An Alternate Thing - Story Five
Title: The Bait
Rating: M
Author: jlrpuck
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: What if Peter Carlisle's mum hadn't died from an overdose?
Authors Notes: Sometimes, begging *does* work: crimedoc1kept asking, and asking, and asking for a story today. So here it is. For purposes of the timeline, this falls after Story Three, and before Story Four.
Thank you to chicklet73 for her beta; and spare a thought for EGT, who's having the Worst Vacation Ever this week. This hasn’t been Brit-picked, so any failings on that front - and indeed, in general - are absolutely my own.
The Sun Rising - The Good Morrow - The Triple Fool - The Undertaking - The Primrose - The Bard’s Epitaph - The Bait - On His Mistress - The Canonization - Valediction - Lover’s Infiniteness - Epithalamion
Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will some new pleasures prove
Of golden sands, and crystal brooks,
With silken lines, and silver hooks.
-John Donne, The Bait
The meeting simply wouldn’t end.
Peter leaned back in his chair, fighting the urge to shout down the table to the colleague still rambling on about one of the courses she would be lecturing at next term; he didn’t particularly care about the utilization of industrial fibres by the military establishment during the Great War; he felt fairly certain only a small number of students would, as well-but that hadn’t kept his colleagues from allowing the deluded lecturer to ramble on for the past forty-five minutes.
He stifled his sigh, his right hand idly playing with his left, turning the warm band of metal around his ring finger in the pattern he’d used for over a decade: the fingertips of his right hand would lightly grasp his ring, turning it once; his thumb would then stroke across the smooth metal, just the once. Turn, rub; turn, rub; turn, rub. The action was hypnotizing to him, allowing him to look as though he was listening intently while in actuality his mind drifted.
He wanted to go home. Rose was there, was waiting for him; she’d come back from London the night before, and he was desperate to curl against her on the sofa, to feel her relax against him as she unwound from her trip. She was still based out of London, in spite of spending almost all of her time with him over the previous two months-only two months? It felt like years-and the trip had been unavoidable.
Turn, rub. Turn, rub.
She loved him-she said the words to him over and over again, each time with the same fresh sense of wonder, joy shining through. When she saw him walk in a room, her face lit up-he’d not thought it was for him, the first few times he’d seen it, but had soon realized the smile she was sharing was for him, and him only.
Turn, rub. Turn, rub.
He loved her. The rapidity of his feelings for her, and the sheer intensity of them, always left him breathless, and he remained in awe of the gift he’d been given. By all rights, they never should have crossed paths again, after that night at the Vitex Research Institute gala. But not only did they cross paths again-they did it twice.
Turn, rub. Turn, rub.
And he’d never expected-ever-to find another woman after Caitlyn. He had loved his first wife, his Catie; had thought he’d not be able to go on, after she passed, and had wallowed in despair for months after her death. His mum had eventually shown him that the best way to honour Caitlyn was to live his life, and enjoy doing it; to enjoy the memories he’d been left with, instead of considering them an unbearable burden. He’d taken over tending of the garden in front of the cottage-a task she’d always done, once they moved in. He’d started reading her books, well-thumbed copies of the classics she’d been an expert in. He’d even tried to date once or twice-always the result of well-meaning friends-but he ultimately had decided he was meant to be a bachelor for the rest of his years.
And then Rose had come along, and everything changed.
Turn, rub. Turn, rub.
He almost laughed aloud at the fanciful thought, and yet there was no other way to put it. A friend of his had always joked, “When you know, you know”; things hadn’t been like that with Catie, although he’d loved her deeply, and he’d come to think his friend was being overly romantic. And yet, with Rose, it happened just that simply. Where he and Catie had spent years together-lecturing at the same college, then dating-before deciding to cohabitate, and eventually marry, with Rose everything seemed to have happened in a whirlwind. And-Catie forgive him-it simply felt right.
Turn, rub. Turn, rub.
Catie, as she lay in hospice, had made sure to tell him, repeatedly, that if he found someone else, he wasn’t to feel guilty. He’d been appalled at the suggestion; she, always wiser in the ways of the heart than he, had told him that it could happen-that he had so much heart to share, it would be a shame for him to lock it away simply because she wasn’t there.
As usual, she’d been right. But he still felt a flash of guilt.
