How was that for making a person feel uncomfortable? Peter wanted to look at him. Was this seriously happening?
This was too much. Just too much. Almost laughable. But not quite.
The hot chocolate feeling continued on mercilessly, pouring over Davy in a torrent, drenching him. He was drowning in it. Even worse, it tasted good, much to his mortification, and he was losing his composure. Worst of all, the tingling was at it again. It hadn't, in fact, ever stopped.
"You haven't answered me," Peter's big doe eyes explored Davy's face.
"Bloody hell, Pete. How can I tell you no? You'll do it anyway."
Peter took this as a positive sign and clasped onto it before Davy could take it back. He put it to immediate use. His eyes traveled all over the smaller man's upper body. His face, hair, chest, shoulders and stomach. As if he were relishing every moment of the freedom that had been denied him for way too long.
As if his eyes were his hands.
Christ, but Davy felt as if he were on display. And the tingling was getting worse all the time. He came up empty handed when he tried to think of something clever to say to tone down Peter's intensity. The heat was building so fast that the room was about to explode. Wasn't he feeling cold not that long ago?
"Is it massively hot in here?" asked Davy, although he wasn't making a joke. He really did wonder if it was hot because he, himself, seemed to be burning up.
"It's October. So I don't think it's really hot. It's your imagination. It's about fifty-five out there on the beach."
Terrific. Now Peter had made him feel all kinds of stupid. And he wondered if Peter had caught on as to why he was so hot. He hoped to God he hadn't.
Davy got up to put the pizza box in the trash, just to have something to do. Peter got up too, and helped to bend it so it would fit into the trash can.
"I really don't need help with this, ya know," Davy's voice was slightly edgy. He felt strange with Peter's eyes still glued to him. Exploited or something. "And you don't need to stand so bloody close to me either," he added. A trace of annoyance now escaped his lips. Peter was actually touching him, pressing against him, and it was completely unnecessary. Normally it wouldn't bother him, but in this situation . . .
"You gonna move away?" Davy demanded coarsely, as he was practically pinned up against the wall.
"Nope," said Peter, flippantly, throwing in a wise-ass look. "Don't wanna."
Davy stifled a giggle. Peter had a good sense of humor, and his flirting was hard to disregard. He was brave too, knowing Davy could have quite the temper. Davy stole a sideways glance at him just in time to see a flicker in those hazel eyes of, what? Mischief? So Peter was having fun with this.
Davy thrust the half-folded pizza box into Peter's hands, and flounced back into the living room, flopping down on the couch, feeling like he'd better resign himself to this, because they had at least five more hours of it, and Peter was like a hound dog hot on the rabbit's trail.
A feeling came over Davy just then that disconcerted and flummoxed him. A kind of intensity clung to him, but where it was coming from, he had no idea. He looked over his shoulder at Peter, and Peter's steady gaze had not wavered. He was still at it! When would he forget, or get distracted, and stop hounding Davy with those sweet eyes that were currently almost the color of honey? Not anytime soon.
Peter's eyes had captured Davy's securely, and all of a sudden, there was no getting away. The stare went on and on. It was amazing what a stare could do. It was so extreme that Davy had to remind himself to keep breathing. Their eyes still held several minutes later, when Peter began to walk toward Davy. Davy shifted nervously on the couch.
This is not going to end well unless I take action.
But Davy didn't take action, simply because he couldn't. Peter had him entranced, and he sensed there was no way of avoiding it. He couldn't bolt, because he doubted he could make his legs move.
Oh fuck. He's approaching.
Well, he'd given Peter permission to stare, so there was no way to rebuff it. Peter's eyes were so penetrating, so fixed on Davy that it seemed that it was his life's purpose. Davy's breath was shallow and weak as Peter finally reached him. Neither of them looked away, and Davy didn't stir as Peter sat beside him.
Then Peter's hand lifted toward Davy's face, and time was suspended until at last his finger touched Davy's bottom lip. Davy was jarred, but didn't give Peter the satisfaction of pulling away.
