Unbeta'd.
Check out the blog for the pic prompt that helped shape this little bit.
http : / jessyptff . blogspot . com/2011/08/bits-and-pieces . html
… continued from chapter 2. Peter/Sam (SLASH)
Peter POV
I watched as a bead of sweat ran down the side of his face – temple to jaw – and the muscles in his neck pulsed as he rasped out the words of our song. No one knew it was for me except us, but it didn't matter. I knew. He knew. And that was enough for now.
I was mesmerized by the rocking of his hips and the way the muscles in his forearms bulged and flexed as his fingers hit chord after chord. I could spend hours watching him, listening to him. There was something so raw and unedited about him when he was in his element.
The way his long hair was pulled back but pieces stuck to his neck and face as his head and body moved to the music.
The way his hips pushed and pulled and the guitar bounced against him.
He was everything, and I had never felt more alive, more wanted, more… loved than this.
Over the last year we'd been together I had watched him open up to me, show me the man behind the cover image, and god if I didn't love him. With me he was just as unedited, unscripted as he was on the stage. Real. Except different.
"Tell me you want me, Peter," he said as his lips brushed against the curve of my jaw, the skin behind my ear.
I shivered. The intensity of his touch and his words almost to much.
"You know I do, baby." I half moaned, half gasped, "Please," as his teeth sank into the cordon of muscle connecting my shoulder and neck.
Our eyes met, and I knew. He fucking loved me. And even though the words never came, the way he slowly prepared me, one finger, then two and three, lovingly pressed and waited, agonizingly slow, until I could hardly breathe told me over an over again it was true.
Fingers on skin, nails biting, soothing.
My whispered words of love, adoration.
Lips tasting, nipping musky, salty skin.
"Gotta move," Sam grunted once he was fully seated inside me. I could barely breathe. I felt full. So full.
"Yes," I gasped in invitation and acceptance.
In and out he moved, slow, preparing, then fast, needy.
Grunts and moans, gasps and begging words filled the air in a cacophony of need and want, lust and love.
Love. It was there. I could feel it with every push. Every pull.
Desperate.
"Harder, baby" I cried, needing him, knowing he was holding back. I was done with holding back. I was done with the barriers, and if this was the only way he could show me – I could help him show me – so be it.
"Touch yourself, Peter."
My fingers wrapped around my dick, furiously pumping as he frantically pounded into my ass. His movements were jagged, breath ragged, as he gritted, "so close."
"Me too," I managed, barely able to get the words out. I was overcome with sensation. Every thrust of his hips, every slap of his skin, every jerk of my hand was like another twist, another bit of the coil tightening, turning deep inside my stomach.
Over and over he hit that spot, until with a final slip squeeze and slide of my hand I came, "Sam," repeating over and over on my lips. It was mind blowing. But different this time, because his eyes never left mine and all the emotions that had been bottled up inside me, inside him, for months poured as out as he succumbed to his own release, head falling back, neck extended, and my name jumbled on his lips.
He collapsed onto my chest, our bodies sticky from sweat and cum, both panting, sated.
Minutes, maybe hours later, he looked up at me, eyes warm, rich, chocolate brown. "I..." He stopped.
I could see his mind warring, desperate to say those words, but I knew he wasn't ready.
I put my fingers to his lips. "I know, love."
Relief, sadness, hope, love flashed in his eyes until he simply nodded and laid his head back on my chest.
I was jolted back into the moment when the drums pounded, the music blared, and his gravelly voice filled the air.
God, I love the way he sounds.
His eyes sought mine, locking and holding my gaze as he sang words of love, the true meaning understood only be me, by us.