Turn, rub. Turn, -
“Carlisle.”
Peter jumped, surprised out of his musings. He glanced up, guiltily, at the woman standing next to him. Her grey hair was pulled back into a loose bun, and she wore an air of exasperation.
“Charlotte.”
The professor of relic recovery was trying not to laugh at him, and leaned down. “We’re done, now. You can leave.”
Peter glanced around, noticing that the table was, indeed, almost completely surrounded by empty chairs. He blushed, gathering his journal, his diary, and his fountain pen into a hasty pile, and stood noisily, the chair scraping back across the stone floor. “Thanks,” he offered to his colleague, before scurrying out of the large room.
He made it to his office without being accosted by any of the students-he might still be on sabbatical, but that didn’t prevent former and hopeful future students from trying to meet with him when he was there. He closed the door behind him, securing the ancient lock-the offices still used skeleton keys, which always amused him-before moving to his desk. He dropped the small stack of things onto his desk, and then moved behind his chair, opening the lattice-worked window-still with the original, ancient leaded glass-to allow some of the cool air into the small stone room.
He settled into his chair, kicking his feet up onto the corner of his desk, and leaned back just far enough to allow the breeze to ruffle his hair. He’d spent untold hours in this room, his sanctuary. He’d slept in the room more than once, especially after Catie had died; he’d stared at the ceiling many an afternoon, procrastinating on reviewing papers or other job-related items, pondering how best to get on living his life. He’d gazed moodily out the window after he’d met Rose; had watched more than a few rainstorms spatter against the glass as he’d mooned over her after the day he’d spent showing her through town.
Turn, rub. Turn, rub.
He’d been back to that particular pub any number of times since he’d had dinner with Rose there; each visit, he’d found himself gazing hopefully at the door when it opened, knowing it couldn’t be Rose (why would it have been) and yet still desperately praying that it would be. He remembered Rose, sitting across from him that night, looking as though she were going to kiss him; and how she’d sat back, her entire body language changing as she glanced down at his hands.
Turn-
He glanced down, his fingers resting on his wedding band. Even after he and Rose had started sleeping together-even after he’d told her he loved her, and heard her say she loved him in return-he’d kept the ring on. The ring which, to Rose, had said “hands off”; the ring which to him offered soft golden memories of time with Catie. Rose hadn’t mentioned it, not since the day she had explained that she hadn’t pursued him, because he’d worn a wedding ring.
He moved his right hand away, continuing to gaze down at the scuffed gold band, wondering if the ring still bothered Rose. Did she see it as macabre? Did she look at his left hand, and wonder how she fit into things, with the memory of his first wife so visibly present?
Did she look at his left hand at all? He closed his eyes, trying to remember: he could see Rose laughing, could see her kissing the fingers of his right hand, or taking it in hers. But he couldn’t remember her ever standing on his left side, or taking that hand in hers.
He reopened his eyes, once again looking at the ring on his finger.
Should he take it off? Could he? Would it be fair to Catie to take it off? Or was it less fair to Rose to leave it on?
He gazed at the ring, the thumb of his left hand now playing with the warm metal, pondering. His mum still wore her wedding band-but she’d not fallen in love again, that he was aware. He could call her, could ask her what she thought, or what tradition dictated; but he had the feeling that this was something which was better done on his own. At the end of the day, after all, only he-and Rose-would be the ones affected by the decision.
He loved Rose. He wanted to live with her; he wanted to marry her, which still took him slightly by surprise. He’d grown so used to thinking that he’d only be married the once, that to realize he wanted-needed, almost-to do it again, with a woman over ten years his junior, always left him slightly disoriented.
Without thinking-simply reacting-he reached over with his right hand, and slowly wiggled the wedding band off of his finger. His finger felt odd without it, and he glanced down, surprised by how strange it felt to have the ring off after so long. There was a pale white circle around the base of his finger; he gently brushed his right forefinger over it, noting how sensitive it was-and how cool the air felt against it. He felt oddly naked without it on-and yet, he still felt oddly daring.
He felt a brief wave of giddiness wash over him. He’d taken his ring off. Should he call Charlotte? Wave his hand in front of the battle-axe’s face, to see if she’d notice? Maybe his mum, to let her know he’d taken A Step Forward. Perhaps Rose?
