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fan_flashworks2016-06-22 01:58 pm
china_shop) wrote in fan_flashworks2016-06-22 01:58 pm
Entry tags:
Whistle: White Collar: fic: Wished you were here
Title: Wished you were here
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: NC-17
Length: ~2800 words
Notes: Neal/Clinton, post-series PWP. A million thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mergatrude for beta. <3 <3 <3
Summary: Clinton goes to Paris to bring Neal home.
Caffrey’s Parisian apartment boasted a view of the Eiffel Tower. Clinton should have expected that, but he was still jetlagged and off-balance. It had been less than a week since he’d received a mysterious text from Peter asking him to come down to the docks, and they’d combed through the container full of evidence. So Clinton had arrived in France knowing there was a better than even chance Neal was alive, but he was still surprised his plan to track Mozzie’s cellphone number, as supplied by Elizabeth, paid off so quickly and led him right to Neal and the little guy.
They were sitting at an outdoor café, drinking red wine in the sun. The green glass of the open bottle glinted on the table between them, and Mozzie was gesticulating as he talked. Neal was bare-headed.
Clinton’s heart thumped, which was stupid: Neal had been dead for a year, and nothing had happened between them before that, because of the anklet. Whatever might have been was ancient history now. Except Neal’s eyes were widening at the sight of him, and Clinton could feel a flush creeping up his face.
Neal Caffrey, in the flesh. He looked exactly the same.
Clinton forgot his intention to read Neal the riot act for his stunt a year ago and all the damage it had done. Step two of the plan had been to force him to call Peter, but right now, all Clinton could manage was, “Caffrey.”
“Clinton Jones. It’s good to see you. You came alone?” asked Neal, looking past him.
“How did you find us?” asked Mozzie.
“I tracked your phone,” said Clinton, and to Neal, “Peter’s got a family now. He sent me to check up on you.”
“Oh la vache!” said Mozzie, throwing his hands in the air. “I’m a Trojan horse!”
Neal ignored Mozzie’s dismay and smirked at Clinton. “Proof of life, huh?”
He signaled to the waitress for a third wineglass, and Clinton pulled up a chair, frowning. “That’s cold, Caffrey. Do you have any idea what your death did to the team?”
All of them retreating into their guilt and grief, and even when they started pretending they were over it, the smiles had been fragile; none of them ever talked about what had happened. It had been a hell of a year.
“I did what I had to,” said Neal, but somehow within an hour, he managed to ditch Mozzie and maneuver Clinton back to his apartment, with its picture postcard view.
The intent was obvious, but Clinton held him off with one hand on his shoulder. “Does anyone ever say no to you?”
“You did, three years ago,” said Neal, referring to that one evening of whisky and philosophy. And while technically that was true, Clinton wanted to argue, if only to quash his own guilt. Or regret. He thought of himself as a good guy, but he hadn’t been fair to Neal, flirting like that but refusing to take it further, using the anklet as an excuse. It’d been a long time since he’d made space for anything in his life but work.
He met Neal’s eye, and Neal looked back, his gaze serious. “It wasn’t exactly a picnic at this end, either.”
“Tell me.” Clinton stepped away, slung his leather jacket over the back of a chair and went to get himself a glass of water, making himself at home and forcing Neal to engage beyond just bodies and nostalgia. If that was all he wanted, Clinton would pass; he didn’t need any more regrets in his life.
He opened the fridge in search of bottled water, but Neal said, “How about a real drink?” and took down some unopened single malt from a shelf above the microwave, along with two tumblers. He broke the seal and raised his eyebrows at Clinton.
“Sure.” Clinton put his water glass back where he’d found it, and followed when Neal edged sideways through the narrow double windows and out onto a tiny balcony. Neal sat on the tile, with his back against the wall and one foot wedged in the wrought-iron railing and poured two fingers into each tumbler. Clinton sat beside him and picked up the closest glass. “To second chances.”
He meant Neal coming back from the dead, or life after parole, but the look Neal sent him made it clear he had other second chances in mind.
