The Way of Things, Chapter 35
The talk with Mickey had gone well, all things considering. He seemed willing to believe her when she said she was cautiously optimistic. In fact, he had admitted that she looked happier than he had seen her in a very long time, which had made her blush, and he had told her to have a good time, which had meant a great deal, really. She was relieved that she seemed to be well on the road to fixing things with Mickey and Peter all in the span of one terribly productive afternoon, and decided to allow herself a bit of self-congratulation over that.
Cleaning things up with Mickey, however, had left her precious little time to ready herself for the completion of cleaning things up with Peter. As she ran downstairs, she considered that it was probably for the best she had cut things so fine-it left her very little time to grow nervous about how the evening would go.
Peter was waiting for her in the lobby, and it caused her to skid to a stop at the bottom of the stairs. She felt a small thrill, watching him standing there, his hands in his pockets, peering at one of the paintings decorating the wall in the lobby. He’d changed from his usual clothes, wearing soft grey trousers and a deep blue shirt; he’d also shaved, the fair skin of his jaw practically begging to have her fingers-or her lips-run along it. And he was there for her. Any woman in the lobby would have been delighted to walk up to him as the expected date. And somehow, she was the lucky one. How the hell had that happened?
She glanced down at her own outfit, wondering if it would pass muster or if she would be thoroughly unremarkable next to him; her brown trousers had been brought up from London, as had the fitted turquoise jumper. Her shoes were one of her favourite pairs-also collected from the closet in her flat-simple brown loafers which allowed her to run if necessary, while also looking relatively dressy.
She returned her gaze to Peter. He glanced at his watch and turned to the stairs expectantly; she didn’t miss the flash of pleasure that crossed his face as he saw her waiting for him, and she once again marvelled that she was the cause of it. She smiled in response, and moved to meet him.
Rose was pleasantly surprised when he kissed her in greeting; he was being far less shy, far more public about things already, and she felt warmth pool low in her stomach. As he pulled away, she gave him a playful grin. “Hello, stranger.”
“Hello back.” His voice held that note of warmth she’d come to cherish, and he gave her an appraising glance. “You look...lovely.”
She blushed and ducked her head, his compliment affecting her more than she’d expected. She focused, slowly dragging her gaze up his form, from his shoes, up his legs, across his chest, as she worked to find her voice. “Thank you. You look quite nice yourself.” He blushed at her frank admiration, and she grinned. “We going to stand here all night, ogling each other? Not that I mind, of course, but it’s nearing dinner time.”
“I don’t plan to stop looking simply because we’re at supper.” He gave her a slow, sultry smile-the one that turned her knees to jelly. “But dinner is involved, yes. I’m parked just outside-a bit illegally, so perhaps we’d best move on.”
He took her hand and led her out to his car, double-parked just outside the doors. There was a chill in the air, the wind gusting; grey clouds were rolling in, hanging low in the sky, and she wished she’d brought an umbrella.
Peter ensured she was settled into his car, lightly brushing his lips over her knuckles before going around to the drivers’ side and joining her in the vehicle. He peered through the windscreen at the clouds, and turned to her.
“I had meant to take you on another picnic-the boot looks like a larder. As it’s about to rain, I fear a change of plans might be in order, unless you’ve a particular penchant for running about in a cold northern rain.” He paused, expectantly, before smiling and continuing. “In honour of your request for ‘low key’ we could go to the pub-any of the ones our dear colleagues are not currently occupying. Or,” he paused, seeming to debate something; his gaze never left Rose’s face. “Or we could do an indoor picnic, at my house. Or anywhere else you might like, so long as it’s covered.” Peter’s cheeks tinged pink as he rushed out his second idea; to his credit, he continued to hold her gaze.
It was a simple choice. “I’d like to do the picnic.” She swallowed, continued, “At your place.”
His eyes lit up at her response, and Rose felt warmth wash through her. How had she ever thought leaving Kendal-leaving Peter-was a good idea?
“An indoor picnic it is, then.” Peter started the drive, glancing over at Rose periodically; she couldn’t tear her eyes away from him. The troubles of the previous days seemed miles away, and she wondered at her luck. They crossed the river, a steely grey in the rapidly darkening evening, drove past the castle, to the south side of town. He pulled off the main road to Oxenholme, onto a small side street, and she laughed as he came to a stop. “You tried to trick me!”
Peter looked confused, and she elaborated. “When you brought me here last time-you took the long way.”
Peter smiled. “I did. I’d have thought, though, you’d have noticed when I drove you home Saturday. Surely you weren’t distracted?” His tone was light, although his gaze was dark and intense.
“I was. Very much so. But now that I’ve paid attention and know where you live, there’ll be no getting rid of me.” She had been kidding-at least, she had planned to when she started-but she found she was quite serious in her statement. She was planning on doing this again-and now Peter knew it as well.
He gazed intently at her, slowly licked his lips; his breathing was shallow. Rose swallowed at the intensity radiating off of him-the heat of the gaze he was giving her was making her acutely aware of how physically attracted she was to him, and she briefly allowed herself to imagine what it might mean for the evening. Her cheeks flushed at the thought of what might be in store, her body eager to see what might develop.
She watched Peter gauge her reaction, the corners of his lips curling upwards. “What a shame,” he said, his voice low.