Rose, who’d loved and lost herself, and who was still trying to find a way to move on from the past-somehow. Rose, who had so many questions, and yet who still felt slightly afraid of asking them-afraid, perhaps, that she’d lose him too, one day.
Rose, who was waiting for him at home.
He slid his feet off his desk, sitting upright with a loud “clunk” as the chair rocked violently forward. He was operating on instinct now, closing and locking the window, grabbing his journal, diary, and beloved fountain pen off the desk with one hand, whilst slipping the ring into his pocket with the other. The door was unlocked, and then re-locked behind him, and he strode down the hall, out the door, and to his car with solid purpose.
He was going to go home, and was going to let Rose know that he wanted to move forward-with her.
She was napping when he got home, curled under the duvet in the giant four-poster bed he’d bought years before; he watched her, quietly stripping out of his clothes, finally moving to join her when he was dressed in nothing at all. He slid under the covers as gently as he could, and soon had her wrapped in his arms. He could feel the warmth of her skin against the freshly bare skin of his ring finger, and he stroked his hand up and down her arm as he closed his eyes and began to relax.
He dozed for a bit, Rose snuggled against him; and when he re-opened his eyes the room had grown a touch darker. Rose was still curled against him, and he tilted his head to look at her.
She was awake, and gave him a soft smile as she met his eye. “Hello,” she whispered.
“Mmmhello,” he murmured, smiling gently at her as he blinked awake.
“Short meeting?”
“No.”
“But you’re home earlier than you’d thought…”
“I chose to come home, rather than work in my lonely office.”
Her hand drifted across his stomach, her fingers playing with the line of hair below his belly button. “Are you saying you were lonely, Peter?”
Her fingers, maddeningly, stayed just where they were-dancing up and down the hair, never straying the few centimetres lower he so desperately wanted…
“Yes,” he replied, gasping as she lightly brushed against his hardening erection.
“How lonely?” Her voice was a low growl, her fingers now dancing across the soft skin of his groin.
“This lonely.” He pulled her to him, kissing her, his arms wrapping around her as he rolled her beneath him.
Their lovemaking was short and frantic, Peter desperate to be buried in the woman he loved, to let her know how much she meant to him. Rose groaned in ecstasy as he pushed her to orgasm, driving into her, his lips pulling at her breast; as he came, releasing into the condom he’d hastily slid on, she kissed him, her tongue stroking the roof of his mouth in time with his thrusts.
He collapsed onto her as he was spent, feeling boneless after the intensity of their lovemaking; Rose stroked his damp hair, her fingers combing through in a soothing motion.
“Hello there,” she whispered, brushing a kiss across his temple.
He pulled back, just enough to gaze at her; holding her eye, he slid an arm under her and rolled them, sliding out of her as he came to rest on his back. She blinked, surprised, then a slow smile curved across her face. “Randy, Professor?”
He reached up, gently stroking her cheek. “I just wanted to be able to see you,” he said, softly.
Rose brought her hand to cover his, holding it in place as she turned to brush a kiss over his palm. She rested her cheek against his hand as she returned her gaze to his, smiling softly at him.
He reached up with his left hand, cradling her jaw, gently pulling her towards him; she leaned forward, meeting his kiss with the smile still on her lips.
“How was your nap?” he asked, several minutes later. Rose was still straddling him, although her hands were now resting on his stomach.
“Nice. Although waking up from it was nicer.”
He reached forward, capturing one of her hands, his eyes moving to watch as he played with her fingers, replying, “I’d be happy to always wake you from a nap, that way.”
“A girl could get spoiled,” she replied playfully, lacing her fingers through his.
“Is that such a bad thing?”
“No…” Rose’s eyebrows drew together, and she glanced down to where her right hand was laced with his left.
He held his breath, watching her as she gazed, dumbstruck, at their joined hands. He loved the feel of her hand in his-loved being able to feel her skin against his, without barriers; he gently squeezed her hand, drawing her attention back to him.
“Did you lose your ring?” Rose finally asked, unsure.
“No,” he replied, suddenly unsure of his decision.
“Where is it, then?” She raised her eyes to his, her confusion evident.
Peter took a deep breath, his heart hammering in his chest. “I took it off,” he said, his voice steady as he held Rose’s gaze.
