His hand curls around the warmth of the neck with surprising ease; it's only shaking minimally. It's not the first time he's kissed a man, not even the second, but it will be the first time he'll be kissing a man who he has some sort of undefined feelings towards.
It will most certainly be the first time he's kissed a man with his wife watching, with his wife encouraging it.
The lights in the living room are dim, the walls butter yellow and the last of the late-summer sun has finally retreated behind the encroaching clouds. It feels cozy, warm, as the wine has had it's intended effect. They're all a little bit looser than usual, all a bit apprehensive and expectant. Peter can't remember how it came to this, and he's not sure he wants to; he just wants the events to unfold as they naturally should.
Behind him, his wife spurs the moment to action.
"Sweetheart, I'm right here," Elizabeth says softly, her voice heavy with lust. "If you don't want to do this, we can stop right now." This is true; Peter knows she would never say anything that wasn't genuine. If he decides he wants to throw in the towel, he knows she'd have no problem walking away.
But he's not walking away. None of them are walking away from this.
Peter takes a deep breath and his eyes haven't left Neal's. Moment of truth, he supposes, and glances down at the man's lips quickly only to find them touched by the slightest of smiles. "I want to do this."
And it's only a fraction of a second before he slants his mouth over Neal's and kisses him. There's no movement at first, just a rush of breath out of Elizabeth and his blood pounding in his ears. Neal's lips are soft, pliant, as he imagined they'd be from all of the sweet-talking, the coy smiling, the lingering sips of wine. Neal's lips are something of of a privilege to kiss, as so few have kissed them before.
Peter knows this; he's a ladies' man but he's never much indulged in the ladies. For as long as Peter has known him, he's been a hopeless romantic in an "I only have eyes for you," sort of way. Peter finds it charming and he respects it, as he's a man of the same grade.
His attention to detail is another thing Peter admires, as he has a thing for details as well. But Neal's attention to detail is generally flawless and consuming.
He's slightly nervous to discover if Neal will direct that attention at him... and El.
But for now, Peter stops thinking and feels. Feels Neal's fingers slide up his biceps to curl around his neck, in his hair. Casually, as though they've done this countless times before, his tongue slides in against his.
If there were any bets, they would all be off by now.
"Jesus," El hisses as Neal shuffles in to press his hips against Peter's. Two hard lengths of body pressed up against one another and Peter can't say he's felt anything comparable in all his years on earth.
Again, Elizabeth swears, slinks out from the shadows to approach them at the table, "Jesus."
Neal pulls away, looks up at Peter and smiles. Has he done this before, the agent wonders? Does he have experience in this area? For a brief moment Peter becomes self-conscious, isn't quite as enthusiastic at the thought that his friend has been through a similar scenario.
The young man's eyes flash and Peter knows instantly. This is a first. This is a first for both of them.
Neal steps back and squeezes Peter's arm, darting his eyes to the other man's wife and back. Asking permission. With a slight nod, Peter takes a step back and nods El forward, into Neal's personal space.
With one hand in her husband's she kisses the other man, steps in and makes the first move and Neal responds gently but passionately, sliding his fingers through hers as Peter watches them kiss.
The textures of the two hands in his are both surprisingly supple, smooth. Neal is squeezing just a bit more than would be normal for a handshake while Elizabeth's is slack. The juxtaposition is somewhat amazing to him, makes him realize that there are two people here, two people that he will be bent on pleasing, two people with two different personalities, bodies, emotions that he will be dealing with.
The thought is incredibly alluring and frightening.
Neal squeezes again, and though he's kissing Peter's wife, he's looking up at the man as though to say, "We're waiting on you."
Peter bends and presses his lips to the curve of Elizabeth's neck, suckling lightly at the skin there. It's something he's done a thousand times before, but her reaction is different somehow. She's more sensual, feels, tastes, looks different to him, in another man's arms. It's not unappealing, it's just startlingly different, like suddenly changing the contrast on a television. He's viewing everything in an altogether different manner.
Elizabeth slumps into his arms, but Neal follows her, does not give up the assault on her mouth; sandwiched in between the two men she is pliant and willing and suddenly, everything falls into place, the moment becomes fluid.
Pulling back, Neal slides his fingers beneath her sweater and Peter assists him in pulling it gently off and laying it against the back of the dining chair. Everything is being done with forethought and care and he's not sure whose benefit it's for; perhaps for all of them.
Slowly, Elizabeth lifts her head and smiles shyly at Neal, turns and glances up at Peter. "Kiss him, again?" It's a question, not a demand and it's so low he strains to hear it, as though anything louder would fracture the delicate moment.