Clinton clinked their glasses in a toast and took a sip, feeling it burn and spread, glowing into his chest. “Talk.”
Neal rolled his eyes. “Fine.” He drank a mouthful and leaned his head back against the wobbly old glass panes. “I didn’t have a plan for after I left. I couldn’t take much money without Peter or Moz noticing, I couldn’t contact anyone I knew, and I… I didn’t have my usual fallback options.”
“You weren’t stealing,” interpreted Clinton.
“I couldn’t risk drawing attention to myself,” said Neal. “The Panthers’ network spreads all over Europe.”
“Mm.” Clinton sipped his whisky.
Neal mirrored him, then sighed. “After spending three years putting people away for it, it felt hypocritical, all right? I found some work, here and there.” He dropped his foot from the railing to the tile and stared into his glass. “Did Peter really send you?”
“I volunteered.” They were so close, Clinton could feel the heat of Neal’s body through his shirt. “I volunteered to find you and bring you home. It’s up to you whether you make it permanent, but you owe a lot of people an End of the Anklet party: Peter, Diana, Elizabeth, June…”
Now Neal looked at him. “You?”
“You don’t owe me.” It was more complicated than that.
“But if I invited you…?” Neal asked, low and serious.
Clinton met those intense blue eyes and felt the connection in the pit of his stomach, making his pulse speed up and his lips part. He leaned in slowly, carefully, and kissed him.
Neal tasted of whisky, and he smelled faintly musky, making Clinton’s mouth water. Clinton’s lips were already warm from the alcohol, his head muzzy with travel, but despite all that, the connection was vivid and immediate. He stopped pretending he’d come to Neal’s apartment—hell, to France—for any other reason. That he hadn’t wanted this for years, the hot hunger of Neal’s kiss, the slide of Neal’s hand over his shoulder and chest, fingers burning through the thin cotton of his shirt.
Neal had been in exile, alone, and for all Clinton knew, this was simply a salve to that, but they’d talked, connected, and Clinton hadn’t had sex in longer than he cared to admit. He wanted Neal, and if this was all he could get—and all he could give—he’d live with it. He bit at Neal’s lip, and Neal made a sound low in his throat and moved to straddle him, all without breaking the kiss.
He must have put his glass down, but Clinton had forgotten about his, dropped it carelessly in his eagerness to get his hands on Neal’s body. The glass clinked and rolled, spilling the last of the whisky across the old tile, and was caught—barely—by the bottom of the railing. The sound made Neal lift his head. He reached to rescue the glass before it could plummet to the sidewalk, and set it safely next to the wall.
Then he reclaimed Clinton’s mouth without hesitation, and hooked his fingers over the neck of Clinton’s t-shirt, stretching it down. The balcony was as small as the back seat of a car, and the evening was warm and still. It was easy to forget the rest of the world, to believe in the privacy of distance and being several floors up. Clinton couldn’t really think past the reality of Neal in his lap, Neal’s hot strong thighs rocking against him with serious intent, Neal’s dark kisses laced with urgency, and the warm light of a foreign sunset behind his eyelids. Unable to resist, Clinton cupped Neal through his pants, and in response, Neal stopped kissing and pushed in harder, gasping.
A sharp whistle pierced the ragged sounds of their breathing. Clinton’s eyes flew open.
A young man in an apartment block across the street was watching from his open window, arms folded, head tilted. Behind him, a couple of young kids were curled in front of a television, but they were watching Neal and Clinton too and pointing.
Clinton blushed and held Neal off, the illusion of privacy dispelled; this wasn’t the place.
“Excusez nous. Désolé,” Neal called over his shoulder, probably not loud enough for the man to hear, but he seemed to get the message. He shrugged and turned away, gesturing to the kids.
“Come on.” Neal slipped through the open window, back into his apartment, with the grace of a cat burglar. Clinton passed him the glasses and whisky bottle and followed, clumsy with desire and embarrassment.
“We should draw the curtains.” The family could still see them here.
