The Way of Things, Chapter 22
Title - The Way of Things (22/45)
Author - jlrpuck
Rating - MA
Pairing - Peter Carlisle/Rose Tyler
Spoilers - For both Blackpool and S2 of Doctor Who.
Disclaimer - Characters from Blackpool and Doctor Who are the property of the BBC, and are used with the greatest of love and respect; no profit is intended from the writing or sharing of this story.
Summary - A post-Doomsday story, set in the Alt!Verse. It's been over three years since Rose and the Doctor said goodbye. What happens when she not only meets his doppelganger, but has to work with him?
Author’s Notes - Peter and Rose have resumed their relationship, even as the case appears to have stalled.
This chapter follows rather immediately on the heels of Chapter 21, and was written entirely as a result of comments from the last chapter (Yes, I wrote this Tuesday night). It’s short-at least by the standards of the last few chapters-but hopefully, the content will make up for it.
I know I always thank my lovely betas, earlgreytea68 and arctacuda , but EGT deserves an extra-special shout-out for reviewing this so quickly. She had some absolutely brilliant ideas which just made this thing come together; I freely admit I love this chapter, and it’s all because of the suggestions she made (er, apologies for gushing so profusely). rosa_acicularis got to see this a day early (assuming she wasn’t off with Hot, Shirtless Irish Doctor), and she always rocks for providing constructive, thoughtful comment to the chapters. misssara11 is the one who encouraged me to start writing in the first place, and who read over my early efforts at this story.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 | Chapter 23 | Chapter 24 | Chapter 25 | Chapter 26 | Chapter 27 | Chapter 28 | Chapter 29 | Chapter 30 | Chapter 31 | Chapter 32 | Chapter 33 | Chapter 34 | Chapter 35 | Chapter 36 | Chapter 37 | Chapter 38 | Chapter 39 | Chapter 40 | Chapter 41 | Chapter 42 | Chapter 43 | Chapter 44 | Epilogue
Peter drove back to his house, his mind turning over the events of the evening. He and Rose had stayed up on the castle walls for quite some time, finally deciding to return to the town below before it got too dark to make their way safely off the hill without a torch. As they’d reached the hotel, he’d invited her to dinner the next evening. He’d been delighted when she’d accepted, and had stolen a brief kiss from her before she turned to enter the bright lights of the lobby.
Rose was having more and more of an effect on him, physically. In truth, she’d had quite the physical effect on him from the very beginning; he would never have supposed it could have increased. And yet increase it did, in leaps and impossible bounds.. He’d thought he’d be able to fight it, to focus instead on taking his time in getting to know her; thought he’d be able to accept the pace she set instead of plunging headfirst into a physical relationship and hoping the other things necessary to keep a relationship going would follow, the way he usually did. None of those other relationships had ever worked out, and it alarmed him how much he wanted a relationship with Rose to turn out differently. If that meant changing the way he normally did things, then he’d do it. He was trying his hardest to learn about who she was first, to let her get to know him-and he thought he was being reasonably successful-but his physical craving for her continued to grow. It was bad enough when he simply thought of her; when they were together, as they had been up on the hill that evening, it took some serious effort to keep it under control.
His body’s need for her wasn’t helped by her clear interest. He’d not missed her reactions as they’d stood up on the ruins. He’d felt her nipples harden against his chest as they languidly kissed, had noticed how dilated her pupils were as he looked at her, his mind overrun with thoughts and images of what it would be like to make love to her right there, right then, propriety be damned. He’d seen her lick her lips as she glanced down, hadn’t missed how her eyes caressed his body before they slowly returned to meet his gaze. He’d seen the rapid rise and fall of her chest as he’d gazed at her, allowing some of his want to show, his hand lightly caressing her cheek before he leaned in for another of the soft kisses they’d shared. She’d had no problem at all leaning into him, deepening the kisses, her hands caressing his back or his neck and, on one rather memorable occasion, drifting along his waist. He’d blushed as they’d pulled back, his desire for her quite apparent; and he’d been pleased by the excited look in her eyes. And yet, something still held her back.
He flicked on a light as he entered his house, locking the door behind him before walking down the hall to the kitchen. Opening a cabinet, he took one of his pint glasses down from the shelf, stepping over to the sink and running some cold water before filling the glass halfway. Turning the tap off, he turned to lean against the sink, thoughtfully sipping the cool liquid as he once again pondered the mystery of Rose Tyler.
