A Dinner Thing, 2/2
Chapter One | Chapter Two
He couldn’t stop touching her on the drive back, the silence interrupted only by the slide of fabric against fabric as their legs brushed, as his hand rested on her knee, as her hand slid up and down his arm. The ride seemed interminable, Peter desperate to run his hands over Rose properly, to slide her dress off of her; by the time they pulled up in front of their building, it was all he could do to politely thank the driver, to walk slowly to the front door, to unlock it with his key. The elevator ride was done in tense silence, each of them focused on getting back to the flat, and the walk to the door to the flat was done hurriedly.
At last the door swung open; he followed Rose into the dark flat, the open curtains in the parlour allowing shafts of light from the walk below to shine onto the ceiling. The door was locked hastily, and he stepped forward into Rose’s arms, bending down to finally kiss her.
She slid her hands into his hair, returning his kiss fervently, and he turned them so he could press her against the wall. She made a small sound of protest, pulling back, gasping; he stopped, took a step back, and felt a wave of relief as he watched Rose shrug her coat off, allowing it to drop to the floor. He shed his own coat, flapping his hand in an effort to get it out of the sleeve, moving to press his body against hers even as the garment slid to the floor.
He brushed his lips over hers before continuing on, placing soft kisses over her cheeks, along her jaw, down her neck as she tilted her head back for him. His hips remained pressed into hers even as his hands slid down across her waist, drifting, reaching for the hem of her dress so he could get yet another layer of fabric out of the way. The both gasped as his fingertips came in contact with the soft skin of her thighs, and he worked the fabric upwards, eventually sliding his hands against the bare skin of her waist, along the line of her lacy knickers.
He’d continued to run his lips across her skin as he worked, but as her hands moved to undress him he pulled his head back. Her eyes were focused on her hands as they worked to undo the buttons of his shirt; she’d tossed his tie over his shoulder, more keen on getting it out of the way than bothering with the troublesome knot. She jerked his shirttails out of his trousers, gave a sharp upwards yank on his vest, and finally freed his clothing, revealing naked skin. As her hands came to rest against his waist, he leaned forwards, capturing her mouth once again.
They kissed, hands gliding across skin, his body pressing hers against the wall; he was hard already, and eventually slid his fingers under the edge of her knickers. She reached in between them, her fingers deftly undoing his belt before flicking the button of his trousers open. He groaned at the pressure of her fingers against his crotch, wiggling as they worked to unzip his fly in the non-existent space between them, and he pulled his hips back a little so she could continue to undress him.
She wasted no time, reaching a hand into his pants to hold him whilst her other hand pulled the clothing downwards. He felt the rush of cool air against his hot skin, and arched into her as she shifted, now using both hands to wiggle the trousers and pants down his legs.
Rose was wearing a thong, and it took no effort at all to drift a hand down, to slide the scrap of fabric aside, to slide his finger into her. She pulled back, gasping, as he slid a second finger in, his thumb pressing against her centre before he slid his fingers back out of her, and her hips jerked against him.
He wanted her, now. It didn’t matter that the bed was impossibly close; he wanted to shag her against the wall of their hallway. His fingers dipped back into her, sliding in and out slowly, his thumb teasing her by alternately pressing against the small bundle of nerves and rubbing a small circle. She was watching him, her lips parted, her eyes glittering in the half-light; he held her gaze as he moved to bring their bodies into line; she reached down, shoving the thong over her hips. He shifted his hand only long enough for her to be rid of the scrap of lace before resuming his ministrations; her hands drifted down, one lightly encircling him.
“Now, Peter,” she said, squeezing him as she stroked upwards sharply. He hissed, adrenaline flooding his body, and he pressed roughly against her. Her hand released him even as she arched against him.
He grabbed her thigh, hiking it up over his hip with no gentleness, no finesse; he wanted her. Her eyes flashed, her tongue glistening as it darted out to lick her lips, and he bent forward, kissing her fiercely. She returned the kiss in equal measure, he reached in between them, guiding himself into her. He gave a sharp jerk of his hips, driving into her, burying himself; she brought her arms around him, shifting slightly, using the pressure of his body to hold her as she wrapped both legs around him.
Their lovemaking was short and intense; he’d never seen the side of Rose she’d shown in the restaurant, and he found himself remembering her fierceness as she’d stared down Loreen, as she’d warned her off. He felt her nails running across his back, heard her grunt as he drove into her; she moved her head, biting his earlobe before laving it with her tongue. She drew it into her mouth, sucking it in time to his thrusts, and he felt himself grow harder.