His eyes flickered to her lips, and she was sure he was going to lean in for another kiss. Instead, he sat back, his eyes glancing up at the sky. “Let’s get everything in, shall we? And then we can pick up where we left off.”
Peter ran up the front walk, unlocking the door before returning to the car and joining Rose at the boot. The small space was indeed full of things for a picnic; he handed her several carrier bags and a blanket and sent her up the garden path, before turning to gather the remaining items. Rose noted with some bemusement that the front garden had been trimmed back, and as she reached the front door she made a mental note to ask Peter about it. She had just opened the door and was crossing the threshold, when the heavens opened. She scurried into the hall, holding the door open as Peter sprinted up the walk, trying to find the dry space in between raindrops and failing.
“Bloody English rain,” he sniped good-naturedly as he came through the door. Rose closed it behind him, following him down the familiar hallway to the kitchen. She was surprised when he came to a sudden halt just inside the kitchen doorway. He spun on his heel, turning to face her, his eyes wide under his damp hair. “Y’don’t want to come in here. You really don’t. It’s a bit of a tip.”
“I could do the dishes...” she offered playfully, watching as a look of horror crossed Peter’s face. She closed the distance between them, leaning in to place a light kiss on his lips. “Peter. I don’t care about the cleanliness of your kitchen. Honest.”
She thought he might drop the hamper and other items in his hands and snog her senseless right there-not that she would have objected. But Peter took a deep breath, took a step back; he finally turned and proceeded into the kitchen, setting the hamper down on a clear space on the table, gently placing the bag he had in his hand next to the table leg. She followed him in slowly, sensing how nervous he was about her seeing his kitchen less than tidy. His nerves were plainly genuine, and incredibly charming, and also telling: Whatever his hopes for the evening may have been, he had evidently not planned on bringing her back to his house.
Given Peter’s fear of her seeing the small room, she was expecting something along the lines of what she used to encounter at Mickey’s. Instead, she saw a few pots and plates stacked haphazardly in the sink. The small table, which had been spotless on her first visit, was covered with piles of paper. She set the carrier bags down next to the one Peter had placed on the floor, then neatly placed the blanket on top of the hamper, stealing a glance at the papers. They were related to the case, Peter’s script jotted in corners and margins of the various reports. Did he never take a break from work?
He was still standing next to the table and she turned, her heart aching for him, for the vision of what a normal night must be like for him. A hastily prepared meal, taken in the kitchen at that small, solitary table, Peter poring over whatever remained from his day-or whatever would distract him from what was on his mind.
He deserved so much more; she wanted to give it to him, to give him the happiness he deserved.
The intensity of the thought startled her, forcing her to recognize how much she meant it: She wanted to do everything in her power to make Peter Carlisle happy.
He was watching her, warily, awaiting her verdict. His hair was wet, his shirt damp from the rainstorm; without thinking, she reached up with her right hand and lightly traced a spot where his shirt clung to his shoulder. She heard Peter take a deep breath as she lightly ran her hand across his shoulders; she couldn’t bear the intensity of looking at him, not right now. She already knew she was going to shag him, and wanted only to commit every second of the experience to memory.
“Rose...” His voice was soft, tentative-she thought she detected a slight quaver in it. Facing him fully, she brought her left hand up to his other shoulder; she loved the feel of flesh and muscle beneath her hands, hiding under the linen of his shirt. When she finally raised her eyes to Peter’s, she could barely breathe, the depth of emotion she was feeling causing her chest to constrict.
Peter’s eyes held a tentative hope-and also disbelief, perhaps that this was happening, warring with knowledge that it was real. She couldn’t quite believe it herself, having despaired as recently as that afternoon that she’d be lucky enough to have such an opportunity, and she felt the need to speak, to reassure herself as much as Peter that this was real.
“Peter.” Her voice was so soft it was almost inaudible, and she fought to catch her breath, to be able to speak more firmly.
Peter brought his hands up, cupping her face in wonderment. “Is this a dream?” he asked as he stared at her.
“No. At least, I hope not,” she replied softly, her hands now resting against his chest. She could feel the warmth from his body seeping through the damp cloth, and she had a vision of peeling the shirt off of him, running her hands across his broad shoulders, down his chest...
Her breath hitched, her brain still having difficulty processing that this was occurring-that she was standing with Peter in his kitchen once more, rain pounding against the window, pondering that she was damn near close to making love to the man staring so intently at her.
She’d been careful about relationships since her arrival in this universe-she’d been on dates, certainly, but had yet to actually have sex with anybody. It wasn’t that she had given it up-she just wanted to ensure that, if she slept with someone, it was for more than just physical comfort or immediate gratification. She’d hardly expected to find herself so willing to have sex someone after only a few weeks of dating-and thinking only hours before that her heart had been broken by him, to boot-but she found she could think of very little else she wanted more in the world, in any universe, at that point.
Peter gently leaned down, his hand still cupping her face-tentatively, he brushed his lips against hers. Was he unsure of her reaction? Or was he still having a hard time believing the reality of the situation?
She returned his kiss, pressing her lips against his briefly before he leaned back. She opened her eyes; he was watching her, waiting for...something.
