile he finally meets her gaze.

"Well damn."

She tries to continue, hiding her rising annoyance behind her open palm. "Peter…"

Peter silences her expected explanation with a raised hand. He shakes his head.


"You don't have to explain it, Liv. I get it."

Yet even for all his annoyances, Olivia can't help but smile. Does he really have no idea? she wonders. For the first time since they began this little tirade of theirs, Peter is completely lost and unsure. It's written all over his face, as plain as the music notes he never seems to follow. Spying his discarded shirt lying haphazardly on the floor, Olivia scoops it up and offers it to him. Peter doesn't look at her, only accepts his shirt begrudgingly and slides his arms into the sleeves.

Stupid buttons.

Once again surprising him – she was so full of them today – Olivia steps forward and brushes his hands aside once more, taking over the task she had previously tried so hard in undoing.

She can feel his breath along her face, his eyes studying her hands, her fingers, as they press along his chest, dressing him.

"You know," she laughs, flattening his hands against his shoulders, "for a genius, you can be incredibly dense sometimes."

His gaze flies to hers, waiting for an explanation.

"When I said that we couldn't do this here, I meant here. In this lab."

Like any good detective she lets her words sink in for a moment, and when they register in his eyes she can almost taste the accompanying heat that sinks into her stomach. His hands finally, finally touch her, possessively pulling her against him.

"But my place is only a few minutes away," she whispers, voice heavy with anticipation. Peter groans, eyes sliding shut, thanking any and every deity he can think of for this undeserved turn of events. "And I'm pretty sure a bed would be more… conducive to my intentions than this couch."

She presses against him even closer, if it's even possible by this point.

"And trust me, I do have intentions."

Olivia doesn't know whether to throw her plans to the wind and just screw it all right here – all pun intended – or laugh at the uncharacteristic brazenness she's suddenly found within herself. It doesn't matter anyways as Peter makes the decision for her, chuckling richly and wrapping his arms around her.

"Well I certainly hope they're less-than-honorable ones, Agent Dunham."

"Are there any other kind, Mr. Bishop?"

Fixing her with that tongue-in-cheek grin that should require a license to hold, Peter kisses her softy, fingers still playing a melody against her skin.

"I knew there was a reason I stuck around."

If she had known that composing the first movement of Aria Seduction with Peter was going to be this irreverent and playful she would have tried it the first time he ever charmed her with that damned jazzy number he claimed was so well-suited to her.

Without another word, she snatches up her jacket and brief case, not bothering to hide her smile as Peter's hand slips into her own, pulling her towards the door.

It's nearly dark in the lab now, the sun having grown tired of its voyeurism and sinking beneath the tree line, drowning the lab's sole occupants in shadows.

And as the door closes behind them, the piano sits, unoccupied and silent.

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