“We could do that,” said Neal. “Or—” He gestured to his bed in the corner, tucked behind a bookcase. “We’d be screened off, and it would be a shame to shut out the light.”
He had a point. The air was glowing rose gold from the sunset, filling the room with dust motes and magic. Neal looked like a movie star, even more than usual.
Clinton glanced at the bed.
“Okay?” Neal stepped closer without crowding him, his expression neutral as if he thought the interruption might have brought Clinton to his senses.
“Yeah.” Clinton stripped his shirt over his head, knowing the light was painting him too. “Come here.”
Neal had started unbuttoning his own shirt, baring himself, but he abandoned that and stepped close. “Say my name.”
“Neal.” Clinton kissed his jaw. “Neal Caffrey. White Collar hasn’t been the same without you.” He nipped down Neal’s neck, adding under his breath, “New York hasn’t been the same.”
Neal tensed, and for a second, Clinton thought he’d said too much, but then Neal dragged him up and kissed his mouth long and deep, their lips sliding together, tongues and teeth, and then pushed him toward the bed—only a few steps, the apartment was tiny. They stumbled down together, tangled and groping, still half-dressed.
“God.” Neal clutched at Clinton’s back. “Touch me.”
Clinton already had one hand on Neal’s ass, holding him close, and the other in his hair. “What do you want?”
Neal shook his head slowly, then leaned in and sucked at the angle of Clinton’s neck hard enough to leave a bruise but not long enough for it to really show. “Like that. Want you to mark me.”
He said it like a challenge, but Clinton didn’t have the strength of will to stop and find out what he was really asking. He tugged Neal’s shirt up and moved to fasten his mouth on Neal’s smooth, pale belly, giving him a hickey above his right hipbone.
Neal groaned and clutched at him, quaking, but Clinton didn’t need the encouragement. Whatever Neal meant by it, Clinton was claiming him. He sat back and met Neal’s eye as he reached for the waistband of Neal’s pants. “Okay?”
“Yeah, please.” Neal stuffed a pillow under his head and lay back, lifting up so Clinton could tug down his pants and helping with his briefs, leaving him naked and perfect. Clinton paused to appreciate the view, earning a wry smirk from Neal and a reciprocal inspection. And as Neal’s gaze slid from Clinton’s face, his mouth to his chest and lower, his eyes darkened, and he licked his lips.
Clinton suppressed a shiver. Neal wasn’t just the one who’d got away—he’d been presumed dead for a year. His memory had stung, shaded with the permanently lost chance of adventure and connection, maybe even love if the stars had aligned. Clinton didn’t know what he was to Neal, but he at least knew Neal wanted him.
“Say the word if you want me to stop.” Clinton ran his fingertips up Neal’s cock, thick and velvet hard, wrapped around it and slowly stroked its length, savoring the heat and weight of it while he bent and sucked another dark bruise onto Neal’s chest.
Neal shuddered and bent one leg so he could thrust shallowly into Clinton’s fist. “Seriously? Don’t stop!”
He was panting, warm and alive in Clinton’s hands, under his mouth, unguarded in a way he’d never been during his work release, utterly desirable… Abruptly, Clinton’s pants were too tight and he had to stop what he was doing so he could strip them off along with his shorts. The golden sunset light was fading, and Neal was half in shadow from the bookcase anyway, but his hair and face were burnished, and the crest of his shoulder, and Clinton kicked aside the last of his clothes and crawled up the bed to lie with him.
Neal welcomed Clinton with eager hands.
“More?” asked Clinton, dropping his voice into its lowest register. “Anywhere else you want me to suck?”
Neal breathed a ha!, but he bypassed the obvious, instead answering by tilting his chin up to expose the underside of his jaw. Clinton bent forward to nuzzle there, then fastened his mouth on the corner. This would be visible to everyone. This was public. Would Neal invent an explanation, or would he admit it outright—to Mozzie, to Peter and Elizabeth and Diana? Or was he planning to disappear again as soon as this was over?