She arched against him, released the soft flesh before beginning to whisper to him. “I love this, Peter. Love you.” He rotated his hips, feeling a thrill as she shuddered against him; he began setting a bruising rhythm once more. She scraped her nails along his back, her hand sliding down to cup his bum, and she continued. “I don’t want you to stop. Want you to keep doing that, to make me come.”
Her voice was breathy, and he moved, sliding a hand between them; his fingers found her centre, pressing lightly as he continued to drive into her. “I love how you make me feel,” she sobbed, her voice breaking as her orgasm washed through her.
He lost himself in her, then, in the feeling of her around him, of her sobbing his name as he continued to push himself towards his own orgasm. It hit him seemingly out of the blue; one moment, he was working towards it, the next it had blown through him, his body suddenly feeling exhausted as he gave a few last half-hearted thrusts. He had a sudden urge to curl up in bed with Rose, to nuzzle against her neck as he fell asleep.
He rested his head against hers, using his hips to keep her secure against the wall. He could feel the rapid rise and fall of her chest, and he moved to hold her upright as she slowly slid her feet to the ground. She was still wearing her shoes, and he watched as she teetered briefly before regaining her balance.
He slid out of her, taking a small step back; she was watching him, her eyes glittering in the scant light. He felt her right hand slide upwards along his body, across his chest, before moving to glide through his hair. She continued to lightly run her fingers through it even as she leaned towards him. He thought she might speak, and was surprised when she instead moved to run her tongue along his jaw before blowing gently across the wet trail she’d left. She stopped, her lips hovering next to his ear; as her hands lightly rested in his hair, she whispered, “I love you, Peter Carlisle.”
He sighed, his hands rubbing lightly across her back as he held her to him. “You really are amazing, Rose Tyler.” He pulled back, making sure to catch her gaze. “And I love you so very much.”
She smiled at him, a soft quirk of the corners of her lips, and she brought a hand forward to cup his jaw. “I’m glad.” She rocked forward onto her toes, brushing a light kiss over his lips. “I feel I ought to send Loreen a thank-you card.”
For the first time in ages, he didn’t tense when he heard his ex-wife’s name. “And why’s that?” he asked, brushing a kiss across her palm before ghosting his nose along her wrist. She’d worn perfume-the expensive stuff which he loved dearly-and he thought he might perhaps want to make love to her again before they ordered supper. Perhaps in the bedroom, this time. Or the bath…
“For being such a bloody idiot.” She brought her hand down, her fingers resting under his chin and raising it so he would look at her. “She’s a fool, Peter. And I’m so very, very happy she is.”
“So am I.” Peter leaned in, brushing a soft kiss over Rose’s lips. Loreen’s spell had been broken; she held no more power in his life, had no more power to harm him.
Rose gently pressed her lips against his in return, before stepping back. “I think I need to change.” Her voice was light, playful; he felt his heart soar.
“But I rather like you as you are, Miss Tyler.”
She laughed. “To think I was going to ask if you wanted to help…”
Her hand slid down to capture his, and she gave it a light squeeze. “C’mon, Peter. Let’s get out of these things and see what the night brings.” She paused, tilting her head to glance up at him. “Besides take-away.”
She slid out from under him, giving him a saucy wink before leading him to their bedroom.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~
At some point the night before Peter had opened the curtains in their bedroom, saying authoritatively, “I want to be able to see you as I make love to you. And more power to the zanzare if they get pictures of this.” He’d been fully naked at that point, and she’d giggled; he’d turned, stalking over to the bed, crawling across it before kissing her and making good on his word.
Thus, when Rose awoke the following morning-Sunday, their one guaranteed day of rest, neither of them on call-the room was flooded with soft light, the river and the spires and towers of the city visible through the glass.
She rolled over, her breath catching as she saw Peter lying next to her, his face relaxed in slumber. His hair was a mess, the gel he’d used the night before moulding his hair into impossible shapes even as he slept. His lips were relaxed and slightly parted; she traced their line with her eyes, remembering the feel of them against hers, against her skin. She loved his lips, loved watching them as he spoke, her eyes locking on them as she savoured the sound of his voice.
He shifted, his brow wrinkling briefly before relaxing once more. He was dead to the world, and would be for quite a while longer if experience was anything to go by.
She slid out of bed, padding quietly around the flat as she briefly washed up, as she dressed in well-worn jeans and an old uni sweatshirt she’d found in Peter’s wardrobe when he’d moved. It was snug on her but she loved it, loved the link to who Peter was years before; he always laughed when he saw her lounging about in it, shaking his head before continuing with whatever it was he was doing.