He remained intensely curious about the woman, about not just her past but what made her tick. He’d known from the first moment he saw her that she was beautiful, but the longer her knew her-the better he knew her-the more beautiful he found her. She was clever, she was caring, and she was incredibly focused on her job. She had a remarkable knack for making him laugh; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so much in such a short period of time. She had the courage of conviction, and she was fiercely loyal to her friends. He still couldn’t believe she was the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in the world--in fact often forgot about that fact, seeing her instead as just another cop like himself, albeit in a different realm. Her team was as loyal to her as she was to them, which said quite a lot about her character. But that sadness he’d noticed in those first weeks working together still lurked, especially when she got lost in thought or when she thought no one was watching. Why was it there? He wondered if he would ever be able to make it go away.
His water finished, he placed the glass in the sink before leaving the kitchen, switching the light off as he left the room. He stopped at the foot of the stairs, taking a quick look around to make sure all was in order on the ground floor before heading upstairs for the night. As he reached the top of the stairs, he turned off the downstairs light.
It was a short walk down the upstairs hallway to the master bedroom, a smallish space containing the bare essentials for sleeping. A double bed was pushed against one of the walls, the headboard a reminder of his failed marriage. It was an antique, carved from a single piece of cherry wood; he’d found it during one of his drives around the region and had thought his wife would like it. She’d been unimpressed, thinking it too curvy and flowery, and had been more than happy to leave it with him when she’d left. He loved it, and had long ago decided someone who couldn’t appreciate the quality of it hardly deserved to have such a treasure above their head each night. The nightstand was a more modern affair, bought because the colour matched the headboard. It held several books as well as a small lamp, which he switched on before crossing over to the wardrobe.
The large walnut wardrobe had been another find of his; he’d begged assistance from a co-worker, back when he was still friends with the people he worked with, and had returned home triumphant. It had taken three of them quite a bit of time on a hot summer day to wrestle it up the narrow stairs and down the hall to the room, and he’d eagerly awaited his wife’s return home (from meeting with her paramour, as he’d later learned) so she could share in his delight. Again, his wife had been unimpressed, pronouncing it far too ‘quaint’ and ‘dark’, and had been happy to leave it behind as she set off on her new life. He loved the solidity of the piece, and had lined it with cedar one rainy day after Natalie had died. The mirror on the inside of the door had only been added within the past year, after he’d been lectured--once again--about arriving at work looking like he’d been dressed by a blind beggar.
He toed his shoes off, lightly kicking them over to join their mates lined against the bottom of the wardrobe, and moved to return to the bed. The duvet had been bought on a whim at the outset of his sole post-Natalie relationship, when he’d thought it was perhaps time for a fresh start, and that perhaps it would do to have respectable bedclothes. The woman he’d been involved with-and involved was a loosely-used term in her case--wouldn’t have cared if the bed was covered in burlap. She’d been far more intent on being shagged rotten against the wall or over the desk in the small room next to the master bedroom, and the only time she’d seen it she’d carelessly tossed it aside so she could splay across the bed and try out the position she’d found in the Kama Sutra that morning. Their relationship hadn’t lasted much longer; Peter had been desperate for more than just sex, his mind needing to find a connection with the person he shagged. He remembered being surprised by the discovery at the time, and the duvet always reminded him of it.
He found the deep red to be soothing, especially against the sharp white of the bedsheet and pillowcases, and had taken great care of the item as the years had passed. The duvet was still crumpled at the foot of the bed where he’d left it that morning, the red shading to black where the light didn’t reach.
He sat on the edge of the bed with a sigh, his mind once again on Rose. He desperately wanted to see her in this room, to know what she thought. He got the feeling that she wouldn’t care that the furniture was from a marriage and the bedclothes were from a relationship that had been about nothing but sex. He liked to imagine that she wouldn’t see past lovers, she’d see him. If he was being optimistic about it, he’d confess that he liked to imagine that she’d adore the room, would say the headboard was breathtaking and the wardrobe was charming and the duvet was lovely. The tableau of Rose, in his room, hands stroking over the carvings of the wood as she commented on the furniture, was so vivid that, as he closed his eyes, he thought he could see her standing in the doorway to the en-suite across from him.
