Don't Look Back (12 page)

And Peter had been stupid enough to let him go. To choose Cole and all his hang-ups and problems. Why? Habit? Loyalty? Or something more complicated? The fear that maybe Mike was trying to manipulate him too? But it sounded like Mike had had right on his side. That Peter had been the unfair one—even if he'd acted out of loyalty and friendship to Cole. Expecting a man like Mike to sit home patiently while Peter ran off to hold Cole's hand every time Cole had a crisis? No wonder Mike had told him to figure it out or get lost.

Peter had managed to get very lost indeed. That was obvious. He groaned against Mike's mouth, and Mike broke the kiss to eye him watchfully. “If this isn't what you want, you better make it clear now."

"I'm thinking of the time we lost,” Peter said, his mouth tingling from the assault of Mike's. “I'm thinking of what a goddamned fool I was."

"Yeah, well if you'd stuck with me, you wouldn't be in the mess you're in now, that's for sure."

"I'm depressed enough, okay? No need to put the put the boot in."

"No.” Mike's grimace was rueful. “You know, if I'd known you were ... If I'd known about the antidepressants ... I don't know. It never occurred to me you had any regrets."

"I thought I'd blown it. That you wouldn't—"

"My bark is worse than my bite."

"Yeah?"

"Well, no.” Mike's grin was lopsided.

Peter banged his mouth onto Mike's again in a kiss both urgent and deep. His hands went to the buttons of Mike's collar, and he began undoing them as quickly as he could. Mike grabbed Peter's sweatshirt and tugged upward. Peter took over, wriggling out of it as Mike finished unbuttoning his own shirt, hands dropping to his belt buckle. The rest of their clothes went flying in a matter of seconds, and then they were sliding to a heap on the floor, hands slipping over each other's bodies, kissing once more.

The coffee table rattled as Peter bumped into it, and Mike reached out blindly, shoving it away. Peter's dreams and memories were colliding as they rolled together in a tangle of legs and arms. Mike's heart was thundering against his own chest, and he was acutely aware of the smoothness of bare skin and the crackle of soft hair, the hardness of muscles and bone—and the hardness that was neither.

"Oh my God, I want to fuck,” Peter moaned.

Mike stopped kissing him and laughed.

Peter opened his eyes. “Why are you laughing at me? What's funny about that?"

"You. You were always so prim and proper. I practically had to seduce you every time.” Mike asked huskily, “Have you been with anyone since me?"

Peter shook his head. “I don't think ... No. I'm sure I haven't."

"I have, but I'm clean."

Peter blinked at him, not following—trying not to mind about the fact that Mike had been, reasonably enough, still seeing people, still sleeping with people. It occurred to him what Mike meant and he blushed.

"Yeah. I want to. I want you to."

"You want
me
to—” Mike needed no second invitation. His hand was between Peter's thigh, and his mouth was latched onto one of Peter's nipples, and Peter was crying out and arching against him.

"Mike ... Oh
Christ...
"

Mike sucked and then bit gently down, and Peter gasped and grabbed for Mike's head, pulling it closer even as he was squirming at the intensity of pleasure. One of Mike's hands was on Peter's balls, squeezing them gently, teasingly. No wonder he'd been depressed. Giving up this? For
what?

When was the last time he'd had this?

No question. Mike had been the last time. Mike, who despite appearances to the contrary, was tender and coaxing and sweet, who seduced with fingers and tongue and soft words till Peter—despite the aches and pains of his fight with the midnight intruder—was feverish and panting and aching for more—and then more.

And then all at once he was on his own, his body chilled by the sudden retreat.

"Where'd you go?” Peter lifted his head, and Mike was crossing the floor in three big steps from the bedroom and throwing himself down on top of Peter again.

"Right here. We need this.” He held up the tube of lubricant, and Peter shuddered with anticipation, letting his head drop back against the carpet.

"God. Yes. Do it."

The gel was cool, startling but not unpleasant. Mike's fingers slid along Peter's crack, stroking, and Peter swallowed hard.

"Relax. I've never hurt you yet,” Mike whispered. His eyes seemed to watch every quiver of Peter's face as he slipped inside Peter's body.