Peter was sprawled across the bed, the red duvet haphazardly pulled across his body, by the time she was done. The fair skin of an ankle and foot peeped out from under the fabric, and she fought the urge to run a finger up the arch of his foot, tickling him. He so rarely looked this relaxed-it would be criminal to ruin it.
She carried her shoes to the front door of the flat, let herself out as quietly as possible before sitting in the hall and pulling on her trainers. It had been ages since they’d had a proper Sunday breakfast, and while she lacked the culinary skills of Peter, she certainly could make eggs and toast-and could bring back a rasher of bacon for Peter to fry up the way he liked. The morning was a bit chilly, and she walked quickly towards the small market by the Tube (she still couldn’t get used to calling it the Subte, which also amused Peter to no end).
Although Peter usually did the shopping now he’d moved in with her, she still knew the clerks in the shop; Jorge was working the opening shift, and waved at her as she walked by. As she returned a few minutes later, eggs, bacon, bread, and juice in her carrier, he grinned.
“You and Mr. Carlisle had a good night last night?” he asked, beaming at her.
She blushed. “Yes.”
“His ex, she is a cow.”
Rose looked at him in surprise. “What?”
“It’s in the papers this morning.” Jorge made a motion for her to wait, hurrying over to the rack of papers which Rose had habitually ignored.
The zanzare had been at the restaurant last night; she felt herself go pale at the thought of Peter finding them whilst they were there, of the row that would no doubt have ensued, especially if Loreen had been there at the time. She wondered if Loreen had known about their reservation, if she’d called and alerted them. The woman was devious in addition to being cruel; it would hardly surprise her.
Rose watched as Jorge picked up one of the papers, set it down, reached over for another and carried it back to her. “Here. This has the best of the pictures.” He lay it in front of her on the counter, pointing to the large picture on the front of the broadsheet.
She glanced down and felt her heart flutter. They weren’t the main story, at least, but they were close. It really was a slow news day. “Back in love!!!” screamed the large, colourful print. Next to the headline was a picture of her and Peter, standing outside the restaurant; he was stood behind her, his arm wrapped around her waist; he was leaning down to whisper something, a smile visible on his lips. Even though she was looking straight ahead, she was smiling as well.
She hated the zanzare, but had to admit it was one of the better pictures she’d ever seen of her and Peter together. The photographer was either very close, or had used a very expensive camera with an even more expensive lens. Would it be possible to get a copy, she wondered?
“Is a lovely picture,” Jorge said, reading her thoughts. “There is more, though, inside.” He opened the paper. There, on page two, were several smaller pictures-shots from inside the restaurant. Was the maître d’ on the payroll? It certainly wouldn’t be the first time that had happened. She wondered how she’d managed to miss being photographed. She used to be better at paying attention, even when she was in the middle of an argument.
Not that she’d argued with Loreen. Not remotely. She’d wanted to, though. Rose had seen Peter change in front of her eyes once Loreen had spoken, had watched him shut down and withdraw into himself, his shoulders hunching, his eyes drifting down to the tablecloth; he had become subservient before the woman had even sat down, and that more than anything else had made her irate with the woman. She’d wanted to hit Loreen, to physically punish her for the mental abuse she’d inflicted on Peter; she’d instead decided it would be far more effective-if not nearly so fulfilling-to try to beat her at her own game.
She was thankful that the tablecloth was long enough that the pictures couldn’t show what it was she’d done to Peter whilst toying with his ex-wife. She’d played footsie with him once before, ages ago; she’d been consumed with the desire to do it again as they sat with Loreen, wanting to give him something for him even as she worked to make sure Loreen would never again be a problem for them.
The pictures had been strung together in a pseudo chronology: She and Peter sitting with their glasses of wine, alone, his hand in hers; Loreen, standing in front of them, the cruelty of her smile visible even in the small picture; Rose leaning in, speaking with Loreen, a smile on her face even as Loreen looked furious; glasses raised in toast, Rose smiling warmly, Loreen looking as though she’d sucked on a lemon; and the final hug, Peter standing in shadow, Loreen’s face looking as foul as ever even as Rose’s body language radiated greeting and happiness. There was scant text accompanying the pictures, merely a pithy few lines about the ex showing up to dinner and being warmly greeted in spite of the things she’d said in the media, and then being insufferably rude as the “chatty Vitex heiress played welcoming hostess.”
Loreen had come off looking a right cow, as Jorge had said.
Rose grinned at him as she looked up from the paper, closing it before adding it to her purchases. “I think I’ll take that, too.”