“Peter. ‘s not a dream. Feels like it, ‘least for me. But ‘s real.” She stood on her tiptoes, leaning forward to gently kiss him. “We could...” she whispered against his lips. She was cut off as Peter leaned in for another kiss, this one more confident, more insistent. Rose returned it eagerly, her hands sliding up into his cool, damp hair. Even wet it felt divine, and she savoured the ability to simply run her hands through it.
Peter slowed the kiss, brushing his lips lightly across hers before drifting them across her cheek. Rose’s hands fell back to his shoulders as she lost herself in the sensation, the feeling he was creating by doing something so simple. She wanted him, badly-all of him, naked, driving into her, his body against hers as they made love-and she pressed her body against his as she felt a twinge between her legs.
She felt Peter ghost a kiss against her ear before hearing him whisper, “I want to make love to you, Rose.”
Rose felt her entire body respond, her nipples hardening, her skin tingling and flushing with heat. She thought she might faint from sheer light-headedness, the sensation-the reality of all of this-coming perilously close to overwhelming her. Peter pulled back; she dazedly opened her eyes to find him gazing intently at her. She couldn’t find her voice at first, nodding as she tried to figure out what to say and how to say it. The words finally came, and she found herself saying, as she held his gaze, “And I you, Peter.”
He swooped in for searing kiss, pulling back equally as quickly. Rose felt the wetness between her legs grow, as she tried desperately to catch her breath.
Peter’s fingers along her arm, his warm hand encircling hers as he brought it down from his shoulder so they could weave their fingers together. She blinked her eyes open, her other hand dropping to her side; her breath still came in shallow gasps as the vice around her chest remained in place.
“Come with me?” he asked, softly; fear still lurked in his eyes. She had no idea how to make it go away, how to convince him she wasn’t going anywhere-but she wanted to try.
“Always.” She tugged his hand lightly as he turned to lead her out of the kitchen. He looked at her questioningly, and she stepped forward, bringing her free hand to rest against his cheek. “This is real, Peter. I am here.”
He turned, placing a kiss in her palm before speaking. “I dearly hope so-I don’t know that I could bear for it to be another dream.”
She raised her eyebrows in response, a small smile creeping across her face. “You dreamt about me?”
“Most vividly.” Peter’s eyes were solemn.
Rose felt herself grow bold at his admission. “Then let’s see if the reality meets expectation, shall we?”
Peter smiled at her comment, his eyes lighting up, and she felt another flash of heat course through her at the certainty of what was to follow.
He turned back towards the hallway, tugging on her hand; he led her out of the dim kitchen, the sound of the rain spattering against the house briefly receding as he walked her down the hallway. He paused at the foot of the stairs, once more gazing at her. She leaned up and placed a chaste kiss on his lips. “Peter, I’m here. And...” She swallowed, willing herself to be bold once more. “I want to do this. To...to see what lies under this.” She stroked his shirt lightly, running her fingers down across his chest. His breath caught, and she felt a wanton smile cross her face in response.
Peter leaned down, his lips capturing hers hungrily, turning them so she was pressed against the wall at the foot of the stairs. She clutched at his shirt, tugging upwards in an effort to untuck it; as she had released his hand he brought it up to rest against the wall, palm flat as he leaned forward. With his other, he lightly traced down Rose’s side, his fingers teasingly brushing the curve of her breast before coming to rest on her hips. After a pause, the hand drifted upwards once more; up and down, the motion repeated over and over. His light touch tormented her, setting her aflame.
She finally got his shirt untucked, her hands fumbling as she continued to be distracted by his actions. She pushed the fabric aside, eager to touch Peter’s skin, to run her hands along it. She felt a jolt as her fingers made contact with his waist, heat flashing through her, her chest tightening, her head spinning at the sensation. Peter had stilled, pulling his head back from the kiss as she ran her hands lightly along his ribs, the fabric of his shirt limiting what parts she could reach. He finally recollected himself; she watched as he opened his eyes, meeting her gaze. Any doubt he might have had was gone, replaced by an intensity that once again stole her breath.
She’d no idea how she was going to make it through this without fainting from oxygen deprivation.
Peter stepped back, reaching down for her hand. With reluctance, she removed her hands from under his shirt, willing to postpone the immediate gratification in order to finish the journey upstairs. In the silence, she could still hear the steady drum of the rain against the house, the storm outside showing as little sign of abating as the one she was experiencing.
“Shall we take this upstairs?” Peter asked, softly, stepping onto the first riser.
Rose contemplated answering, but instead decided to demonstrate her agreement. Holding his gaze, she reached down for the hand dangling, unused, by his side. Lightly grasping it, she brought it up to her lips. His eyes widened briefly as she gathered her intent, his gaze becoming hooded as she slowly began kissing his fingers.
“Rose,” he gasped; she continued her ministrations, lightly dancing her tongue across his fingertips, the salty tang of his skin making her crave him even more. “Rose, please.”
His voice held a note of desperation; the effect was immediate, Rose’s ardour cooling as she took in how distressed he was becoming as she tormented him. “I’m...I’m sorry.” She kissed his fingers before releasing his hand. “Let’s go upstairs.”
Peter turned, hurrying up the narrow and steep flight, Rose hanging onto one of his hands as she kept pace. At the top of the stairs was another, shorter, hallway; there were several doors, but Peter led her to the one at the end, towards the back of the house.