He raised his hands, slowly began to undo the buttons of his shirt as he thought about what it would be like to have Rose run her hands down his chest, her fingers dancing over cloth as she worked the buttons, her tongue peeping out as she focused so very intently on removing his clothes. His shirt undone, he pulled it off, opening his eyes to toss it to the hamper sitting wedged between the wardrobe and the plain white wall. He stood, stared at the lamp for a moment before taking a step and leaning over to shut it off. Straightening, he once more closed his eyes and let his imagination go. He slowly pulled off his vest, remembering the heated gazes Rose would give him as he removed his jumper in the mornings. He couldn’t resist teasing her, and had been delighted by the realisation that she knew exactly what he was up to and was more than happy to play along. The cool air ghosted against his skin as he tossed the vest in the same direction as his shirt, and he pretended that the breeze came from Rose as she moved around him.
His hands drifted down to his waist, resting lightly there before he went to work on his belt. He envisioned Rose standing before him, her hands tugging at the leather, her nimble fingers working the metal buckle to release it and allow his trousers to slip down his waist slightly.
It was Rose’s hands that reached down and lightly traced a line up his zip, feeling the growing hardness below the cloth; her fingers that reached out and undid the catch to his trousers before slowly lowering the fly. He felt the cloth slide against his skin as the item of clothing dropped to the floor, and he stepped out of them before kicking them aside.
The air had already cooled the growing patch of damp on his pants, and he imagined what Rose’s expression would be as she saw the very physical reality of what she could do to him with a look and a touch. He could hear her voice, the way in which his name rolled off her tongue, and he remembered what it had sounded like over dinner that night as he slowly drew his hand down the front of his pants and cupped himself.
He moved his hand, imagining that it was Rose’s fingers running lightly up and down his nearly-hard penis, and his head dropped forward. He could feel his pants grow tighter as he imagined Rose, clad in a silk nightgown, slowly kneeling in front of him. Her hands would reach out, her eyes looking up to his as her fingers wiggled their way in between his waistband and his skin until they found...that.
He wrapped his hand around his now-hard length, giving it a quick squeeze. She’d tease him first, keeping him imprisoned in the white cotton, knowing the rubbing of the material against his head as she stroked was an annoyance, but also heightened the sensation. He stroked, once, twice, three times before pausing, his breath now coming in gasps. He ran his thumb over the head of his penis, imagined it was Rose’s, could see her lick her lips as she felt the slick wetness that told of his want for her.
She’d wiggle her hand free, reaching out to pull his pants down, her eyes straying to his crotch as his hardened length was revealed, and he briefly wondered what her reaction would be the first time she saw him naked and hard. He sat, hastily removing his socks as he imagined he could see in her expression shock, delight, excitement-want--and he felt his cock twitch in response to the image. He leaned back onto his left hand as he envisioned her licking her lips, reaching her hand out, taking him in her palm; closing her fingers around him, not too light, not too tight-just like that.
He tightened his grip on himself, and once more stroked upwards, his thumb rubbing a light circle around the tip to capture the moisture there. His left hand clutched the sheet as his right slid back down to rest against his balls. Would she play with those? He wondered. He shifted, bringing his left hand around and down to lightly squeeze the flesh as he once again stroked upwards, his right hand tightening marginally.
He set a steady rhythm, squeezing and stroking, imagining it was Rose’s hands touching him so intimately, so perfectly. As she would touch him, her gaze intent on what her hands were doing, he’d whisper to her, tell her he wanted to see her come undone; see her above him, riding him; see her below him, moaning and begging as he drove into her over and over again. She’d say things in response; ask him to touch her, to stroke her like she was him. He tried to imagine what it would be like to reach forward and cup her breasts, to run his thumbs over her hardened nipples, to slide her nightgown off her shoulders to reveal the creamy flesh of her breasts, the darkened peaks begging for attention; to watch her throw her head back in pleasure, her rhythm faltering as he made her lose concentration. He’d lean forward and kiss her, and she’d resume the rhythm she’d set, stroking and squeezing, periodically running her fingers around the head of his cock, or drawing a line up his shaft with a fingernail before once more encircling him and stroking, hand tight and sure.
His hands were growing slick, and he began to imagine Rose taking him into her mouth, her beautiful, full lips encircling him, taking him in until he hit the back of her throat; the feel of her sucking on him as she slowly slid her mouth back to his tip. As he stroked, he imagined her tongue dancing along his length before her mouth closed around him, the light scrape of teeth as she teased him; and he began to feel the first stirrings of orgasm build within him.