Clinton closed his eyes and forced himself to stop thinking, to take this moment and enjoy it for what it was, and as he thought that, Neal reached between them and lined up their cocks, hitched his leg over Clinton’s thigh, and then they were rocking together wordlessly, on their sides, face to face, gathering momentum. It was good but indirect enough Clinton was in no danger of losing control, and that gave him a chance to savor the journey, to slide his tongue against Neal’s in a gasping kiss and squirm when Neal’s questing hands found a sensitive spot at the back of his thigh. Clinton grabbed Neal’s wrist to stop the tickling and pinned it by his head, rolling them so he was on top. Neal swore and bucked beneath him but made no serious move to free his hand or renegotiate their positions.
“Next time, I’m gon—uh, gonna suck you off,” he said against Clinton’s cheek.
Clinton sped up helplessly. “Next time, huh?”
“Mm.” Neal hooked his free hand up under Clinton’s arm and grabbed his shoulder, holding him in place while they writhed. “Time after that, you can fuck me—or vice versa. Whichever you want.”
He said it easily, but Clinton still got the feeling he meant it, that there was something serious going on here—unless that was wishful thinking on his part. Then Neal pushed up or angled differently or something, and all of a sudden Clinton tipped over from pleasure into need, his eyes falling shut, his body driving down of its own accord, rubbing against Neal’s sweat-damp skin, roughly chasing release.
Neal gasped something profane-sounding in French, his movements increasingly forceful, and then no doubt thanks to his con artist’s timing and mysterious sleight of hand, they were both coming at once into the hot space between their bodies, leaving Clinton stupidly elated and dirty in the best way.
He rocked a few more times for good measure, then rolled off Neal and lay beside him, panting and swiping at the come on his own belly. “Sounds like you’ve got it all planned out. Did you mean that?”
Neal shrugged, his eyes half-closed as he fingered the bruise on his jawline.
Clinton hoped he wasn’t regretting it or any of this, and covered by teasing. “So much for spontaneity.”
“I’m playing catch-up.” Neal turned onto his side, folding his arm under his head with a classic Caffrey air of innocence.
God, Clinton had missed that. But he kept a straight face. “Do I get any say in this plan?”
“That depends.” Neal regarded him thoughtfully.
The urge to kiss that smug composure off his face was strong. Clinton swallowed. “I’m going back to New York on Monday,” he said, because that was the plan, and if Neal wanted him to stick around, Clinton was at least going to make him work for it.
But Neal just shrugged. “I can be packed by then.”
For a private hysterical moment, Clinton wondered if he’d blacked out and missed a year of dating without his realizing it, but then Neal leaned in and kissed him, slow, rich and bewitching, and he decided that when an impossible second chance came along, it was only good sense to give it everything. So he did.
END
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: NC-17
Length: ~2800 words
Notes: Neal/Clinton, post-series PWP. A million thanks to
mergatrude for beta. <3 <3 <3Summary: Clinton goes to Paris to bring Neal home.
Caffrey’s Parisian apartment boasted a view of the Eiffel Tower. Clinton should have expected that, but he was still jetlagged and off-balance. It had been less than a week since he’d received a mysterious text from Peter asking him to come down to the docks, and they’d combed through the container full of evidence. So Clinton had arrived in France knowing there was a better than even chance Neal was alive, but he was still surprised his plan to track Mozzie’s cellphone number, as supplied by Elizabeth, paid off so quickly and led him right to Neal and the little guy.
They were sitting at an outdoor café, drinking red wine in the sun. The green glass of the open bottle glinted on the table between them, and Mozzie was gesticulating as he talked. Neal was bare-headed.
Clinton’s heart thumped, which was stupid: Neal had been dead for a year, and nothing had happened between them before that, because of the anklet. Whatever might have been was ancient history now. Except Neal’s eyes were widening at the sight of him, and Clinton could feel a flush creeping up his face.
Neal Caffrey, in the flesh. He looked exactly the same.