She swallowed nervously, uncertainty warring with anticipation as they reached the doorway, crossed the threshold into his room. The light from the two windows was dim, but she could make out the dark wine of the duvet, the sharp white of the sheets on the bed in front of her. The bed itself was gorgeous, the dark headboard sitting perpendicular to the windows, against the wall to her left-it wasn’t one of the flat-packed pieces anyone could pick up and assemble, but a beautiful specimen of time gone by.
Rose wasn’t quite sure what she’d expected, had she dared to think of Peter’s bedroom, but she was fairly sure an antique bed wasn’t it.
Peter had stopped; he was watching as her eyes took in the room. She caught his eye and smiled a bit apologetically. “Sorry. Just...never thought I’d...” She trailed off, shyness over taking her. She dropped her gaze, focusing on the large dark wardrobe behind Peter. It, too, looked old, and she briefly marvelled at this unseen side of Peter Carlisle.
“Rose.” His voice was soft, and she returned to looking at him. His hair was still damp and was rumpled from where she’d run her hands through it below stairs. She could see his features in the dim light coming through the windows, and felt her heart clench once again as she realized just how very much she cared for him.
“Peter, I...” She wasn’t sure what she intended to say, so she stepped forward, leaning upwards to brush her lips against his. He deepened the kiss almost immediately, his hands sliding into her hair as his tongue slid past her lips. She moaned, a shiver running up her spine at how he made her feel.
Rose wiggled her hands under Peter’s shirt, her hands stroking up his back as she pulled him closer to her. Peter gasped, and she took advantage of his momentary distraction to pull back from the kiss, to run her tongue along his jaw. She lightly flicked it against his ear lobe, dancing the tip around the shell of his ear-something she’d wanted to do for what felt like forever. Peter’s hands had shifted, were now resting against her back as he nuzzled her neck. Her heart was rocketing along in her chest and, taking a deep breath, she said what she hadn’t been able to as he looked at her. “Peter, I want you to make love to me.”
She kissed his neck, lightly teased his earlobe with her tongue, before continuing, “I’ve wanted it for ages.” Peter’s hands were sliding along her waist, and she rushed out, “I want you,” in a near-whisper.
Peter pulled back, his eyes dark and glittering in the light. She felt a flash of worry-what had she done wrong?-before Peter leaned in and captured her mouth in a bruising kiss.
She matched him, her mouth working against his, her tongue battling with his as they each fought to dominate. Peter triumphed when he distracted her by reaching in between them and sliding his hands under her jumper. She quickly recollected herself, taking advantage of the slight gap between them to being working on his shirt.
They continued to kiss, her fingers nimbly working at his buttons as his hands slid against her skin, further under her jumper. As she undid his last button, he took a step back; his lips were glistening in the light, his expression dazed, but he had a purpose. He slid his hands down, catching the hem of her top; he slowly slid the clothing upwards, the cool air against her increasingly exposed skin almost erotic. She raised her arms, allowed him to pull the jumper over her head before bringing her hands to rest against his chest. His hands slid up her breastbone, ghosting lightly over the tops of her breasts before coming around to cup them. His thumbs lightly rubbed against her nipples, the fabric of her bra adding to the friction, and she gasped at the sensation.
She used her last ounce of concentration to remove Peter’s shirt. Her heart raced as she ran her hands up, across his chest, the hair brushing tantalizingly against her palms. His skin was warm to her touch, and she felt as though electricity were flowing into her fingertips as she touched him. He was gorgeous, and she felt her body respond to what she saw in front of her. It was impossible not to lean in and kiss him, and he responded with alacrity.
He kept trying to distract her by lightly following the edges of her bra, fingers caressing the line of the lace against her skin before dancing across the fabric teasingly. She gave his bottom lip a nip as he tweaked one of her nipples, and she took a step back. She wanted to see Peter.
His hands came to rest at her waist, his thumbs rubbing light circles against her skin. She watched her hands as they slowly slid across his stomach, upwards to his solar plexus, continuing across his sternum; she traced his collarbones, hands sliding to either side along the line of the bone, and she could feel a slight tremor at her touch. His skin was a soft white in the light, dark hair lining his breastbone and sprinkled across his pectorals, and she felt excitement and want begin to build in her again.
She reached his shoulders, and slowly ran her hands outwards along them to the tops of his arms. She bit her lip in concentration, wanting to take in all of him as she slowly pushed the blue linen off his shoulders.
She felt slightly woozy as his torso was revealed to her-he might be lean, but his shoulders and torso were by no means lacking in muscle. She slid her hands down his arms, guiding the fabric from his biceps-also nicely toned-and she wondered what he did to stay fit before deciding she didn’t much care at the moment. Peter removed his hands from her waist, hurriedly pulling his hands out of the sleeves of the shirt before returning them to where they rested.
Rose couldn’t stop staring at him. Her mouth had gone dry, her breath rapid and shallow; her womb twinged at the thought of what it was going to be like, at the thought of him above her, in her.
Peter leaned down, lightly running his nose along her jaw before blowing gently into her ear. “My turn,” he whispered, sending chills through Rose. His hands slid up from her waist; lightly brushed against the sensitive skin of her breasts before resting on her shoulders. He slowly began running his hands down her arms, whispering as he did, “I’ve dreamt about this, Rose. Craved you.” She stood, immobile, as his fingers found her hands. “But this is so much better than I’d imagined.”