He increased his pace, his hand rhythmically sliding up and down, gripping tighter, sometimes adding a quick twist; he’d returned his left hand to the bed beside him, his hand fisting in the cotton of his pants, his eyes squeezed shut as he envisioned Rose doing these things to him.
As his orgasm built, he imagined he was inside of her, her legs straddling his, her body flush against his, the coarse hair of her crotch rubbing against him, adding another sensation to the already overwhelming one of shagging her. She’d rock, and he’d rise to meet her, her breasts rubbing up against his chest, the light smattering of his hair teasing her, the hard points of her nipples now rubbing against him and increasing his excitement. She’d kiss him, her tongue tracing patterns against his, the tip of it drawing across the roof of his mouth before she pulled back, sucking on his bottom lip. He’d move to nibble her ear, or perhaps she’d lean back; he’d lavish attention on her breasts, his tongue lapping at the tight flesh of her nipples as she continued to ride him, driving him into her with more force as she moaned his name. He’d lightly bite down, causing her to jerk against him, and he’d rise to meet her with a sharp thrust. Her fingernails would rake down his back the closer to orgasm she got, the pace increasing as she began to grind into him, until finally she’d come, clenching spasmodically around him as he continued to thrust into her. She’d whisper his name as her orgasm faded, would hold his body close to hers as she began to focus on making him come, might even reach in between them to tease him, or drive herself to another wave of pleasure.
Peter’s hand tightened as he felt the orgasm crash through his body. He hastily moved, covering himself with his pants as his right hand continued to stroke, less rhythmically, prolonging the ecstasy as long as possible. He imagined Rose whispering encouragement as he spent himself, tried to imagine what it would be like to feel her surrounding him as he emptied into her.
His head hanging down, he tried to catch his breath. His heart gradually slowed down from the effects of the adrenaline and the endorphins, and he realized he could feel the cool air against the fine sheen of sweat on his naked body. As the high wore off, he slowly opened his eyes, the dim light from outside throwing harsh shadows over the shapes in the room, making the cotton of his pants practically glow. He hastily wiped his hands off before cleaning himself with the now sullied cloth of his underwear. He stood, wearily, made his way over to the hamper and dumped the small article of clothing into it to join the other pairs that had been used in a similar fashion since he’d first taken Rose on a date, and shuffled over to the en-suite.
He flicked on the light, the bright whiteness momentarily dazzling him; he paused in the doorway, allowing his eyes to adjust before he moved to the sink to wash his hands. He quickly reached over to the shower, removing the flannel from the top of the stall and wetting it before quickly washing himself. He gazed at his reflection in the mirror over the sink, his freckles showing dark against his fair skin, his hair a deep brown in the light, his eyes still unusually dark from the dilated pupils; his cheeks still held a slight flush from his exertions, and he wondered what Rose saw in him. Because Rose was...Rose. She was thoroughly different from any other woman he'd ever been involved with. Different, say, from someone like Natalie. He hadn't needed to be anything all that special for Natalie, just better than Ripley, and, in the end, apparently he'd been unable to achieve even that much. So it was unclear why Rose would want him. Rose was beautiful, and clever, and funny, and tender, and would clearly walk through fire for the people she cared about. And in what universe did he think that he'd ever gain the honor of being a person she cared about? She could probably have her choice of any man she wanted, laid out for her like a banquet. So what the hell was she doing with him? He felt the doubt gnaw at his gut as he stared at his reflection. Was she just using him as a means to an end?
He broke his gaze, glancing down at the tap as he shut it off. He’d seen nothing in her to indicate she’d do something like that. He’d no reason at all to suspect she was using him; it was only his insecurities, long-buried but still lurking, making him question what was happening.
He shuffled back to the doorway, the damp flannel in his hand. He turned the light off, pausing again briefly to let his eyes become accustomed to the darkness before crossing the bedroom to the hamper, the washcloth joining the rest of the soiled clothes piled within. He sighed, and took the final few steps back to his bed. He’d left his pyjama bottoms hanging on the back of the door to the en-suite, and was far too weary to bother to grab them. He collapsed onto the bed, naked, his feet shuffling around and finally tucking under the pile of bedclothes. He sleepily sat up, blindly reached for the duvet and pulled it over him as he lay back and went to sleep.
