Disclaimer:Fringe is owned by JJ Abrams and all the grand high mucky mucks of Bad Robot and Fox. No copyright infringement is intended and no money was made from this of course. Any similarity to any other story not my own is coincidence.
Title: The Parenthesis of Love-Making
Genre: Peter/Olivia; romance
Rating: R; rated for sexual situations
Timeline: Sometime between "6B" and "6:02 AM EST;" spoilers for the time period in regards to Peter and Olivia's relationship
Peter smiles, and before I quite understand what he means to do, steps forward and drapes the shirt in his hands over my shoulders. It's his shirt.
"Arms..." he says, the smile on his lips echoed in his voice. "Arms," he prompts again when my arms remain still at my sides.
He laughs. I can't tell my expression exactly, but I suppose it's more than a little perplexed, because he laughs again.
"Arms..." he coaxes yet again, pulling the sleeves of the shirt out on either side of my body to encourage me to follow his direction.
I finally relent, slipping my arms into the too large white sleeves.
I'm sitting on his tiny bed, rumpled sheets and tumbled blankets behind and underneath me, telling tales of last night. Peter can't reach the lower most buttons, so he bumps my knees open wide, and drops to his own between them. I can feel the heat of his body against my inner thighs. My stomach tightens in response; a pleasant feeling, if a bit unexpected. Of course, I don't think I've ever quite anticipated my almost instinctual responses to Peter.
Eyes on mine the whole time, he slowly, ever so slowly, begins to button up the shirt, his fingers brushing softly against my skin. And he's humming, in a low, intimate tone... For once in my life...
His name falls from my lips more a sigh than the protestation I think that I meant it to be. After all, I candress myself.
It's no use. I take a deep breath, and my senses fill up with him. It makes me feel as if suddenly it's all a little too much... him... me... everything between us... like somehow, even my skin is too tight to contain it all.
I close my eyes for just a moment; break eye contact.
It's strangely intimate, this being dressed by Peter after we've made love. All of a sudden, I remember those times of dressing afterward in the hotel with John. I remember that it was always a little cold; distant and apart. More often than not, it felt like a rushed, guilty affair; like we were racing to see how quickly could we scramble back into our clothes and hoping that no one noticed that we had ever been out of them.
Peter's fingers suddenly caress the skin between my breasts and I gasp. I feel my nipples tighten, brushing the smooth fabric of his shirt. And even with my eyes closed, I knowthat Peter is smiling, pleased by my response. His fingers never deviate from their appointed task though; never slip beneath the fabric to tease or fondle. I'm not sure if that disappoints me, or just turns me on.
Finally, Peter reaches the last of the buttons, his fingertips dipping briefly into the hollow of my throat before falling away. I open my eyes.
"Looks good on you," he whispers, before brushing his hands over the fabric, caressing my nipples underneath. I come to the sudden realization that it must have been disappointment I felt before, because now I'm really amturned on.
He chuckles a bit; a pleased, masculine rumble. I'd roll my eyes, but at the moment, I simply feel too good. Peter's pride isn't entirely misplaced.
"It does look good," he says quietly. "But..."
It's my turn to laugh a little. I smile and reach for the topmost button. I finger it, and watch as Peter's eyes are irresistibly drawn to my movements.
"But..." I echo.
I pop open the first button slowly. Then I reach for the second, and open it before scooting back on the bed, the rumbled blanket tumbling to the floor as I do.
"Breakfast can wait."
"Breakfast can most definitely wait," I agree with a small, pleased laugh, undoing yet another button as Peter joins me back on the bed...