He brought his hands up to her shoulders, pulling her to him for a slow, sensual kiss, and Rose lost herself in the feeling of finally being with Peter.
~~~
Here endeth the chapter. See you Thursday!
Cleaning things up with Mickey, however, had left her precious little time to ready herself for the completion of cleaning things up with Peter. As she ran downstairs, she considered that it was probably for the best she had cut things so fine-it left her very little time to grow nervous about how the evening would go.
Peter was waiting for her in the lobby, and it caused her to skid to a stop at the bottom of the stairs. She felt a small thrill, watching him standing there, his hands in his pockets, peering at one of the paintings decorating the wall in the lobby. He’d changed from his usual clothes, wearing soft grey trousers and a deep blue shirt; he’d also shaved, the fair skin of his jaw practically begging to have her fingers-or her lips-run along it. And he was there for her. Any woman in the lobby would have been delighted to walk up to him as the expected date. And somehow, she was the lucky one. How the hell had that happened?
She glanced down at her own outfit, wondering if it would pass muster or if she would be thoroughly unremarkable next to him; her brown trousers had been brought up from London, as had the fitted turquoise jumper. Her shoes were one of her favourite pairs-also collected from the closet in her flat-simple brown loafers which allowed her to run if necessary, while also looking relatively dressy.
She returned her gaze to Peter. He glanced at his watch and turned to the stairs expectantly; she didn’t miss the flash of pleasure that crossed his face as he saw her waiting for him, and she once again marvelled that she was the cause of it. She smiled in response, and moved to meet him.
Rose was pleasantly surprised when he kissed her in greeting; he was being far less shy, far more public about things already, and she felt warmth pool low in her stomach. As he pulled away, she gave him a playful grin. “Hello, stranger.”
“Hello back.” His voice held that note of warmth she’d come to cherish, and he gave her an appraising glance. “You look...lovely.”
She blushed and ducked her head, his compliment affecting her more than she’d expected. She focused, slowly dragging her gaze up his form, from his shoes, up his legs, across his chest, as she worked to find her voice. “Thank you. You look quite nice yourself.” He blushed at her frank admiration, and she grinned. “We going to stand here all night, ogling each other? Not that I mind, of course, but it’s nearing dinner time.”
“I don’t plan to stop looking simply because we’re at supper.” He gave her a slow, sultry smile-the one that turned her knees to jelly. “But dinner is involved, yes. I’m parked just outside-a bit illegally, so perhaps we’d best move on.”
He took her hand and led her out to his car, double-parked just outside the doors. There was a chill in the air, the wind gusting; grey clouds were rolling in, hanging low in the sky, and she wished she’d brought an umbrella.
Peter ensured she was settled into his car, lightly brushing his lips over her knuckles before going around to the drivers’ side and joining her in the vehicle. He peered through the windscreen at the clouds, and turned to her.
“I had meant to take you on another picnic-the boot looks like a larder. As it’s about to rain, I fear a change of plans might be in order, unless you’ve a particular penchant for running about in a cold northern rain.” He paused, expectantly, before smiling and continuing. “In honour of your request for ‘low key’ we could go to the pub-any of the ones our dear colleagues are not currently occupying. Or,” he paused, seeming to debate something; his gaze never left Rose’s face. “Or we could do an indoor picnic, at my house. Or anywhere else you might like, so long as it’s covered.” Peter’s cheeks tinged pink as he rushed out his second idea; to his credit, he continued to hold her gaze.
It was a simple choice. “I’d like to do the picnic.” She swallowed, continued, “At your place.”
His eyes lit up at her response, and Rose felt warmth wash through her. How had she ever thought leaving Kendal-leaving Peter-was a good idea?
“An indoor picnic it is, then.” Peter started the drive, glancing over at Rose periodically; she couldn’t tear her eyes away from him. The troubles of the previous days seemed miles away, and she wondered at her luck. They crossed the river, a steely grey in the rapidly darkening evening, drove past the castle, to the south side of town. He pulled off the main road to Oxenholme, onto a small side street, and she laughed as he came to a stop. “You tried to trick me!”
Peter looked confused, and she elaborated. “When you brought me here last time-you took the long way.”
Peter smiled. “I did. I’d have thought, though, you’d have noticed when I drove you home Saturday. Surely you weren’t distracted?” His tone was light, although his gaze was dark and intense.
“I was. Very much so. But now that I’ve paid attention and know where you live, there’ll be no getting rid of me.” She had been kidding-at least, she had planned to when she started-but she found she was quite serious in her statement. She was planning on doing this again-and now Peter knew it as well.
He gazed intently at her, slowly licked his lips; his breathing was shallow. Rose swallowed at the intensity radiating off of him-the heat of the gaze he was giving her was making her acutely aware of how physically attracted she was to him, and she briefly allowed herself to imagine what it might mean for the evening. Her cheeks flushed at the thought of what might be in store, her body eager to see what might develop.
She watched Peter gauge her reaction, the corners of his lips curling upwards. “What a shame,” he said, his voice low.
His eyes flickered to her lips, and she was sure he was going to lean in for another kiss. Instead, he sat back, his eyes glancing up at the sky. “Let’s get everything in, shall we? And then we can pick up where we left off.”