~ - ~
Chapter Twenty-three
Author - jlrpuck
Rating - MA
Pairing - Peter Carlisle/Rose Tyler
Spoilers - For both Blackpool and S2 of Doctor Who.
Disclaimer - Characters from Blackpool and Doctor Who are the property of the BBC, and are used with the greatest of love and respect; no profit is intended from the writing or sharing of this story.
Summary - A post-Doomsday story, set in the Alt!Verse. It's been over three years since Rose and the Doctor said goodbye. What happens when she not only meets his doppelganger, but has to work with him?
Author’s Notes - Peter and Rose have resumed their relationship, even as the case appears to have stalled.
This chapter follows rather immediately on the heels of Chapter 21, and was written entirely as a result of comments from the last chapter (Yes, I wrote this Tuesday night). It’s short-at least by the standards of the last few chapters-but hopefully, the content will make up for it.
I know I always thank my lovely betas, earlgreytea68 and arctacuda , but EGT deserves an extra-special shout-out for reviewing this so quickly. She had some absolutely brilliant ideas which just made this thing come together; I freely admit I love this chapter, and it’s all because of the suggestions she made (er, apologies for gushing so profusely). rosa_acicularis got to see this a day early (assuming she wasn’t off with Hot, Shirtless Irish Doctor), and she always rocks for providing constructive, thoughtful comment to the chapters. misssara11 is the one who encouraged me to start writing in the first place, and who read over my early efforts at this story.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 | Chapter 23 | Chapter 24 | Chapter 25 | Chapter 26 | Chapter 27 | Chapter 28 | Chapter 29 | Chapter 30 | Chapter 31 | Chapter 32 | Chapter 33 | Chapter 34 | Chapter 35 | Chapter 36 | Chapter 37 | Chapter 38 | Chapter 39 | Chapter 40 | Chapter 41 | Chapter 42 | Chapter 43 | Chapter 44 | Epilogue
Peter drove back to his house, his mind turning over the events of the evening. He and Rose had stayed up on the castle walls for quite some time, finally deciding to return to the town below before it got too dark to make their way safely off the hill without a torch. As they’d reached the hotel, he’d invited her to dinner the next evening. He’d been delighted when she’d accepted, and had stolen a brief kiss from her before she turned to enter the bright lights of the lobby.
Rose was having more and more of an effect on him, physically. In truth, she’d had quite the physical effect on him from the very beginning; he would never have supposed it could have increased. And yet increase it did, in leaps and impossible bounds.. He’d thought he’d be able to fight it, to focus instead on taking his time in getting to know her; thought he’d be able to accept the pace she set instead of plunging headfirst into a physical relationship and hoping the other things necessary to keep a relationship going would follow, the way he usually did. None of those other relationships had ever worked out, and it alarmed him how much he wanted a relationship with Rose to turn out differently. If that meant changing the way he normally did things, then he’d do it. He was trying his hardest to learn about who she was first, to let her get to know him-and he thought he was being reasonably successful-but his physical craving for her continued to grow. It was bad enough when he simply thought of her; when they were together, as they had been up on the hill that evening, it took some serious effort to keep it under control.
His body’s need for her wasn’t helped by her clear interest. He’d not missed her reactions as they’d stood up on the ruins. He’d felt her nipples harden against his chest as they languidly kissed, had noticed how dilated her pupils were as he looked at her, his mind overrun with thoughts and images of what it would be like to make love to her right there, right then, propriety be damned. He’d seen her lick her lips as she glanced down, hadn’t missed how her eyes caressed his body before they slowly returned to meet his gaze. He’d seen the rapid rise and fall of her chest as he’d gazed at her, allowing some of his want to show, his hand lightly caressing her cheek before he leaned in for another of the soft kisses they’d shared. She’d had no problem at all leaning into him, deepening the kisses, her hands caressing his back or his neck and, on one rather memorable occasion, drifting along his waist. He’d blushed as they’d pulled back, his desire for her quite apparent; and he’d been pleased by the excited look in her eyes. And yet, something still held her back.
He flicked on a light as he entered his house, locking the door behind him before walking down the hall to the kitchen. Opening a cabinet, he took one of his pint glasses down from the shelf, stepping over to the sink and running some cold water before filling the glass halfway. Turning the tap off, he turned to lean against the sink, thoughtfully sipping the cool liquid as he once again pondered the mystery of Rose Tyler.