Clinton forgot his intention to read Neal the riot act for his stunt a year ago and all the damage it had done. Step two of the plan had been to force him to call Peter, but right now, all Clinton could manage was, “Caffrey.”
“Clinton Jones. It’s good to see you. You came alone?” asked Neal, looking past him.
“How did you find us?” asked Mozzie.
“I tracked your phone,” said Clinton, and to Neal, “Peter’s got a family now. He sent me to check up on you.”
“Oh la vache!” said Mozzie, throwing his hands in the air. “I’m a Trojan horse!”
Neal ignored Mozzie’s dismay and smirked at Clinton. “Proof of life, huh?”
He signaled to the waitress for a third wineglass, and Clinton pulled up a chair, frowning. “That’s cold, Caffrey. Do you have any idea what your death did to the team?”
All of them retreating into their guilt and grief, and even when they started pretending they were over it, the smiles had been fragile; none of them ever talked about what had happened. It had been a hell of a year.
“I did what I had to,” said Neal, but somehow within an hour, he managed to ditch Mozzie and maneuver Clinton back to his apartment, with its picture postcard view.
The intent was obvious, but Clinton held him off with one hand on his shoulder. “Does anyone ever say no to you?”
“You did, three years ago,” said Neal, referring to that one evening of whisky and philosophy. And while technically that was true, Clinton wanted to argue, if only to quash his own guilt. Or regret. He thought of himself as a good guy, but he hadn’t been fair to Neal, flirting like that but refusing to take it further, using the anklet as an excuse. It’d been a long time since he’d made space for anything in his life but work.
He met Neal’s eye, and Neal looked back, his gaze serious. “It wasn’t exactly a picnic at this end, either.”
“Tell me.” Clinton stepped away, slung his leather jacket over the back of a chair and went to get himself a glass of water, making himself at home and forcing Neal to engage beyond just bodies and nostalgia. If that was all he wanted, Clinton would pass; he didn’t need any more regrets in his life.
He opened the fridge in search of bottled water, but Neal said, “How about a real drink?” and took down some unopened single malt from a shelf above the microwave, along with two tumblers. He broke the seal and raised his eyebrows at Clinton.
“Sure.” Clinton put his water glass back where he’d found it, and followed when Neal edged sideways through the narrow double windows and out onto a tiny balcony. Neal sat on the tile, with his back against the wall and one foot wedged in the wrought-iron railing and poured two fingers into each tumbler. Clinton sat beside him and picked up the closest glass. “To second chances.”
He meant Neal coming back from the dead, or life after parole, but the look Neal sent him made it clear he had other second chances in mind.
Clinton clinked their glasses in a toast and took a sip, feeling it burn and spread, glowing into his chest. “Talk.”
Neal rolled his eyes. “Fine.” He drank a mouthful and leaned his head back against the wobbly old glass panes. “I didn’t have a plan for after I left. I couldn’t take much money without Peter or Moz noticing, I couldn’t contact anyone I knew, and I… I didn’t have my usual fallback options.”
“You weren’t stealing,” interpreted Clinton.
“I couldn’t risk drawing attention to myself,” said Neal. “The Panthers’ network spreads all over Europe.”
“Mm.” Clinton sipped his whisky.
Neal mirrored him, then sighed. “After spending three years putting people away for it, it felt hypocritical, all right? I found some work, here and there.” He dropped his foot from the railing to the tile and stared into his glass. “Did Peter really send you?”
“I volunteered.” They were so close, Clinton could feel the heat of Neal’s body through his shirt. “I volunteered to find you and bring you home. It’s up to you whether you make it permanent, but you owe a lot of people an End of the Anklet party: Peter, Diana, Elizabeth, June…”
Now Neal looked at him. “You?”
“You don’t owe me.” It was more complicated than that.
“But if I invited you…?” Neal asked, low and serious.
Clinton met those intense blue eyes and felt the connection in the pit of his stomach, making his pulse speed up and his lips part. He leaned in slowly, carefully, and kissed him.