Her eyes widened briefly, even as a flush stole over her body. “Oh.” The word was breathed on a long sigh, and her gaze returned to their still-joined hands. “You took it off.” The words were whispered, a hint of amazement in them.
“I took it off, Rose,” he repeated, stronger this time. “I sat at my desk, and I took it off. And I don’t think I’ll be putting it back on again.”
Rose’s eyes darted to his, and Rose licked her lips. “You…you took it off.”
He almost laughed, the repetition of the words like something out of a comedy sketch. “I did, Rose. I thought about it, and I did it. Because…because of you.”
Rose’s eyes widened again, confusion passing across her features. “Because of me?”
“Because of you. Because…because…this is a reminder of what was. I loved her, Rose-but now, with you-I’m in love with you. And I want to move forward, to see what can be, and to not always have a reminder of what was on my hand.”
Rose squeezed his hand, her eyes bright even as she gave him a small smile. He thought she might speak; instead, she leaned forward, brushing a soft kiss over the corner of his mouth. “I love you,” she whispered, her eyes watching him. “I’m in love with you.”
He kissed her, giving himself over to the sensation, losing himself in the feel of her lips against his, her tongue gently teasing his; she shifted after several minutes, stretching her body along his, still kissing him. He moved after another several minutes, so that he was above her, kissing her, her hands buried in his hair as his left hand cupped her jaw.
The kiss broke still several minutes more later; as he blinked his eyes open, breathless, he whispered, “Live with me, Rose. Stay here, always.”
Her eyes were dark as she met his gaze, her fingers now stroking down his sideburn and across his stubble, repeating the motion in a soothing rhythm. She watched her fingers for a few moments, then returned her gaze to his, whispering, “Yes.”
“Truly?”
“Yes, Peter Carlisle. I will live with you,” she whispered, smiling, eventually beaming as he smiled in return.
He lay down, pulling her to him for an embrace, laughing with joy and relief. The skin on his ring finger no longer felt cold, the warmth of Rose pressing against it as he held her to him, as he drifted kisses across her hair.
His wedding band-his constant reminder of Catie-was delicately set on the dresser that night, as he and Rose went for supper. His past lay with Catie-but his future lay with Rose.
~ fin ~
Rating: M
Author: jlrpuck
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: What if Peter Carlisle's mum hadn't died from an overdose?
Authors Notes: Sometimes, begging *does* work: crimedoc1kept asking, and asking, and asking for a story today. So here it is. For purposes of the timeline, this falls after Story Three, and before Story Four.
Thank you to chicklet73 for her beta; and spare a thought for EGT, who's having the Worst Vacation Ever this week. This hasn’t been Brit-picked, so any failings on that front - and indeed, in general - are absolutely my own.
The Sun Rising - The Good Morrow - The Triple Fool - The Undertaking - The Primrose - The Bard’s Epitaph - The Bait - On His Mistress - The Canonization - Valediction - Lover’s Infiniteness - Epithalamion
Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will some new pleasures prove
Of golden sands, and crystal brooks,
With silken lines, and silver hooks.
-John Donne, The Bait
The meeting simply wouldn’t end.
Peter leaned back in his chair, fighting the urge to shout down the table to the colleague still rambling on about one of the courses she would be lecturing at next term; he didn’t particularly care about the utilization of industrial fibres by the military establishment during the Great War; he felt fairly certain only a small number of students would, as well-but that hadn’t kept his colleagues from allowing the deluded lecturer to ramble on for the past forty-five minutes.
He stifled his sigh, his right hand idly playing with his left, turning the warm band of metal around his ring finger in the pattern he’d used for over a decade: the fingertips of his right hand would lightly grasp his ring, turning it once; his thumb would then stroke across the smooth metal, just the once. Turn, rub; turn, rub; turn, rub. The action was hypnotizing to him, allowing him to look as though he was listening intently while in actuality his mind drifted.
He wanted to go home. Rose was there, was waiting for him; she’d come back from London the night before, and he was desperate to curl against her on the sofa, to feel her relax against him as she unwound from her trip. She was still based out of London, in spite of spending almost all of her time with him over the previous two months-only two months? It felt like years-and the trip had been unavoidable.
Turn, rub. Turn, rub.