He remained intensely curious about the woman, about not just her past but what made her tick. He’d known from the first moment he saw her that she was beautiful, but the longer her knew her-the better he knew her-the more beautiful he found her. She was clever, she was caring, and she was incredibly focused on her job. She had a remarkable knack for making him laugh; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so much in such a short period of time. She had the courage of conviction, and she was fiercely loyal to her friends. He still couldn’t believe she was the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in the world--in fact often forgot about that fact, seeing her instead as just another cop like himself, albeit in a different realm. Her team was as loyal to her as she was to them, which said quite a lot about her character. But that sadness he’d noticed in those first weeks working together still lurked, especially when she got lost in thought or when she thought no one was watching. Why was it there? He wondered if he would ever be able to make it go away.
His water finished, he placed the glass in the sink before leaving the kitchen, switching the light off as he left the room. He stopped at the foot of the stairs, taking a quick look around to make sure all was in order on the ground floor before heading upstairs for the night. As he reached the top of the stairs, he turned off the downstairs light.
It was a short walk down the upstairs hallway to the master bedroom, a smallish space containing the bare essentials for sleeping. A double bed was pushed against one of the walls, the headboard a reminder of his failed marriage. It was an antique, carved from a single piece of cherry wood; he’d found it during one of his drives around the region and had thought his wife would like it. She’d been unimpressed, thinking it too curvy and flowery, and had been more than happy to leave it with him when she’d left. He loved it, and had long ago decided someone who couldn’t appreciate the quality of it hardly deserved to have such a treasure above their head each night. The nightstand was a more modern affair, bought because the colour matched the headboard. It held several books as well as a small lamp, which he switched on before crossing over to the wardrobe.
The large walnut wardrobe had been another find of his; he’d begged assistance from a co-worker, back when he was still friends with the people he worked with, and had returned home triumphant. It had taken three of them quite a bit of time on a hot summer day to wrestle it up the narrow stairs and down the hall to the room, and he’d eagerly awaited his wife’s return home (from meeting with her paramour, as he’d later learned) so she could share in his delight. Again, his wife had been unimpressed, pronouncing it far too ‘quaint’ and ‘dark’, and had been happy to leave it behind as she set off on her new life. He loved the solidity of the piece, and had lined it with cedar one rainy day after Natalie had died. The mirror on the inside of the door had only been added within the past year, after he’d been lectured--once again--about arriving at work looking like he’d been dressed by a blind beggar.
He toed his shoes off, lightly kicking them over to join their mates lined against the bottom of the wardrobe, and moved to return to the bed. The duvet had been bought on a whim at the outset of his sole post-Natalie relationship, when he’d thought it was perhaps time for a fresh start, and that perhaps it would do to have respectable bedclothes. The woman he’d been involved with-and involved was a loosely-used term in her case--wouldn’t have cared if the bed was covered in burlap. She’d been far more intent on being shagged rotten against the wall or over the desk in the small room next to the master bedroom, and the only time she’d seen it she’d carelessly tossed it aside so she could splay across the bed and try out the position she’d found in the Kama Sutra that morning. Their relationship hadn’t lasted much longer; Peter had been desperate for more than just sex, his mind needing to find a connection with the person he shagged. He remembered being surprised by the discovery at the time, and the duvet always reminded him of it.
He found the deep red to be soothing, especially against the sharp white of the bedsheet and pillowcases, and had taken great care of the item as the years had passed. The duvet was still crumpled at the foot of the bed where he’d left it that morning, the red shading to black where the light didn’t reach.
He sat on the edge of the bed with a sigh, his mind once again on Rose. He desperately wanted to see her in this room, to know what she thought. He got the feeling that she wouldn’t care that the furniture was from a marriage and the bedclothes were from a relationship that had been about nothing but sex. He liked to imagine that she wouldn’t see past lovers, she’d see him. If he was being optimistic about it, he’d confess that he liked to imagine that she’d adore the room, would say the headboard was breathtaking and the wardrobe was charming and the duvet was lovely. The tableau of Rose, in his room, hands stroking over the carvings of the wood as she commented on the furniture, was so vivid that, as he closed his eyes, he thought he could see her standing in the doorway to the en-suite across from him.
