This is the product of several hours of lost sleep, anal retentive editing, and spontaneous partial beta-ing. I dedicate this piece to the ever gracious, and truly lovely Ambre (elialys), who I absolutely adore. Without her assistance and encouragement, I would not have been able to successfully complete my story. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I also owe a huge thank you to the entire Fringe community in general, for inspiring me while writing this, and a special thanks to Lori (noz4a2) and Dani (ThroughTheVoid) who bothered me until I posted this here. It's been on my LJ for over a week now. Whooops...

So, yada yada, I don't own FRINGE or anything related to the show. This is purely for entertainment purposes.

He's half dazed as he watches his body react to her gentle tug, leading him up the stairs. He sees rather than feels his legs march the rest of him up the steps, following her lead, but when a fine layer of sweat begins to coat his palms, that he feels. That, along with a gentle squeeze from the hand of the enigmatic figure guiding him to his room, which feels like an exotic, foreign, and altogether new destination. He can't recall exactly when it was he'd last let anyone enter his room willingly, and with his permission. He is, and always has been, an extremely private person, and for as long as he remembers, his room has been his sanctuary. He always felt safe in his room, it's where he would escape to when everything started becoming more than he could take. He feels safe, now, with her, so he lets her in.

Once he's shut the door, and locked it for good measure, their shoes are the first to go, in an almost frenzied manner. As they stand barefoot, and he watches her hands jump to the first button on her coat, he stills them. She looks up at him, not taken aback, nor hesitant or doubting, but curious. He smiles lazily at her, and pulls her into a languid, sweet kiss. Her mouth opens slowly to him, and his tongue tentatively seeks hers. The longer the kisses last, the deeper they become, and as they progress, the less they taste like bourbon, and the more they taste uniquely of whatever it is that makes up Olivia Dunham and Peter Bishop. He unbuttons her coat, and pulls it slowly from her heated form, hanging it over his desk chair. He's a trifle more swift as he dexterously removes her blouse and gracefully places it over her jacket. He's mesmerised by the minute heaving of her chest, and as he starts to lean in to kindle the fire he senses building between them, she stops him. She smiles mischievously at him as she gives him the once over, and he humourously muses to himself that all is fair in love, and war.

The way she lifts his shirt over his head, marveling at the sinuous texture of muscle moving beneath his toned skin, is like nothing he's ever experienced before. For the first time in a long time, he feels nonpareil, desirable and desired, and most importantly, loved. Her delicate hands splay across his chest, lingering before her fingertips skitter over his torso, and he shudders, nigh imperceptibly. She, however, perceives this, as he anticipated she would, and captures his lips with hers in what he can only describe as the most reassuring kiss he's ever been given. She wants him, only him, and he knows this definitively. That tangible fact, the knowledge of being wanted, and the feeling that couples it, makes him feel more whole than he has felt throughout his life.

She reaches for his belt as he begins to remove her distinctive black bra. He traces every single centimetre of skin he's exposed, obsessively intent on precisely memorising every meticulous detail of this woman. When he lowers his mouth to her neck, grazing her skin with his teeth, and runs his tongue over her quickening pulse, her characteristically steady hands fumble. By the time his lips have mercilessly surrounded her nipple, and his tongue soothes the slight pressure he applies with his teeth, her head is tipped back, hands clawing his shoulders. When he feels her breath catch, and the mellow tones of dissonant pleasure begin to emanate from her depths, he silences her with a stilling kiss. He feels her resistance, and realises that she is trying to speak, but for reasons he does not quite understand, he needs her to let him be. He presses a rapid succession of frenetic kisses to her lips, and lets her lead him to his bed.

He's momentarily startled when it's the backs of her knees that hit the mattress instead of his. Seconds tick by discordantly as he stands dumbfounded. He blinks away his confusion and sees her smiling coyly up at him, one arm suspended carelessly around his neck, the other imperiously guiding his hand to the fastening of her FBI standard issue black trousers. They slink to the floor silently, sliding down her silken skin, and he can't help but stare. She must have expected him to allow her to do the same with his dark blue denim, because she gasps when he lays her out before him, devouring her with his gaze, keen on knowing absolutely every facet of her. She looks up at him expectantly, the trust behind her eyes unwavering. A boyish grin spreads across his handsome features as he climbs over her, releasing her hair from the tightly wound band, and as he runs a hand through her hair, he pulls her into a sultry kiss. Allowing himself to get lost in this moment, the feeling of her nearly naked body beneath him, it isn't until her body arches off the bed into his that he's made aware that she was able to remove his jeans.

He runs his fingers across her glistening forehead and through her hair again, and begins working his way down. He watches the taut muscles of her abdomen contract and relax, feels them flexing against his tongue and lips, in her failing attempt to calm her breathing. Despite her superfluous efforts to retain control, her breath is fluttering out in short, sharp bursts of thus far sustainable pleasure. He toys with her hips, nipping and sucking so gently she has to focus each of her faculties on the sensation. She exhales approvingly as he draws her panties down her long, slender legs and groans softly at their absence. He's nowhere near finished his thorough and fastidious study of her, and by this point, she's allowed him to take the lead. Judging by her silent surrender, he thinks that she must understand, at least on some level, what he's trying so diligently to accomplish.

This time, he starts with her delicate feet, but instead of working his way up, he draws her down to where he's kneeling at the foot of his bed. Just as he feels her aiming to sit herself up, his tongue surges into her searing, saturated core. Out of his peripheral vision, he can see her hands fisting his sheets, and he hears her sudden intake of breath. Several moments pass without its release, and he wonders whether or not she's forgotten how to breathe. When her need for oxygen finally registers, the captive breath billows out in a euphonic, lilting wave of harmonious moans that sound the way honey tastes. The dulcet whimpering intoxicates him, and drives him deeper into her folds, as her hands run through his sweat-dampened hair, spurring him on. His heartbeat quickens with her obvious delight in his ministrations. He could not remember how long he had been wondering what she would taste of, and had gracefully hidden his disappointment in the aversion that the woman whom he had thought to be his exhibited towards this particular act. Now, he was scarcely able to contain his feverish thrill at the encouragement he was receiving. He gripped her hips to still her, and pulled her closer, his tongue unrelenting in its assault to her slick insides. He heard her whispering his name as her muscles tensed around his invading presence, but did not desist until she asserted softly, "Please."