She loved him-she said the words to him over and over again, each time with the same fresh sense of wonder, joy shining through. When she saw him walk in a room, her face lit up-he’d not thought it was for him, the first few times he’d seen it, but had soon realized the smile she was sharing was for him, and him only.
Turn, rub. Turn, rub.
He loved her. The rapidity of his feelings for her, and the sheer intensity of them, always left him breathless, and he remained in awe of the gift he’d been given. By all rights, they never should have crossed paths again, after that night at the Vitex Research Institute gala. But not only did they cross paths again-they did it twice.
Turn, rub. Turn, rub.
And he’d never expected-ever-to find another woman after Caitlyn. He had loved his first wife, his Catie; had thought he’d not be able to go on, after she passed, and had wallowed in despair for months after her death. His mum had eventually shown him that the best way to honour Caitlyn was to live his life, and enjoy doing it; to enjoy the memories he’d been left with, instead of considering them an unbearable burden. He’d taken over tending of the garden in front of the cottage-a task she’d always done, once they moved in. He’d started reading her books, well-thumbed copies of the classics she’d been an expert in. He’d even tried to date once or twice-always the result of well-meaning friends-but he ultimately had decided he was meant to be a bachelor for the rest of his years.
And then Rose had come along, and everything changed.
Turn, rub. Turn, rub.
He almost laughed aloud at the fanciful thought, and yet there was no other way to put it. A friend of his had always joked, “When you know, you know”; things hadn’t been like that with Catie, although he’d loved her deeply, and he’d come to think his friend was being overly romantic. And yet, with Rose, it happened just that simply. Where he and Catie had spent years together-lecturing at the same college, then dating-before deciding to cohabitate, and eventually marry, with Rose everything seemed to have happened in a whirlwind. And-Catie forgive him-it simply felt right.
Turn, rub. Turn, rub.
Catie, as she lay in hospice, had made sure to tell him, repeatedly, that if he found someone else, he wasn’t to feel guilty. He’d been appalled at the suggestion; she, always wiser in the ways of the heart than he, had told him that it could happen-that he had so much heart to share, it would be a shame for him to lock it away simply because she wasn’t there.
As usual, she’d been right. But he still felt a flash of guilt.
Turn, rub. Turn, -
“Carlisle.”
Peter jumped, surprised out of his musings. He glanced up, guiltily, at the woman standing next to him. Her grey hair was pulled back into a loose bun, and she wore an air of exasperation.
“Charlotte.”
The professor of relic recovery was trying not to laugh at him, and leaned down. “We’re done, now. You can leave.”
Peter glanced around, noticing that the table was, indeed, almost completely surrounded by empty chairs. He blushed, gathering his journal, his diary, and his fountain pen into a hasty pile, and stood noisily, the chair scraping back across the stone floor. “Thanks,” he offered to his colleague, before scurrying out of the large room.
He made it to his office without being accosted by any of the students-he might still be on sabbatical, but that didn’t prevent former and hopeful future students from trying to meet with him when he was there. He closed the door behind him, securing the ancient lock-the offices still used skeleton keys, which always amused him-before moving to his desk. He dropped the small stack of things onto his desk, and then moved behind his chair, opening the lattice-worked window-still with the original, ancient leaded glass-to allow some of the cool air into the small stone room.
He settled into his chair, kicking his feet up onto the corner of his desk, and leaned back just far enough to allow the breeze to ruffle his hair. He’d spent untold hours in this room, his sanctuary. He’d slept in the room more than once, especially after Catie had died; he’d stared at the ceiling many an afternoon, procrastinating on reviewing papers or other job-related items, pondering how best to get on living his life. He’d gazed moodily out the window after he’d met Rose; had watched more than a few rainstorms spatter against the glass as he’d mooned over her after the day he’d spent showing her through town.
Turn, rub. Turn, rub.
He’d been back to that particular pub any number of times since he’d had dinner with Rose there; each visit, he’d found himself gazing hopefully at the door when it opened, knowing it couldn’t be Rose (why would it have been) and yet still desperately praying that it would be. He remembered Rose, sitting across from him that night, looking as though she were going to kiss him; and how she’d sat back, her entire body language changing as she glanced down at his hands.
