The twenty-third of twenty-five comment!fics I wrote for the Twelfth Round of the IJ Porn Battle, and written at the same time - almost literally, as I kept switching back and forth on them - as the last one. One of three in this fandom and pairing and one of two written from the same prompt.
Neal moaned, arching up into the strong body covering his own slender one.
Peter chuckled, voice low and alluring, and trailed his lips down Neal's outstretched neck at the same time as he stroked up Neal's arms, drawing them above his head.
Neal tossed his head, fighting the firm hold on his wrists, but not truly distressed by it. Moments later, he felt something cold - and uncomfortably familiar - click around his wrists, and then Peter's warm hands disappeared.
Reassuringly, they reappeared again, this time curved around his waist, but his hands were still handcuffed to his headboard. He tilted his head back, looking at the tightly locked cuffs and snorting in annoyance. He resisted the urge to whine pathetically, returning his gaze to Peter, who was moving down his body with a mischievous smile.
Neal yelped as Peter nipped sharply at the tender inside of his thigh, jolting away from the sudden pain. Peter chuckled again, nosing into the line where Neal's thigh met his hips. He breathed hot warmth teasingly there, and just as Neal lost control of his whine - half-protest, half-pleasure - Peter . . . stopped teasing.
Neal gasped, his hips rising out of Peter's light grasp and thumping, slightly painfully, into him. "Ah! Ah… Peter!" Neal yelled, yanking hard at the restraints clicked tightly around his wrists.
Peter pulled back, just far enough to speak, his mouth slick and twisting into a smug smirk. "Careful, Neal… Wouldn't want to damage those delicate wrist bones of yours…" he teased, voice rough.
Neal hissed in a breath as Peter's words blew air against his sensitised skin. To be completely frank, though part of his mind told him that his wrists would be red, and quite possibly raw, tomorrow, just at the moment, he truly could not care less.
In fact, he had just opened his mouth to voice this thought - as coherently as he could, at the moment, which probably wouldn't be much, at the moment - when Peter elected to stop their conversation and resume his previous activity.
Neal made a single, strangled and nonsensical noise, rather than the sentence he had planned - it was most uncharacteristic, and very unrefined. He really didn't care how uncharacteristic or unrefined he sounded just now, though . . . not as long as Peter didn't stop . . . doing . . . that!
Neal moaned Peter's name, turning his hands fitfully inside the unforgiving clasp of the metal. Peter made a muffled sound that could, possibly, have been a laugh - or Neal's name - he couldn't quite be certain.
Neal's legs shifted restlessly against the mattress, and he enjoyed the feel of them brushing up against Peter's solid body. After a few moments of that movement, though, Peter pinned them flat to the bed as well, with a rumbling noise of annoyance, the feel of which sent shivers of pleasure up Neal's spine at the same moment as the sound of it heightened his arousal yet further.
Neal's throat constricted, pulling taut on a scream as he jolted against Peter's hold. Peter tightened both of his hands, one curved around Neal's right thigh and the other settled wrapped at his hip.
Peter pulled away, pressing a slick kiss to Neal's hip, only inches above his fingers, which were dug painfully hard into the muscle wrapped around Neal's long thigh.
Neal whined, even as the final tremors of his orgasm flickered through his body, twisting in the entrapping layers of blankets on his bed.
He shot upright in bed, hand leaping to his wrist, feeling nothing but smooth skin. Neal's face twisted in mild disgust as he registered the sticky - and rapidly cooling - mess inside his silk sleeping pants.
He threw the covers away, sliding out of his bed and wincing at the chill of the floor. He steadfastly ignored the object of his dream as he glided into the bathroom to strip off his pants and wash away the remnants of his slumbering pleasure.
That done, he washed his face, hoping it would clear his mind. It failed, but he hadn't really believed that it would help, in any case.
Neal decided to forgo redressing and returned to bed - a little confused and still caught in a haze of desire.
He sighed as he collapsed back against the fluffy pillows, wrapping the blankets about him to ward off the New York winter chill.
If only it were desire alone, then perhaps he would be able to forget it . . . to brush off his dream with ease - even if it was rather embarrassing, for a man of his age - but it wasn't.
Every moment he spent with Peter deepened the respect he had had for the man almost as long as he had been chased by him. That respect . . . it grew into something deeper, day by day, something Neal refused to acknowledge, even now that Kate was- especially now. He knew he could never tell Peter why he had truly wanted to stay, even if he had already explained that he had actually wanted to remain here - anklet and all.
The prompt was, of course, as for the previous one, 'White Collar, anyone, staying in on a cold night'.