She chatted with Jorge for a few minutes after he rang up her shopping, learning of a new pub he and his wife had discovered the night before; after thanking him both for the recommendation of the pub and for pointing her to the paper, she began her return journey to the flat.
She stopped by the coffee shop-the first thing Peter had gone in search of, after his first night staying with her-and returned to the flat carrying two cups of the special roast (with milk and sugar) along with the carrier bag from the market. She set the bag in the kitchen, toed her shoes off at the table before grabbing the paper and one of the cups of coffee, and walking back to the bedroom.
Peter was still asleep, now curled on her side of the bed, his face buried in her pillow. The duvet had ridden down at some point, resting now just above his hips, and Rose simply stood and admired his bare torso for a few moments. Peter always slept without a shirt, even when it was freezing cold; he stole the covers as a result, and sulked whenever she called him out on it.
She’d not have it any other way.
She sighed, moving around the bed, setting the coffee down on the nightstand. She crouched in front of him, reaching out to gently run her fingers through his hair. It was sticky from the gel but still was irresistible, and she spent a few moments simply stroking his hair.
He moved, the first sign that he was waking up, and she moved her hand to stroke his cheek. Her fingertips glided along his cheekbone; her knuckles drifted lightly across the stubble lining his jaw. He murmured something indistinct, and she fought down a smile.
She moved to rest on her knees, leaning forward to delicately trace his lips with her finger; his eyelids fluttered, and she leaned forward to replace her fingertip with her lips.
She felt him awaken, begin to return her kiss; she pulled back, her hand cupping his cheek. “Good morning,” she whispered, watching his sleepy brown eyes open.
“’morning,” he replied, his voice gravelly.
“I have coffee for you,” she said, her voice soft. His lips curved into a smile, and she stroked her thumb lightly across his cheek. “I suppose you’ll want that first...”
He reached up, pulled her towards him for another kiss; she let the paper slide from her hands, shifting for a better angle. He finally released her, pulling back; she opened her eyes to find him watching her, his eyes bright, the corners crinkled in amusement. “Now I’ll take the coffee.”
She shook her head in mock exasperation, moving so she could sit on the bed next to Peter as he sat up, shifting back against the headboard. She reached for the cup, handed it to him; he removed the lid from the cup, his eyes closing as he inhaled deeply.
“I got breakfast, as well-if you’re brave, I’ll cook.”
He opened his eyes, meeting her gaze over the rim of the coffee cup. He took a sip, lowering it, before replying. “I think I’m brave enough to try that.”
She laughed. “Including your beloved bacon?”
“Ah, now-that’s a different story.”
“I thought as much.” She smiled at him before bending down for the paper. “Thought you might find this interesting, as well.”
Peter set the cup on the side table, his eyes focusing on the broadsheet she handed him. He stared at the picture on the cover, his cheeks flushing as he realized they’d not had the privacy he’d hoped for the night before. “I...they...”
Rose turned, scooting to sit next to him against the headboard. She leaned into him, her shoulder pressing against his, as she said, “I rather like that picture.”
He looked at her, looked back down. He was silent as he stared at the photograph, Rose watching as his features slowly relaxed. “It’s not bad,” he finally said.
“No, it’s not. You look very handsome. Indeed, I’d go so far as to say you look sexy.”
She grinned as his eyes met hers once more, and he tutted. “Taking your cues from the press, Miss Tyler?”
“Perhaps, Mr. Carlisle,” she replied. She reached over, opening the paper. “There’s more.”
She watched Peter tense as he saw the pictures, as he realized that someone had been in the restaurant. “We’re not going back there.”
“Well, no. But look at the pictures-at what they say.” She continued to look up at him, willing him to see what was there.
He stared again, his eyes moving back and forth as he looked at the pictures, as he read the print, as he looked at the pictures again. He finally closed the paper, setting it aside before looking at Rose. He opened his mouth to speak before closing it again, his eyes drifting back to the paper.
“She’s done, Peter.”
He met her gaze, his eyes full of hope and vulnerability. “Thank you.”
She felt surprised. “You did as much as I did. She did the rest, though.” She felt a vicious pleasure at the memory. “Karma’s a right bitch.”
Peter smiled at that, picking the paper back up, staring at the picture of the two of the on the cover. His smiled broadened before he looked back to Rose, his eyes holding a mischievous glint. “Well, I’m glad to see we love each other again. Doesn’t say anything about a shag in the hallway, though.” He gave a long-suffering sigh, tossing the paper aside. “I suppose we can only expect so much reliability from our tabloids.”
Rose laughed, standing, holding her hand out to him. “More’s the pity. C’mon-time for breakfast.”