How strange, Peter thought dreamily, even as his body moved to accommodate that invasion. Detective Mike Griffin's finger is in my hole. Mike Griffin is thrusting his big, fat finger in and out of my ass, and I'm lying here cooing at how good it feels.

"You like that?” There was a smile in Mike's voice.

Peter smiled too, although he didn't open his eyes, just focused on the sensation of Mike's finger pushing into him, drawing out, sliding back in. “Oh yes."

"
Oh yes
!” Mike mimicked, but there was something indulgent in his tone. He slid another finger in, taking his time, petting and stroking, and Peter wriggled, trying to feel that touch more deeply, more intensely.

"I think you should ... I think I'd like..."

"That's what I like about you, Professor Peabody. Your way with words."

Peter's eyes opened. “Don't call me that. Don't make fun of me."

He was astonished when Mike's face changed. “I'm not making fun of you. At least ... not like that. You're just ... funny. Sort of cute."

"
Cute
?"

"In an uptight, buttoned-down way, yeah.” He rubbed his nose against Peter's. “Very. I like you. I told you that. I like you a lot."

Peter relaxed again under these ministrations, and then Mike was urging him up. “Here. You ride me. It'll be easier on all those bumps and bruises.” They were trading places on the floor, Peter awkwardly straddling Mike's hips. He was definitely feeling the battering he had taken earlier, but it didn't matter.

He felt for Mike's erection, pressing the head of his cock against his own well-oiled hole. He lowered himself down, and he could feel Mike shaking a little with the effort of holding still. Mike's thick cock scraped its way in, a welcome burn, and then Mike's hips pushed up and he could feel the softness of that silky body hair against his ass.

"Sorry. Okay?” Mike managed.

Peter nodded. Too full for words, he thought giddily.

And Mike did fill him. That thick, long cock stretched and stuffed him so that he was trembling, working to relax and accept and allow the intimacy. Mike slammed right up into his body, hard thrusts penetrating deeply, then withdrawing, to shove inside again, stroking over the place that made Peter gasp each time at the blaze of pleasure.

"I like watching your face when I fuck you,” Mike grated, rocking his hips.

Peter laughed shakily against the burn behind his eyes, because he was thinking the same thing. Mike's face was wonderful to watch. He hoped that this was the beginning of something and not the end...

Pressure built inside him, and the pulse in Mike's cock was echoed by his own heartbeat.

"I'm going to come...” Did they say it at the same time?

Peter came first. He hadn't even been looking for that yet. He'd just wanted the closeness, the sense of belonging ... but he was coming all right. The tension soared and then bloomed, like ginger or some more exotic spice rushing through his bloodstream.

And then he was shivering with it, wanted to curl up in the melting release of it and close his eyes.

Mike was still thrusting into him—fierce, deep strokes—and Peter could take it now, no problem. He watched Mike's taut face through half-closed eyes, never wanting to forget this ... homecoming.

Then Mike gasped something Peter missed, and the next second he was coming and Peter was feeling the shock of wet heat in his own body. Mike, chuckling unsteadily, tugged at him, and Peter was only too happy to collapse on top of Mike's brawny chest and close his eyes, feeling absurdly safe in the powerful arms holding him tight.

"Hell. I'm late."

Peter opened his eyes. It took him a few blinks to place himself. Oh, right. He was in Mike's bedroom—in Mike's bed. Mike was sitting on the edge of the mattress, his broad brown back to Peter as he pulled his wristwatch off and set it on the night table.

Peter reached a lazy hand to brush down Mike's back, but Mike rose and disappeared into the bathroom. Peter heard the shower running.

He didn't remember how they'd got from the living room to the bedroom, but he was glad he wasn't sleeping on the floor. He was in enough pain as it was. He sat up, biting back a yelp, and managed to pull on his pants. It was not a fun process.

He hobbled into the kitchen and put the coffee machine on.

He looked at the clock. Nearly eleven o'clock. He still felt groggy.

The shower cut off. He heard Mike leave the bathroom and go into the bedroom, heard the slide of closet doors.

Mike walked into the kitchen. He was wearing black trousers and nothing else. He was combing his wet hair, and he was the sexiest thing Peter had ever seen. He felt a little self-conscious suddenly. A little out of his league.