"Why ya doing that?" he asked.
Davy had given Peter permission to stare, but not to touch.
"I've always wanted to. I see those plump, luscious lips every day, and I've wondered if they were as soft as they look . . . and they are." Peter's voice had that caressing quality again. Smooth and silky. Davy began to tingle again, it having abated only briefly when he'd returned to the couch; but this time it had returned even stronger. It was truly overpowering.
He felt drugged by Peter's nearness, listening to him breathe, allowing Peter's finger to play with his lower lip, and the fact that he wasn't fighting it made it somehow even more exciting. He almost liked this helpless feeling, and that couldn't be good. Sensory overload caused by Peter—his impossibly shiny blond hair and how it contrasted against his black sweater, Peter's uncharacteristic aggression and the suave way he conducted himself was awe-inspiring. This behavior was unheard of in Peter.
What did Peter have planned? Davy shivered and winced a little because he didn't know how to stop it. The vibration of his own trembling, that was. Not what Peter was doing. He could stop that very easily. But the alarming aspect about it was that he didn't want to.
In fact, he didn't want to analyze anymore—he just wanted to feel. So he went on allowing Peter to trace both of his lips now, with a single finger. Peter's head had moved in closer too. Now there was barely a foot between their faces.
A really big shock for Davy was when his cock started to stir. Oh no, not that! But, he'd promised himself there would be no more analyzing, no worrying, just feeling.
"Can I get in a little closer?" Peter's voice bobbled a little bit. His cheeks were streaked with a dark pink blush.
Davy knew what Peter meant. What this whole scenario meant. If you had half a brain, you'd have no trouble putting the pieces of the very obvious puzzle together. Peter wanted to snuggle, cuddle, or even worse, kiss him. Davy had put that notion aside for last in his consideration. It was too much for him to digest.
At the same time though, Davy grudgingly had to admit to himself that he was kind of craving it. All this attention from Peter. He was also curious, and had to remind himself that this was the kind of thing that killed the cat. He was up for just about any adventure, but this one?
Keep your cool, go with the flow. Slow your roll.
He tried to amuse and distract himself with these anecdotes, but he couldn't sidetrack himself from the bewilderment, or more precisely, the horror of Peter's actions. He was about to admonish himself silently again about not analyzing this when Peter leaned closer, his finger still on Davy's lower lip, and lightly kissed him squarely on the mouth.
It happened so quickly. Peter gave him no time to fight, straightening up again immediately and fixing him with a "who, me?" look.
"Sorry. I had to. I had to see what they'd feel like . . . on my own lips. I've been tantalized by them for like a million forevers . . . "
Davy was incapable of saying a single word. Only Peter would have been able to get away with that. Only Peter, out of all the guys in the world. Davy just sat there, frozen in time, afraid to move, afraid that this would be reality, and not a dream. A pleasant dream, to be sure, but not, by a long shot, like any other dream he'd ever had.
Peter tried to go in for kiss number two, and Davy dodged him. "Quite enough, Mate," he said a bit harshly, trying to give the impression that he wasn't extremely rattled, just a little irked. He didn't want Peter to know how much he'd gotten to him.
It didn't work. Peter pulled Davy's head into his chest and held it there, kissing and nuzzling his temple. Davy didn't have the strength to fight. It felt too exquisite. He breathed Peter in deeply. His clean, soapy smell from a recent shower, mixed with his own slight natural man musk. Davy was intoxicated, and it shocked him deeply. But, an echo of his earlier thoughts reminded him again that he didn't want to think or analyze anymore. He just wanted to feel. He needed to live up to that. Why, he had no idea.
Peter leaned back slightly on the couch, drawing Davy with him. Davy shifted, hoping Peter would think he was trying to get comfortable. Truth was, Davy was snuggling in closer.
"You're diggin' it, aren't you?" asked Peter in a voice that was raised only slightly above a whisper.
"No, man! I'm a lady killer," and Davy giggled slightly, nervously.