Neal tasted of whisky, and he smelled faintly musky, making Clinton’s mouth water. Clinton’s lips were already warm from the alcohol, his head muzzy with travel, but despite all that, the connection was vivid and immediate. He stopped pretending he’d come to Neal’s apartment—hell, to France—for any other reason. That he hadn’t wanted this for years, the hot hunger of Neal’s kiss, the slide of Neal’s hand over his shoulder and chest, fingers burning through the thin cotton of his shirt.
Neal had been in exile, alone, and for all Clinton knew, this was simply a salve to that, but they’d talked, connected, and Clinton hadn’t had sex in longer than he cared to admit. He wanted Neal, and if this was all he could get—and all he could give—he’d live with it. He bit at Neal’s lip, and Neal made a sound low in his throat and moved to straddle him, all without breaking the kiss.
He must have put his glass down, but Clinton had forgotten about his, dropped it carelessly in his eagerness to get his hands on Neal’s body. The glass clinked and rolled, spilling the last of the whisky across the old tile, and was caught—barely—by the bottom of the railing. The sound made Neal lift his head. He reached to rescue the glass before it could plummet to the sidewalk, and set it safely next to the wall.
Then he reclaimed Clinton’s mouth without hesitation, and hooked his fingers over the neck of Clinton’s t-shirt, stretching it down. The balcony was as small as the back seat of a car, and the evening was warm and still. It was easy to forget the rest of the world, to believe in the privacy of distance and being several floors up. Clinton couldn’t really think past the reality of Neal in his lap, Neal’s hot strong thighs rocking against him with serious intent, Neal’s dark kisses laced with urgency, and the warm light of a foreign sunset behind his eyelids. Unable to resist, Clinton cupped Neal through his pants, and in response, Neal stopped kissing and pushed in harder, gasping.
A sharp whistle pierced the ragged sounds of their breathing. Clinton’s eyes flew open.
A young man in an apartment block across the street was watching from his open window, arms folded, head tilted. Behind him, a couple of young kids were curled in front of a television, but they were watching Neal and Clinton too and pointing.
Clinton blushed and held Neal off, the illusion of privacy dispelled; this wasn’t the place.
“Excusez nous. Désolé,” Neal called over his shoulder, probably not loud enough for the man to hear, but he seemed to get the message. He shrugged and turned away, gesturing to the kids.
“Come on.” Neal slipped through the open window, back into his apartment, with the grace of a cat burglar. Clinton passed him the glasses and whisky bottle and followed, clumsy with desire and embarrassment.
“We should draw the curtains.” The family could still see them here.
“We could do that,” said Neal. “Or—” He gestured to his bed in the corner, tucked behind a bookcase. “We’d be screened off, and it would be a shame to shut out the light.”
He had a point. The air was glowing rose gold from the sunset, filling the room with dust motes and magic. Neal looked like a movie star, even more than usual.
Clinton glanced at the bed.
“Okay?” Neal stepped closer without crowding him, his expression neutral as if he thought the interruption might have brought Clinton to his senses.
“Yeah.” Clinton stripped his shirt over his head, knowing the light was painting him too. “Come here.”
Neal had started unbuttoning his own shirt, baring himself, but he abandoned that and stepped close. “Say my name.”
“Neal.” Clinton kissed his jaw. “Neal Caffrey. White Collar hasn’t been the same without you.” He nipped down Neal’s neck, adding under his breath, “New York hasn’t been the same.”
Neal tensed, and for a second, Clinton thought he’d said too much, but then Neal dragged him up and kissed his mouth long and deep, their lips sliding together, tongues and teeth, and then pushed him toward the bed—only a few steps, the apartment was tiny. They stumbled down together, tangled and groping, still half-dressed.
“God.” Neal clutched at Clinton’s back. “Touch me.”
Clinton already had one hand on Neal’s ass, holding him close, and the other in his hair. “What do you want?”
Neal shook his head slowly, then leaned in and sucked at the angle of Clinton’s neck hard enough to leave a bruise but not long enough for it to really show. “Like that. Want you to mark me.”