Peter ran up the front walk, unlocking the door before returning to the car and joining Rose at the boot. The small space was indeed full of things for a picnic; he handed her several carrier bags and a blanket and sent her up the garden path, before turning to gather the remaining items. Rose noted with some bemusement that the front garden had been trimmed back, and as she reached the front door she made a mental note to ask Peter about it. She had just opened the door and was crossing the threshold, when the heavens opened. She scurried into the hall, holding the door open as Peter sprinted up the walk, trying to find the dry space in between raindrops and failing.
“Bloody English rain,” he sniped good-naturedly as he came through the door. Rose closed it behind him, following him down the familiar hallway to the kitchen. She was surprised when he came to a sudden halt just inside the kitchen doorway. He spun on his heel, turning to face her, his eyes wide under his damp hair. “Y’don’t want to come in here. You really don’t. It’s a bit of a tip.”
“I could do the dishes...” she offered playfully, watching as a look of horror crossed Peter’s face. She closed the distance between them, leaning in to place a light kiss on his lips. “Peter. I don’t care about the cleanliness of your kitchen. Honest.”
She thought he might drop the hamper and other items in his hands and snog her senseless right there-not that she would have objected. But Peter took a deep breath, took a step back; he finally turned and proceeded into the kitchen, setting the hamper down on a clear space on the table, gently placing the bag he had in his hand next to the table leg. She followed him in slowly, sensing how nervous he was about her seeing his kitchen less than tidy. His nerves were plainly genuine, and incredibly charming, and also telling: Whatever his hopes for the evening may have been, he had evidently not planned on bringing her back to his house.
Given Peter’s fear of her seeing the small room, she was expecting something along the lines of what she used to encounter at Mickey’s. Instead, she saw a few pots and plates stacked haphazardly in the sink. The small table, which had been spotless on her first visit, was covered with piles of paper. She set the carrier bags down next to the one Peter had placed on the floor, then neatly placed the blanket on top of the hamper, stealing a glance at the papers. They were related to the case, Peter’s script jotted in corners and margins of the various reports. Did he never take a break from work?
He was still standing next to the table and she turned, her heart aching for him, for the vision of what a normal night must be like for him. A hastily prepared meal, taken in the kitchen at that small, solitary table, Peter poring over whatever remained from his day-or whatever would distract him from what was on his mind.
He deserved so much more; she wanted to give it to him, to give him the happiness he deserved.
The intensity of the thought startled her, forcing her to recognize how much she meant it: She wanted to do everything in her power to make Peter Carlisle happy.
He was watching her, warily, awaiting her verdict. His hair was wet, his shirt damp from the rainstorm; without thinking, she reached up with her right hand and lightly traced a spot where his shirt clung to his shoulder. She heard Peter take a deep breath as she lightly ran her hand across his shoulders; she couldn’t bear the intensity of looking at him, not right now. She already knew she was going to shag him, and wanted only to commit every second of the experience to memory.
“Rose...” His voice was soft, tentative-she thought she detected a slight quaver in it. Facing him fully, she brought her left hand up to his other shoulder; she loved the feel of flesh and muscle beneath her hands, hiding under the linen of his shirt. When she finally raised her eyes to Peter’s, she could barely breathe, the depth of emotion she was feeling causing her chest to constrict.
Peter’s eyes held a tentative hope-and also disbelief, perhaps that this was happening, warring with knowledge that it was real. She couldn’t quite believe it herself, having despaired as recently as that afternoon that she’d be lucky enough to have such an opportunity, and she felt the need to speak, to reassure herself as much as Peter that this was real.
“Peter.” Her voice was so soft it was almost inaudible, and she fought to catch her breath, to be able to speak more firmly.
Peter brought his hands up, cupping her face in wonderment. “Is this a dream?” he asked as he stared at her.
“No. At least, I hope not,” she replied softly, her hands now resting against his chest. She could feel the warmth from his body seeping through the damp cloth, and she had a vision of peeling the shirt off of him, running her hands across his broad shoulders, down his chest...
Her breath hitched, her brain still having difficulty processing that this was occurring-that she was standing with Peter in his kitchen once more, rain pounding against the window, pondering that she was damn near close to making love to the man staring so intently at her.
She’d been careful about relationships since her arrival in this universe-she’d been on dates, certainly, but had yet to actually have sex with anybody. It wasn’t that she had given it up-she just wanted to ensure that, if she slept with someone, it was for more than just physical comfort or immediate gratification. She’d hardly expected to find herself so willing to have sex someone after only a few weeks of dating-and thinking only hours before that her heart had been broken by him, to boot-but she found she could think of very little else she wanted more in the world, in any universe, at that point.
Peter gently leaned down, his hand still cupping her face-tentatively, he brushed his lips against hers. Was he unsure of her reaction? Or was he still having a hard time believing the reality of the situation?
She returned his kiss, pressing her lips against his briefly before he leaned back. She opened her eyes; he was watching her, waiting for...something.
“Peter. ‘s not a dream. Feels like it, ‘least for me. But ‘s real.” She stood on her tiptoes, leaning forward to gently kiss him. “We could...” she whispered against his lips. She was cut off as Peter leaned in for another kiss, this one more confident, more insistent. Rose returned it eagerly, her hands sliding up into his cool, damp hair. Even wet it felt divine, and she savoured the ability to simply run her hands through it.