He raised his hands, slowly began to undo the buttons of his shirt as he thought about what it would be like to have Rose run her hands down his chest, her fingers dancing over cloth as she worked the buttons, her tongue peeping out as she focused so very intently on removing his clothes. His shirt undone, he pulled it off, opening his eyes to toss it to the hamper sitting wedged between the wardrobe and the plain white wall. He stood, stared at the lamp for a moment before taking a step and leaning over to shut it off. Straightening, he once more closed his eyes and let his imagination go. He slowly pulled off his vest, remembering the heated gazes Rose would give him as he removed his jumper in the mornings. He couldn’t resist teasing her, and had been delighted by the realisation that she knew exactly what he was up to and was more than happy to play along. The cool air ghosted against his skin as he tossed the vest in the same direction as his shirt, and he pretended that the breeze came from Rose as she moved around him.
His hands drifted down to his waist, resting lightly there before he went to work on his belt. He envisioned Rose standing before him, her hands tugging at the leather, her nimble fingers working the metal buckle to release it and allow his trousers to slip down his waist slightly.
It was Rose’s hands that reached down and lightly traced a line up his zip, feeling the growing hardness below the cloth; her fingers that reached out and undid the catch to his trousers before slowly lowering the fly. He felt the cloth slide against his skin as the item of clothing dropped to the floor, and he stepped out of them before kicking them aside.
The air had already cooled the growing patch of damp on his pants, and he imagined what Rose’s expression would be as she saw the very physical reality of what she could do to him with a look and a touch. He could hear her voice, the way in which his name rolled off her tongue, and he remembered what it had sounded like over dinner that night as he slowly drew his hand down the front of his pants and cupped himself.
He moved his hand, imagining that it was Rose’s fingers running lightly up and down his nearly-hard penis, and his head dropped forward. He could feel his pants grow tighter as he imagined Rose, clad in a silk nightgown, slowly kneeling in front of him. Her hands would reach out, her eyes looking up to his as her fingers wiggled their way in between his waistband and his skin until they found...that.
He wrapped his hand around his now-hard length, giving it a quick squeeze. She’d tease him first, keeping him imprisoned in the white cotton, knowing the rubbing of the material against his head as she stroked was an annoyance, but also heightened the sensation. He stroked, once, twice, three times before pausing, his breath now coming in gasps. He ran his thumb over the head of his penis, imagined it was Rose’s, could see her lick her lips as she felt the slick wetness that told of his want for her.
She’d wiggle her hand free, reaching out to pull his pants down, her eyes straying to his crotch as his hardened length was revealed, and he briefly wondered what her reaction would be the first time she saw him naked and hard. He sat, hastily removing his socks as he imagined he could see in her expression shock, delight, excitement-want--and he felt his cock twitch in response to the image. He leaned back onto his left hand as he envisioned her licking her lips, reaching her hand out, taking him in her palm; closing her fingers around him, not too light, not too tight-just like that.
He tightened his grip on himself, and once more stroked upwards, his thumb rubbing a light circle around the tip to capture the moisture there. His left hand clutched the sheet as his right slid back down to rest against his balls. Would she play with those? He wondered. He shifted, bringing his left hand around and down to lightly squeeze the flesh as he once again stroked upwards, his right hand tightening marginally.
He set a steady rhythm, squeezing and stroking, imagining it was Rose’s hands touching him so intimately, so perfectly. As she would touch him, her gaze intent on what her hands were doing, he’d whisper to her, tell her he wanted to see her come undone; see her above him, riding him; see her below him, moaning and begging as he drove into her over and over again. She’d say things in response; ask him to touch her, to stroke her like she was him. He tried to imagine what it would be like to reach forward and cup her breasts, to run his thumbs over her hardened nipples, to slide her nightgown off her shoulders to reveal the creamy flesh of her breasts, the darkened peaks begging for attention; to watch her throw her head back in pleasure, her rhythm faltering as he made her lose concentration. He’d lean forward and kiss her, and she’d resume the rhythm she’d set, stroking and squeezing, periodically running her fingers around the head of his cock, or drawing a line up his shaft with a fingernail before once more encircling him and stroking, hand tight and sure.
His hands were growing slick, and he began to imagine Rose taking him into her mouth, her beautiful, full lips encircling him, taking him in until he hit the back of her throat; the feel of her sucking on him as she slowly slid her mouth back to his tip. As he stroked, he imagined her tongue dancing along his length before her mouth closed around him, the light scrape of teeth as she teased him; and he began to feel the first stirrings of orgasm build within him.
