The ambient light haloed in the fringe of Peter's hair, and she could see little else of his face. The street haze lay into the folds of his clothing like frost, and the sheets duned between his knees where he grew from Olivia's bed. She looked into his solemn face and felt him burning back at her. The situation was consuming every resource in his head.
Stop thinking, Peter. She asked him with her touch. She pulled with fingertips alone, inviting each patch of skin to creep closer. His hands on her shoulders became heavy; his elbows unlocked and no longer endeavored to keep her safely away. His thumbs slipped softly into the triangles of her neck where his pulse beat quietly against her.
Olivia rose to her knees and advanced to plant herself directly in front of Peter, her face inches away. At that small distance, she could finally see his eyes: resolved, dark, volatile. Color darkened his cheeks in the high points. The heat of his breath was sweeping her own pale cheeks and calling her blood to the surface. Outside a streetlight blinked out, flickered back in, and the skeleton lace of winter trees fell across his skin and shirt. She looked down at the pattern, her hands wicking up his body to trace the branches. The rise and fall of his chest synchronized with the breaths that hushed past her ear.
Drawn in, watching the shadows wave and roll across him, she was hypnotized, her reverie broken by the bunching of fabric over Peter's forearms as they pushed his shirt up and over his head. She hadn't even noticed his hands leave her, but she followed them with her eyes as they stripped him. Peter didn't toss the shirt aside, but let it drop between them against her thighs instead. It was warm. She hadn't expected it to be so warm. There wasn't enough room between them for her to look down and see where it was nestled against her but her instinct was to try, and the tilt of her head touched her nose to his skin. His skin. So warm it made her nose feel cold. Her hands had been satellites around his body since his shirt had come off, and the jolt of contact sent them further into orbit, away from him.
"You know," Peter whispered gruffly into her temple, "der Punkt dieser Tat ist sich zu berühren."
She had time to wonder briefly where his hands were before they stung her, palms spreading over her hips. Half through her panties and half upon her skin, his heat was his acquiescence, his agreement. I'm with you. Olivia lifted her head.
His shirt had left his hair in odd static shocks, hazy and strange, and finally there was something on his face besides resistance. He looked intently at her, his eyes as heated as the rest of him. Grazing his shoulders with her hovering hands, Olivia saw him smile and shake his head.
"'Livia," he said, and she felt his hands on her hips tighten, his grip pulling her hard toward himas he leaned into her. Their hips were flush first, the firm contact chasing up their bellies, and when Olivia finally pressed her hands against the skin of his back it was only her t-shirt that separated them. The pressure was delicious. She arched her back slightly, asking his hand to the small of her back. He obeyed without thought, pinning her against him as her spine curled, her head falling back just enough for him to kiss her open neck.
Involuntarily her body leapt, her collarbones rising to defend her skin from the grind and burn of his rough cheeks and the equal sting of his startlingly igneous lips. He held her still, sternum to sternum, his accelerating heartbeat outpaced — but just barely — by hers. His lips swept her throat, pausing in places to apply his incisors, eliciting sounds like half-naked words.
Her legs had slipped against his, their knees abutting, her slight thighs pressing into his through his jeans. She dropped a hand to his hip and grated her nails along the denim. The heavily textured sensation carried to his bones, and he sighed darkly against her jaw. She took care that he received her shaky breath in return, spilling it down his back and standing the hair on the nape of his neck on end. His response was to redouble his efforts, bringing his fingers to run trails over her ears and lips and down her neck to the collar of her shirt.
His breathing was changing, expanding and pushing him more aggressively into her, controlling her diaphragm and shortening her own breaths. It dizzied her, put lights in her eyes and made her feel ethereally loose of limb, easy and graceful. She reached with her teeth for the pink edges of his ear, nipping and licking, feeling the muscles in his jaw moving with his ministrations to her.
Peter hit a sweet spot on the top of her shoulder and she let her body fall back against his arm, pushing her breasts up tightly against the cotton stretch of her tee. She wanted him to see she was more than suits and nervous casework. She was more than the friend asleep in his car. She wanted him like he wanted her, right down to the - "Oh," she gasped, the syllable melting into a deep and heartfelt sound as his palm rubbed over her breast. Her eyes flickered closed and when she opened them again he was holding that hand at the back of her neck, allowing her backward lean to provide the momentum and letting her body descend into the field of blankets.
She watched his face as he spilled her onto her own bed. For all his initial hesitation, he was purposeful, directed and intent. As she snuggled back into her comforter, he slipped his hands from beneath her. She crossed her arms over her stomach, watching. Waiting. The room was still so dark - which made things easier in a way - but he was blue and pale and it was like being with his ghost. The thought made her sad in a way she couldn't explain, and so she reached for her bedside lamp and turned it on.
Peter had sidled off the bed, taking off his pants and socks. He looked up when the light clicked on, raising his eyebrows. He hesitated with his boxers, a brown, soft-looking pair, and looked apologetically up at her.
"We'll get to these," he said, smiling, and she smiled back more broadly than his comment warranted. He left his clothes in a pile on her floor and came toward her. "Now, let's be equitable," he said, his palms held out to his sides as he eyed her shirt. Olivia rolled her eyes, smiling wider, and felt only a hint of the nervousness that she thought would have consumed her in this situation. The heaviness of his mood had lifted though she couldn't tell why, and he was looking at her in a way that made her feel like he'd been honest when he said he didn't care that she didn't say...
He approached her soundlessly until he leaned into her bed, the springs creaking gently like night frogs. He leaned over her, looking into her, and she saw his deep eyes and strong shoulders and the smile dropped quietly from her face. His little mouth curled up with benevolence and his lithe neck curved down toward her, extended and open and graceful. When he spoke, she thought she could see the words come up from inside him.
"I love you," he said again, but this time his voice was clear and modulated, neither lost nor apprehensive. On the other hand, there was a green flicker as Olivia looked away. Peter, don't. Peter, we're so close.
Peter reached for her and brought her back with a gentle touch to her temple. "That wasn't a question. I'm not waiting for an answer." He took her hand in his and was flooded unexpectedly with a memory of her on a table in the lab, Walter imploring, 'Help her, son.' While he'd hesitated, he'd known his father was right and that even against his expectations Olivia would grip his palm and refocus. He'd just known, like he knew her now.
It had thrown him when she hadn't responded the first time, because he'd known it was in her to say. It had shaken his trust in himself, in what he knew and how he'd read her. But he'd taken his own hand in that way and forced himself to look past his fear of being wrong at the way she was responding. Her flush, her shining eyes, the spikes of her eyelashes that slicked together. Her body rising against him, trying to show him the things about herself she couldn't say. Her nervous swallows, the stress pinch of her eyebrows, the regretful twist of her lips as she looked away from him.
A pianist, he could read her as if she herself were sitting on the bench, her hands on the keys. She was playing to him, her high notes singing and her low notes vibrating endlessly into the air. She was reaching him, and he was proud of himself for seeing it. Whatever her reasons for not speaking, he was confident that he was not one.
"Just...keep it in mind," he said, a half-smile appearing momentarily for her, and then he lowered his eyes to her body. His hand slid from her cheek to her arm, rubbing the terminal fold of her shirt. He was calm although his heart was racing, his excitement tempered by his delight. "I'm going to take this off now."