"Not at the moment. I'm reaping the benefits of having you alone," Peter hazarded to say, even though he was afraid he'd sputter out the wrong thing and turn Davy completely off. "You reap what you sow."
"What do you mean by that?" asked Davy.
"I've been nurturing our relationship for a long time. I want the seed to grow into a plant."
Davy sighed, understanding perfectly well what Peter was getting at.
Peter was stroking Davy's ego, which Davy was a sucker for, but what he liked even more was how Peter was taking charge.
Wasn't happening though, Davy thought to himself. Peter could like him all he wanted, but Davy had to take a stand. He was not queer.
"Why wouldn't you let me shell out the bread for the pizza tonight?" Peter decided changing the subject about now might be smart.
"You'd already paid for Mike and Micky to go to dinner and the movies."
"You're a gas, David. I like you all the time; sober, or even blitzed on booze or stoned. And . . . you're fine as wine. Let's just sit here, be laid back."
Davy was thrown off a little at Peter's complimentary words, but content to do just as Peter suggested. No one in the world was as relaxing to be with as Peter. He had to admit that.
"Do you want to rap, or just chill?" asked Davy.
"Doesn't matter to me. I figure you'd split by now if you didn't like this."
"I . . . I guess I need to get my chickens in a line," said Davy.
"What?"
"My chickens in a line."
Peter looked perplexed. "Oh, you mean, your ducks in a row?"
"Yeah, whatever. I need to be responsible, and this isn't exactly that."
"Like I said, slow your roll and mellow out."
That was hard to argue with. And who wanted to argue anyway? Arguing with himself was pointless, as he got nowhere with the "I'm not queer" as opposed to "just feel." And Peter was so solid and supportive that arguing with him was really impervious. Someone who is so peace –loving rarely has the inclination to squabble. Davy urged himself to unwind against Peter's chest. Maybe he'd come to terms with it, and be able to think clearly again.
When he mistakenly allowed his gaze to wander up to try to unravel his thoughts while attempting to probe Peter's own thoughts by studying Peter's face, the blond's eyes pinned his.
"It's a drag," murmured Peter.
"What is?"
"The fact that you're trying to reach inside my mind, when all you have to do is ask me. And don't play dumb. It's not becoming to you, because you're uncommonly sharp."
Well, it seemed Peter had just unveiled all his reflections in one sentence.
"What do you want, Peter?" Davy just blurted it out because he was having a skirmish with his own unsettling thoughts.
"To kiss you . . . just . . . kiss you."
"You already tried that stunt."
"No . . . a real kiss, not a peck," Peter reprimanded him with an edge to his voice that was a little sharper than a butter knife. Not enough to cut, but enough to get Davy's attention.
"Why?" Davy was stalling, because he already knew the reason why. Peter fancied him, obviously.
"Because I want to. And you want it too." Now Peter had crossed the line. Davy hadn't admitted to anything—not yet. And now he wasn't at all sure he ever would, after Peter had said that. Peter was making assumptions, and Davy resented that hotly. His opinions were his own, and he didn't allow anyone to presume anything about him. And surely not a suddenly overconfident Peter who seemed to think he was entitled. Entitled to do Davy's thinking for him.
"Rubbish! Sod off! Don't fucking tell me what I want!"
Peter didn't react. Smooth seduction made his eyelids heavy looking to Davy. And yes, he was seducing Davy. And openly, too. Not even being sneaky. As Davy tried to push off Peter to sit upright again, Peter repeated his name over and over, in a serene, borderline steamy way that had Davy nestling back into his chest in no time, feeling very fickle all the while.
Nobody could do that. No one but Peter. Davy's desire to liberate himself of Peter was rapidly evaporating. He refused to admit it to Peter, but Peter had spoken the truth.
So, trapped in Peter's arms, albeit not fighting it a bit, Davy reluctantly and cautiously enjoyed Peter's clingy neediness. It wasn't an undesirable neediness, it just spoke of commitment on Peter's part. A commitment that the blond had apparently adopted some time ago. Sometimes it was a very good thing to be such an honest, straightforward person. And other times it could get you into very hot water. Peter was fortunate Davy wasn't inclined to punch him in the nose. Because most guys would have long before now.