Turn-
He glanced down, his fingers resting on his wedding band. Even after he and Rose had started sleeping together-even after he’d told her he loved her, and heard her say she loved him in return-he’d kept the ring on. The ring which, to Rose, had said “hands off”; the ring which to him offered soft golden memories of time with Catie. Rose hadn’t mentioned it, not since the day she had explained that she hadn’t pursued him, because he’d worn a wedding ring.
He moved his right hand away, continuing to gaze down at the scuffed gold band, wondering if the ring still bothered Rose. Did she see it as macabre? Did she look at his left hand, and wonder how she fit into things, with the memory of his first wife so visibly present?
Did she look at his left hand at all? He closed his eyes, trying to remember: he could see Rose laughing, could see her kissing the fingers of his right hand, or taking it in hers. But he couldn’t remember her ever standing on his left side, or taking that hand in hers.
He reopened his eyes, once again looking at the ring on his finger.
Should he take it off? Could he? Would it be fair to Catie to take it off? Or was it less fair to Rose to leave it on?
He gazed at the ring, the thumb of his left hand now playing with the warm metal, pondering. His mum still wore her wedding band-but she’d not fallen in love again, that he was aware. He could call her, could ask her what she thought, or what tradition dictated; but he had the feeling that this was something which was better done on his own. At the end of the day, after all, only he-and Rose-would be the ones affected by the decision.
He loved Rose. He wanted to live with her; he wanted to marry her, which still took him slightly by surprise. He’d grown so used to thinking that he’d only be married the once, that to realize he wanted-needed, almost-to do it again, with a woman over ten years his junior, always left him slightly disoriented.
Without thinking-simply reacting-he reached over with his right hand, and slowly wiggled the wedding band off of his finger. His finger felt odd without it, and he glanced down, surprised by how strange it felt to have the ring off after so long. There was a pale white circle around the base of his finger; he gently brushed his right forefinger over it, noting how sensitive it was-and how cool the air felt against it. He felt oddly naked without it on-and yet, he still felt oddly daring.
He felt a brief wave of giddiness wash over him. He’d taken his ring off. Should he call Charlotte? Wave his hand in front of the battle-axe’s face, to see if she’d notice? Maybe his mum, to let her know he’d taken A Step Forward. Perhaps Rose?
Rose, who’d loved and lost herself, and who was still trying to find a way to move on from the past-somehow. Rose, who had so many questions, and yet who still felt slightly afraid of asking them-afraid, perhaps, that she’d lose him too, one day.
Rose, who was waiting for him at home.
He slid his feet off his desk, sitting upright with a loud “clunk” as the chair rocked violently forward. He was operating on instinct now, closing and locking the window, grabbing his journal, diary, and beloved fountain pen off the desk with one hand, whilst slipping the ring into his pocket with the other. The door was unlocked, and then re-locked behind him, and he strode down the hall, out the door, and to his car with solid purpose.
He was going to go home, and was going to let Rose know that he wanted to move forward-with her.
She was napping when he got home, curled under the duvet in the giant four-poster bed he’d bought years before; he watched her, quietly stripping out of his clothes, finally moving to join her when he was dressed in nothing at all. He slid under the covers as gently as he could, and soon had her wrapped in his arms. He could feel the warmth of her skin against the freshly bare skin of his ring finger, and he stroked his hand up and down her arm as he closed his eyes and began to relax.
He dozed for a bit, Rose snuggled against him; and when he re-opened his eyes the room had grown a touch darker. Rose was still curled against him, and he tilted his head to look at her.
She was awake, and gave him a soft smile as she met his eye. “Hello,” she whispered.
“Mmmhello,” he murmured, smiling gently at her as he blinked awake.
“Short meeting?”
“No.”
“But you’re home earlier than you’d thought…”
“I chose to come home, rather than work in my lonely office.”
Her hand drifted across his stomach, her fingers playing with the line of hair below his belly button. “Are you saying you were lonely, Peter?”
Her fingers, maddeningly, stayed just where they were-dancing up and down the hair, never straying the few centimetres lower he so desperately wanted…
“Yes,” he replied, gasping as she lightly brushed against his hardening erection.
“How lonely?” Her voice was a low growl, her fingers now dancing across the soft skin of his groin.
“This lonely.” He pulled her to him, kissing her, his arms wrapping around her as he rolled her beneath him.