It's delightful to him when Neal begins wringing his hands, as though there's any chance he'll be turned down. This heartens Peter, almost solidifying that they're all new to this, that they all have just as much to lose.
In two strides he's in front of the other man and wastes no time in twining a hand behind his neck and pulling him in for a slightly-rough kiss. They're more brazen now, each touching at will, testing the strength of the other, biting and tasting. It's a brilliant thing, the way Neal tastes, the way he feels, the way he sounds, that he's allowed to experience it all.
And as Elizabeth slides her hands up his pecs while embracing him from behind, he thinks how wonderful it is to experience Neal just as his wife is, that they're both able to indulge in the sensual, tacit responses from him. It's wonderful that they love each other and both so desperately want to share part of themselves with Neal Caffrey.
El's fingers work quickly to undo the buttons of his Oxford, seamlessly sliding the plastic disks from the restrictive holes until she's able to tug against the undershirt he's wearing. The other man breaks contact and helps her divest Peter of both shirts, both pairs of hands skimming across his skin as it's bared. God, it's amazing, two different sets of hands, both of which he knows well, touching him just so, as though they know exactly what he needs.
And perhaps they do.
It's too much, and he turns again, drags his wife into his arms and offers Neal up on his lips. After a moment or so, he turns back, speaks for the first time, asks Neal, "Can you handle that yourself, or...?" His eyes indicate he's referring to his shirt. The other man grins and glares good-naturedly at him and begins working on his tie.
Elizabeth comes alive, biting at him, running her fingernails down the length of his back, pressing her hips against his. It's everything, it's everything.
It's everything until Neal presses the hot skin of his chest against Peter's back.
Then, they combust.
Elizabeth tears away, hangs from Peter's neck and leans her forehead on his; Neal's thumbs slide easily beneath the waistband of his trousers.
"Let's go," she says and gazes up at him, all heat and need.
It's walking through a fog, following Elizabeth through the living room and up the stairs to their bedroom with Neal close behind. Their footsteps are matched pace for pace, and he can somehow feel the heat from the other man behind him.
It's almost a relief that it's dark in the room, as he finds courage in the shadow, turns around and grabs Neal by the wrist. "Last chance," he intones.
"For you, too," Neal reminds him and crosses the threshold, caution completely lost in the wind he's thrown it to.
Unfamiliar territory, and stall tactics kick in. Should he close the door? Is the front door locked? Did El shut off the oven? When's trash day? Every question he's ever needed answers to run through his head and he wants to ask them all, right now because he's nervous. Shirtless, Peter stands by the door and watches Elizabeth sit at the end of the bed, watches as Neal paces over to lean casually against the side of their dresser.
And it's all absurd. How they got here, how they became friends, how they're almost lovers. It's all just incredibly, incredibly absurd.
So he laughs.
He laughs and laughs and Neal cracks an amused smile and Elizabeth, well, she smiles in understanding. Because what else is there? Someone has to take the lead here or it ends and if it ends, the tenuous relationship they've established will surely falter.
"Come here," she asks quietly and holds her arms out to her husband.
It's a simple as that, and so he walks to the bed and drapes himself over her, pushing her back down onto the mattress as her leg comes up to cradle his hips. Easy, it's easy. His hands in her hair and his lips on hers and she slides her hand across the bed and crooks a finger at the other man in the room.
Neal slides over and sits on the bed, content for the moment to look on as Peter smooths his hand down his wife's thigh.
Elizabeth moans and from there, it all becomes tinged with haze.
Peter can't say how he comes to be naked, reclining on the bed. He can't say how Elizabeth ends up with her hand stroking the length of the other man's back. He can't say how it's possible that he's witnessing all of this, all of this beauty before him, he's not sure how he's come to be this lucky.
The curtains are open and somehow, rays of moonlight manage to maneuver their way between the tall buildings and spill carelessly across the floor. It's all too romantic, Peter thinks, but he's pleased that it's this way. He's glad that it's not careless, reckless as he'll never admit he imagined it might be.
Everything is quiet when Neal slips inside of her, and time stops for the briefest of seconds as though to acknowledge that yes, this is something. This is something.
Peter doesn't know who to touch, so he touches them both. His lips find the curve of Neal's shoulder as his fingers slip over the curve of his wife's breast. It's all good, it's all fine, everything is better this way. He's sure of it.
There's a whisper, and he can't tell who it's from, "Kiss me."
So he kisses them both.
He kisses them both.