Davy shot an imploring look up at Peter again, who was just sitting there, gazing down at him, his hair falling over his eyes, which were full of sultry lust, and he looked like a fucking wet dream.
Oh God.
So he'd been denying it. For all this time. His breathing was becoming choppy, and Peter's had been for some time already. It would be gross to kiss Peter, or any man. Davy knew that instinctively. Yet, why was he allowing Peter to slide his fingertips over his jaw and neck? There must be some perfectly feasible explanation. Trouble was, reason was deserting Davy.
He wanted to find out. Yeah, he needed to find out if kissing Peter would be gross. Otherwise, he would never know . . .
Peter must have sensed Davy's ambivalence, because he selected just that moment to lift Davy's chin with a gentle hand under his jaw, tilting Davy's head up just enough to softly kiss his lips again. Davy didn't encourage him; in fact, he withdrew a fraction of a second before Peter had a chance to end it on a positive note.
It was pleasant, but was it pleasant enough? Davy didn't want to get any deeper into this thing if he was going to get painfully turned off. At this point though, it didn't seem within the realm of possibility. Peter's approach had been calculated and precise. He'd known just what Davy needed. No pressure, just a subtle coaxing.
The next time Peter kissed him, Davy allowed his lips to linger just a bit before recoiling. Peter realized he was making headway, although very slowly. He hoped for a breakthrough, but gave himself a dressing down in the same breath not to count his chickens. This reminded him of Davy's "chickens in a line," and he laughed before he could stop himself.
"Whatcha laughin' at?" Davy sounded on the perturbed side. Like he might be insulted.
"Nothing to do with this," Peter hoped Davy wouldn't ask him to enlarge on it, because it was more than likely to kill the mood.
Peter had a way of stalking him that was quite disconcerting. He did it without moving a muscle. All he had to do was snag Davy's eyes with his own, and Davy was a goner. Davy knew this by now, and cleverly sidestepped Peter's attempts to delve into his soul with those devilish hazel orbs.
Davy was no good at feigning indifference, and Peter could not be dissuaded, so it was only a matter of time before Peter began to advance again without Davy's conscious knowledge. He was so damn gradual. His hand rested on Davy's back, in the small space where his shirt had ridden up above his belt when Peter had pulled him close.
Peter's hand didn't move—it just rested there, on Davy's bare flesh, but Davy was hyper aware of it. So much so that he didn't make any changes in his position for fear of losing that contact. Peter's hand was large, warm, and comforting. And yeah, stimulating.
Davy berated himself for being so weak. He'd always been a pushover for intimacy, although never with another guy, to be sure. Peter's hand was now starting to explore, although in a very illusive way. His fingertips cruising casually, they traveled under Davy's shirt and a short way up his back, then back down his side, returning to the strip of skin where he had begun. His callused fingers skating over Davy's flesh had an unusual effect on Davy. Astonished, Davy became conscious of the fact that Peter's rough fingers felt just as nice as a girl's soft, silky fingers. Just as sensual, just as intimate, but in a deliciously different way.
The blood was rushing in Davy's ears as Peter's fingers began a new expedition, this time slithering over to his belly and up toward his chest. Davy could foretell the future without much trouble. He was going to get turned on. No . . . not quite right. He was turned on.
"Um . . ." Davy half choked, half cleared his throat. "Let me go, Pete."
"Why? Does it feel good?" Peter was always so maddeningly upfront that Davy wanted to shake him. He wasn't letting go of him either.
"Motherfucker!" Davy exclaimed, exasperated, mad as a hornet at himself for allowing this, and getting frighteningly horny. He shoved off Peter's chest and wrenched free. A trace of a smile ghosted the corners of Davy's lips as he retreated, and it didn't get past Peter. It was all Peter needed. If he could just play his cards right . . .