Peter slowed the kiss, brushing his lips lightly across hers before drifting them across her cheek. Rose’s hands fell back to his shoulders as she lost herself in the sensation, the feeling he was creating by doing something so simple. She wanted him, badly-all of him, naked, driving into her, his body against hers as they made love-and she pressed her body against his as she felt a twinge between her legs.
She felt Peter ghost a kiss against her ear before hearing him whisper, “I want to make love to you, Rose.”
Rose felt her entire body respond, her nipples hardening, her skin tingling and flushing with heat. She thought she might faint from sheer light-headedness, the sensation-the reality of all of this-coming perilously close to overwhelming her. Peter pulled back; she dazedly opened her eyes to find him gazing intently at her. She couldn’t find her voice at first, nodding as she tried to figure out what to say and how to say it. The words finally came, and she found herself saying, as she held his gaze, “And I you, Peter.”
He swooped in for searing kiss, pulling back equally as quickly. Rose felt the wetness between her legs grow, as she tried desperately to catch her breath.
Peter’s fingers along her arm, his warm hand encircling hers as he brought it down from his shoulder so they could weave their fingers together. She blinked her eyes open, her other hand dropping to her side; her breath still came in shallow gasps as the vice around her chest remained in place.
“Come with me?” he asked, softly; fear still lurked in his eyes. She had no idea how to make it go away, how to convince him she wasn’t going anywhere-but she wanted to try.
“Always.” She tugged his hand lightly as he turned to lead her out of the kitchen. He looked at her questioningly, and she stepped forward, bringing her free hand to rest against his cheek. “This is real, Peter. I am here.”
He turned, placing a kiss in her palm before speaking. “I dearly hope so-I don’t know that I could bear for it to be another dream.”
She raised her eyebrows in response, a small smile creeping across her face. “You dreamt about me?”
“Most vividly.” Peter’s eyes were solemn.
Rose felt herself grow bold at his admission. “Then let’s see if the reality meets expectation, shall we?”
Peter smiled at her comment, his eyes lighting up, and she felt another flash of heat course through her at the certainty of what was to follow.
He turned back towards the hallway, tugging on her hand; he led her out of the dim kitchen, the sound of the rain spattering against the house briefly receding as he walked her down the hallway. He paused at the foot of the stairs, once more gazing at her. She leaned up and placed a chaste kiss on his lips. “Peter, I’m here. And...” She swallowed, willing herself to be bold once more. “I want to do this. To...to see what lies under this.” She stroked his shirt lightly, running her fingers down across his chest. His breath caught, and she felt a wanton smile cross her face in response.
Peter leaned down, his lips capturing hers hungrily, turning them so she was pressed against the wall at the foot of the stairs. She clutched at his shirt, tugging upwards in an effort to untuck it; as she had released his hand he brought it up to rest against the wall, palm flat as he leaned forward. With his other, he lightly traced down Rose’s side, his fingers teasingly brushing the curve of her breast before coming to rest on her hips. After a pause, the hand drifted upwards once more; up and down, the motion repeated over and over. His light touch tormented her, setting her aflame.
She finally got his shirt untucked, her hands fumbling as she continued to be distracted by his actions. She pushed the fabric aside, eager to touch Peter’s skin, to run her hands along it. She felt a jolt as her fingers made contact with his waist, heat flashing through her, her chest tightening, her head spinning at the sensation. Peter had stilled, pulling his head back from the kiss as she ran her hands lightly along his ribs, the fabric of his shirt limiting what parts she could reach. He finally recollected himself; she watched as he opened his eyes, meeting her gaze. Any doubt he might have had was gone, replaced by an intensity that once again stole her breath.
She’d no idea how she was going to make it through this without fainting from oxygen deprivation.
Peter stepped back, reaching down for her hand. With reluctance, she removed her hands from under his shirt, willing to postpone the immediate gratification in order to finish the journey upstairs. In the silence, she could still hear the steady drum of the rain against the house, the storm outside showing as little sign of abating as the one she was experiencing.
“Shall we take this upstairs?” Peter asked, softly, stepping onto the first riser.
Rose contemplated answering, but instead decided to demonstrate her agreement. Holding his gaze, she reached down for the hand dangling, unused, by his side. Lightly grasping it, she brought it up to her lips. His eyes widened briefly as she gathered her intent, his gaze becoming hooded as she slowly began kissing his fingers.
“Rose,” he gasped; she continued her ministrations, lightly dancing her tongue across his fingertips, the salty tang of his skin making her crave him even more. “Rose, please.”
His voice held a note of desperation; the effect was immediate, Rose’s ardour cooling as she took in how distressed he was becoming as she tormented him. “I’m...I’m sorry.” She kissed his fingers before releasing his hand. “Let’s go upstairs.”
Peter turned, hurrying up the narrow and steep flight, Rose hanging onto one of his hands as she kept pace. At the top of the stairs was another, shorter, hallway; there were several doors, but Peter led her to the one at the end, towards the back of the house.
She swallowed nervously, uncertainty warring with anticipation as they reached the doorway, crossed the threshold into his room. The light from the two windows was dim, but she could make out the dark wine of the duvet, the sharp white of the sheets on the bed in front of her. The bed itself was gorgeous, the dark headboard sitting perpendicular to the windows, against the wall to her left-it wasn’t one of the flat-packed pieces anyone could pick up and assemble, but a beautiful specimen of time gone by.