Their lovemaking was short and frantic, Peter desperate to be buried in the woman he loved, to let her know how much she meant to him. Rose groaned in ecstasy as he pushed her to orgasm, driving into her, his lips pulling at her breast; as he came, releasing into the condom he’d hastily slid on, she kissed him, her tongue stroking the roof of his mouth in time with his thrusts.
He collapsed onto her as he was spent, feeling boneless after the intensity of their lovemaking; Rose stroked his damp hair, her fingers combing through in a soothing motion.
“Hello there,” she whispered, brushing a kiss across his temple.
He pulled back, just enough to gaze at her; holding her eye, he slid an arm under her and rolled them, sliding out of her as he came to rest on his back. She blinked, surprised, then a slow smile curved across her face. “Randy, Professor?”
He reached up, gently stroking her cheek. “I just wanted to be able to see you,” he said, softly.
Rose brought her hand to cover his, holding it in place as she turned to brush a kiss over his palm. She rested her cheek against his hand as she returned her gaze to his, smiling softly at him.
He reached up with his left hand, cradling her jaw, gently pulling her towards him; she leaned forward, meeting his kiss with the smile still on her lips.
“How was your nap?” he asked, several minutes later. Rose was still straddling him, although her hands were now resting on his stomach.
“Nice. Although waking up from it was nicer.”
He reached forward, capturing one of her hands, his eyes moving to watch as he played with her fingers, replying, “I’d be happy to always wake you from a nap, that way.”
“A girl could get spoiled,” she replied playfully, lacing her fingers through his.
“Is that such a bad thing?”
“No…” Rose’s eyebrows drew together, and she glanced down to where her right hand was laced with his left.
He held his breath, watching her as she gazed, dumbstruck, at their joined hands. He loved the feel of her hand in his-loved being able to feel her skin against his, without barriers; he gently squeezed her hand, drawing her attention back to him.
“Did you lose your ring?” Rose finally asked, unsure.
“No,” he replied, suddenly unsure of his decision.
“Where is it, then?” She raised her eyes to his, her confusion evident.
Peter took a deep breath, his heart hammering in his chest. “I took it off,” he said, his voice steady as he held Rose’s gaze.
Her eyes widened briefly, even as a flush stole over her body. “Oh.” The word was breathed on a long sigh, and her gaze returned to their still-joined hands. “You took it off.” The words were whispered, a hint of amazement in them.
“I took it off, Rose,” he repeated, stronger this time. “I sat at my desk, and I took it off. And I don’t think I’ll be putting it back on again.”
Rose’s eyes darted to his, and Rose licked her lips. “You…you took it off.”
He almost laughed, the repetition of the words like something out of a comedy sketch. “I did, Rose. I thought about it, and I did it. Because…because of you.”
Rose’s eyes widened again, confusion passing across her features. “Because of me?”
“Because of you. Because…because…this is a reminder of what was. I loved her, Rose-but now, with you-I’m in love with you. And I want to move forward, to see what can be, and to not always have a reminder of what was on my hand.”
Rose squeezed his hand, her eyes bright even as she gave him a small smile. He thought she might speak; instead, she leaned forward, brushing a soft kiss over the corner of his mouth. “I love you,” she whispered, her eyes watching him. “I’m in love with you.”
He kissed her, giving himself over to the sensation, losing himself in the feel of her lips against his, her tongue gently teasing his; she shifted after several minutes, stretching her body along his, still kissing him. He moved after another several minutes, so that he was above her, kissing her, her hands buried in his hair as his left hand cupped her jaw.
The kiss broke still several minutes more later; as he blinked his eyes open, breathless, he whispered, “Live with me, Rose. Stay here, always.”
Her eyes were dark as she met his gaze, her fingers now stroking down his sideburn and across his stubble, repeating the motion in a soothing rhythm. She watched her fingers for a few moments, then returned her gaze to his, whispering, “Yes.”
“Truly?”
“Yes, Peter Carlisle. I will live with you,” she whispered, smiling, eventually beaming as he smiled in return.
He lay down, pulling her to him for an embrace, laughing with joy and relief. The skin on his ring finger no longer felt cold, the warmth of Rose pressing against it as he held her to him, as he drifted kisses across her hair.
His wedding band-his constant reminder of Catie-was delicately set on the dresser that night, as he and Rose went for supper. His past lay with Catie-but his future lay with Rose.
~ fin ~