He was painfully aware that, unlike him, life had not stopped for Mike. Mike had moved on. And sex—even some relatively spectacular sex—didn't change that. Mike had plainly said that the door had not remained open.

"Coffee is nearly ready,” he said.

"I don't have time.” Mike continued to comb his hair. “What are your plans today?"

"I'm supposed to meet with my lawyer.” Peter's gut was knotting up at the recollection of everything hanging over him. Maybe Mike was right about Cole and Herschel, but in the meantime Peter was the one facing trial and jail time.

"Okay. Why don't you come back here afterward?"

Peter's heart rose a little. He managed not to ask,
Why?
because he wasn't sure he wanted to hear Mike say something about it being safer. He wanted to think Mike wanted him for the pleasure of his company.

"I need to pick up some things from the bungalow."

"All right.” Mike disappeared into the living room.

Slightly disappointed, Peter poured coffee.

When he turned around, Mike was right behind him, and he jumped.

Mike laughed. “Hey, I'm the good guy, remember? I'm on your side.” He was dressed completely now. Fast as Superman in the quick-change department. He handed Peter a key. “Here."

Peter took the key and put it into his pocket. “Thanks. Thanks for everything, in fact. For letting me stay here last night, and for—"

Mike kissed him, effectively shutting him up.

"You're welcome. Be good today."

And with that he was gone.

It was not a good day.

Late morning, Peter made his appearance in the overly air-conditioned offices of Stephenson and Crane. It was immediately obvious to him that Mr. Stephenson had suffered some kind of crisis of faith. Or maybe it was a crisis of confidence. Either way, it didn't look good for Peter.

After a few costly minutes of fencing, Mr. Stephenson bluntly informed him that the DA was pressing for the maximum penalty, which likely meant up to sixteen months in a state prison.

When Peter could speak again, he protested, “But I haven't been convicted. I haven't even gone to trial yet."

Mr. Stephenson didn't seem to hear this. Given the fact that Peter had no previous criminal record and that his employers had spoken up on his behalf, there was a possibility he would get off with the lighter sentence of one year in county jail. Provided...

"What?” Peter meant,
What in the hell are you talking about?
But Mr. Stephenson seemed to think he meant he needed more details on his plea bargain.

"Provided,” Mr. Stephenson said briskly, “you plead guilty, thus sparing everyone the expense and scandal of a trial."

"Provided I—are you joking?"

Mr. Stephenson's expression indicated he was not joking. “Hear me out. It's an
extremely
generous offer. The museum has indicated that they will waive your paying financial restitution, which you are clearly in no position to do."

"But I didn't steal the mural. I didn't steal anything!"

Clearly, all Mr. Stephenson's clients said that.

Peter said, “I don't understand why you're throwing in the towel. From what I understand, the main witness against me can't even come up with the incriminating videotapes."

Abruptly he seemed to have regained Mr. Stephenson's attention. “Where did you hear that?"

"From the police."

"Ah.” Mr. Stephenson was shuffling papers on his desk, as though getting them to all line up properly was of vital importance. “Well, that may be true, but it's also true the police believe they have an airtight case."

Not
all
the police, but that wasn't something Peter could share.

Watching Mr. Stephenson rearrange papers some more, Peter said, “Don't you find it suspicious that ‘the museum’ is waiving my paying financial restitution? We're talking a small fortune."

"A fortune you have no hope of repaying. I find it a gesture of rare compassion. Mr. Constantine, speaking on behalf of the rest of the board, testified as to your long friendship and the fact that you've been under considerable strain for a number of months. In fact, I believe he'd have been happy if we could have eliminated any jail time for you, but unfortunately the DA won't consider it."

Peter studied Mr. Stephenson, who seemed to be avoiding meeting his gaze directly.

"I see,” he said finally. “And you think taking this deal is in my best interests?"

"I do, yes.” Mr. Stephenson continued to stare at the papers on his desk.

"Thank you for your advice,” Peter said. “You can tell ‘the museum’ that you tried. However, I'm absolutely determined to take my chances in a courtroom."

Stephenson did look up then. “That's a mistake, Peter. Believe me, we do not want this case tried in open court."

That was obvious.

"I appreciate your advice,” Peter said, “but I'll be seeking new legal representation."