He increased his pace, his hand rhythmically sliding up and down, gripping tighter, sometimes adding a quick twist; he’d returned his left hand to the bed beside him, his hand fisting in the cotton of his pants, his eyes squeezed shut as he envisioned Rose doing these things to him.
As his orgasm built, he imagined he was inside of her, her legs straddling his, her body flush against his, the coarse hair of her crotch rubbing against him, adding another sensation to the already overwhelming one of shagging her. She’d rock, and he’d rise to meet her, her breasts rubbing up against his chest, the light smattering of his hair teasing her, the hard points of her nipples now rubbing against him and increasing his excitement. She’d kiss him, her tongue tracing patterns against his, the tip of it drawing across the roof of his mouth before she pulled back, sucking on his bottom lip. He’d move to nibble her ear, or perhaps she’d lean back; he’d lavish attention on her breasts, his tongue lapping at the tight flesh of her nipples as she continued to ride him, driving him into her with more force as she moaned his name. He’d lightly bite down, causing her to jerk against him, and he’d rise to meet her with a sharp thrust. Her fingernails would rake down his back the closer to orgasm she got, the pace increasing as she began to grind into him, until finally she’d come, clenching spasmodically around him as he continued to thrust into her. She’d whisper his name as her orgasm faded, would hold his body close to hers as she began to focus on making him come, might even reach in between them to tease him, or drive herself to another wave of pleasure.
Peter’s hand tightened as he felt the orgasm crash through his body. He hastily moved, covering himself with his pants as his right hand continued to stroke, less rhythmically, prolonging the ecstasy as long as possible. He imagined Rose whispering encouragement as he spent himself, tried to imagine what it would be like to feel her surrounding him as he emptied into her.
His head hanging down, he tried to catch his breath. His heart gradually slowed down from the effects of the adrenaline and the endorphins, and he realized he could feel the cool air against the fine sheen of sweat on his naked body. As the high wore off, he slowly opened his eyes, the dim light from outside throwing harsh shadows over the shapes in the room, making the cotton of his pants practically glow. He hastily wiped his hands off before cleaning himself with the now sullied cloth of his underwear. He stood, wearily, made his way over to the hamper and dumped the small article of clothing into it to join the other pairs that had been used in a similar fashion since he’d first taken Rose on a date, and shuffled over to the en-suite.
He flicked on the light, the bright whiteness momentarily dazzling him; he paused in the doorway, allowing his eyes to adjust before he moved to the sink to wash his hands. He quickly reached over to the shower, removing the flannel from the top of the stall and wetting it before quickly washing himself. He gazed at his reflection in the mirror over the sink, his freckles showing dark against his fair skin, his hair a deep brown in the light, his eyes still unusually dark from the dilated pupils; his cheeks still held a slight flush from his exertions, and he wondered what Rose saw in him. Because Rose was...Rose. She was thoroughly different from any other woman he'd ever been involved with. Different, say, from someone like Natalie. He hadn't needed to be anything all that special for Natalie, just better than Ripley, and, in the end, apparently he'd been unable to achieve even that much. So it was unclear why Rose would want him. Rose was beautiful, and clever, and funny, and tender, and would clearly walk through fire for the people she cared about. And in what universe did he think that he'd ever gain the honor of being a person she cared about? She could probably have her choice of any man she wanted, laid out for her like a banquet. So what the hell was she doing with him? He felt the doubt gnaw at his gut as he stared at his reflection. Was she just using him as a means to an end?
He broke his gaze, glancing down at the tap as he shut it off. He’d seen nothing in her to indicate she’d do something like that. He’d no reason at all to suspect she was using him; it was only his insecurities, long-buried but still lurking, making him question what was happening.
He shuffled back to the doorway, the damp flannel in his hand. He turned the light off, pausing again briefly to let his eyes become accustomed to the darkness before crossing the bedroom to the hamper, the washcloth joining the rest of the soiled clothes piled within. He sighed, and took the final few steps back to his bed. He’d left his pyjama bottoms hanging on the back of the door to the en-suite, and was far too weary to bother to grab them. He collapsed onto the bed, naked, his feet shuffling around and finally tucking under the pile of bedclothes. He sleepily sat up, blindly reached for the duvet and pulled it over him as he lay back and went to sleep.
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Chapter Twenty-three