Rose wasn’t quite sure what she’d expected, had she dared to think of Peter’s bedroom, but she was fairly sure an antique bed wasn’t it.
Peter had stopped; he was watching as her eyes took in the room. She caught his eye and smiled a bit apologetically. “Sorry. Just...never thought I’d...” She trailed off, shyness over taking her. She dropped her gaze, focusing on the large dark wardrobe behind Peter. It, too, looked old, and she briefly marvelled at this unseen side of Peter Carlisle.
“Rose.” His voice was soft, and she returned to looking at him. His hair was still damp and was rumpled from where she’d run her hands through it below stairs. She could see his features in the dim light coming through the windows, and felt her heart clench once again as she realized just how very much she cared for him.
“Peter, I...” She wasn’t sure what she intended to say, so she stepped forward, leaning upwards to brush her lips against his. He deepened the kiss almost immediately, his hands sliding into her hair as his tongue slid past her lips. She moaned, a shiver running up her spine at how he made her feel.
Rose wiggled her hands under Peter’s shirt, her hands stroking up his back as she pulled him closer to her. Peter gasped, and she took advantage of his momentary distraction to pull back from the kiss, to run her tongue along his jaw. She lightly flicked it against his ear lobe, dancing the tip around the shell of his ear-something she’d wanted to do for what felt like forever. Peter’s hands had shifted, were now resting against her back as he nuzzled her neck. Her heart was rocketing along in her chest and, taking a deep breath, she said what she hadn’t been able to as he looked at her. “Peter, I want you to make love to me.”
She kissed his neck, lightly teased his earlobe with her tongue, before continuing, “I’ve wanted it for ages.” Peter’s hands were sliding along her waist, and she rushed out, “I want you,” in a near-whisper.
Peter pulled back, his eyes dark and glittering in the light. She felt a flash of worry-what had she done wrong?-before Peter leaned in and captured her mouth in a bruising kiss.
She matched him, her mouth working against his, her tongue battling with his as they each fought to dominate. Peter triumphed when he distracted her by reaching in between them and sliding his hands under her jumper. She quickly recollected herself, taking advantage of the slight gap between them to being working on his shirt.
They continued to kiss, her fingers nimbly working at his buttons as his hands slid against her skin, further under her jumper. As she undid his last button, he took a step back; his lips were glistening in the light, his expression dazed, but he had a purpose. He slid his hands down, catching the hem of her top; he slowly slid the clothing upwards, the cool air against her increasingly exposed skin almost erotic. She raised her arms, allowed him to pull the jumper over her head before bringing her hands to rest against his chest. His hands slid up her breastbone, ghosting lightly over the tops of her breasts before coming around to cup them. His thumbs lightly rubbed against her nipples, the fabric of her bra adding to the friction, and she gasped at the sensation.
She used her last ounce of concentration to remove Peter’s shirt. Her heart raced as she ran her hands up, across his chest, the hair brushing tantalizingly against her palms. His skin was warm to her touch, and she felt as though electricity were flowing into her fingertips as she touched him. He was gorgeous, and she felt her body respond to what she saw in front of her. It was impossible not to lean in and kiss him, and he responded with alacrity.
He kept trying to distract her by lightly following the edges of her bra, fingers caressing the line of the lace against her skin before dancing across the fabric teasingly. She gave his bottom lip a nip as he tweaked one of her nipples, and she took a step back. She wanted to see Peter.
His hands came to rest at her waist, his thumbs rubbing light circles against her skin. She watched her hands as they slowly slid across his stomach, upwards to his solar plexus, continuing across his sternum; she traced his collarbones, hands sliding to either side along the line of the bone, and she could feel a slight tremor at her touch. His skin was a soft white in the light, dark hair lining his breastbone and sprinkled across his pectorals, and she felt excitement and want begin to build in her again.
She reached his shoulders, and slowly ran her hands outwards along them to the tops of his arms. She bit her lip in concentration, wanting to take in all of him as she slowly pushed the blue linen off his shoulders.
She felt slightly woozy as his torso was revealed to her-he might be lean, but his shoulders and torso were by no means lacking in muscle. She slid her hands down his arms, guiding the fabric from his biceps-also nicely toned-and she wondered what he did to stay fit before deciding she didn’t much care at the moment. Peter removed his hands from her waist, hurriedly pulling his hands out of the sleeves of the shirt before returning them to where they rested.
Rose couldn’t stop staring at him. Her mouth had gone dry, her breath rapid and shallow; her womb twinged at the thought of what it was going to be like, at the thought of him above her, in her.
Peter leaned down, lightly running his nose along her jaw before blowing gently into her ear. “My turn,” he whispered, sending chills through Rose. His hands slid up from her waist; lightly brushed against the sensitive skin of her breasts before resting on her shoulders. He slowly began running his hands down her arms, whispering as he did, “I’ve dreamt about this, Rose. Craved you.” She stood, immobile, as his fingers found her hands. “But this is so much better than I’d imagined.”
He brought his hands up to her shoulders, pulling her to him for a slow, sensual kiss, and Rose lost herself in the feeling of finally being with Peter.
~~~
Here endeth the chapter. See you Thursday!