He said it like a challenge, but Clinton didn’t have the strength of will to stop and find out what he was really asking. He tugged Neal’s shirt up and moved to fasten his mouth on Neal’s smooth, pale belly, giving him a hickey above his right hipbone.
Neal groaned and clutched at him, quaking, but Clinton didn’t need the encouragement. Whatever Neal meant by it, Clinton was claiming him. He sat back and met Neal’s eye as he reached for the waistband of Neal’s pants. “Okay?”
“Yeah, please.” Neal stuffed a pillow under his head and lay back, lifting up so Clinton could tug down his pants and helping with his briefs, leaving him naked and perfect. Clinton paused to appreciate the view, earning a wry smirk from Neal and a reciprocal inspection. And as Neal’s gaze slid from Clinton’s face, his mouth to his chest and lower, his eyes darkened, and he licked his lips.
Clinton suppressed a shiver. Neal wasn’t just the one who’d got away—he’d been presumed dead for a year. His memory had stung, shaded with the permanently lost chance of adventure and connection, maybe even love if the stars had aligned. Clinton didn’t know what he was to Neal, but he at least knew Neal wanted him.
“Say the word if you want me to stop.” Clinton ran his fingertips up Neal’s cock, thick and velvet hard, wrapped around it and slowly stroked its length, savoring the heat and weight of it while he bent and sucked another dark bruise onto Neal’s chest.
Neal shuddered and bent one leg so he could thrust shallowly into Clinton’s fist. “Seriously? Don’t stop!”
He was panting, warm and alive in Clinton’s hands, under his mouth, unguarded in a way he’d never been during his work release, utterly desirable… Abruptly, Clinton’s pants were too tight and he had to stop what he was doing so he could strip them off along with his shorts. The golden sunset light was fading, and Neal was half in shadow from the bookcase anyway, but his hair and face were burnished, and the crest of his shoulder, and Clinton kicked aside the last of his clothes and crawled up the bed to lie with him.
Neal welcomed Clinton with eager hands.
“More?” asked Clinton, dropping his voice into its lowest register. “Anywhere else you want me to suck?”
Neal breathed a ha!, but he bypassed the obvious, instead answering by tilting his chin up to expose the underside of his jaw. Clinton bent forward to nuzzle there, then fastened his mouth on the corner. This would be visible to everyone. This was public. Would Neal invent an explanation, or would he admit it outright—to Mozzie, to Peter and Elizabeth and Diana? Or was he planning to disappear again as soon as this was over?
Clinton closed his eyes and forced himself to stop thinking, to take this moment and enjoy it for what it was, and as he thought that, Neal reached between them and lined up their cocks, hitched his leg over Clinton’s thigh, and then they were rocking together wordlessly, on their sides, face to face, gathering momentum. It was good but indirect enough Clinton was in no danger of losing control, and that gave him a chance to savor the journey, to slide his tongue against Neal’s in a gasping kiss and squirm when Neal’s questing hands found a sensitive spot at the back of his thigh. Clinton grabbed Neal’s wrist to stop the tickling and pinned it by his head, rolling them so he was on top. Neal swore and bucked beneath him but made no serious move to free his hand or renegotiate their positions.
“Next time, I’m gon—uh, gonna suck you off,” he said against Clinton’s cheek.
Clinton sped up helplessly. “Next time, huh?”
“Mm.” Neal hooked his free hand up under Clinton’s arm and grabbed his shoulder, holding him in place while they writhed. “Time after that, you can fuck me—or vice versa. Whichever you want.”
He said it easily, but Clinton still got the feeling he meant it, that there was something serious going on here—unless that was wishful thinking on his part. Then Neal pushed up or angled differently or something, and all of a sudden Clinton tipped over from pleasure into need, his eyes falling shut, his body driving down of its own accord, rubbing against Neal’s sweat-damp skin, roughly chasing release.
Neal gasped something profane-sounding in French, his movements increasingly forceful, and then no doubt thanks to his con artist’s timing and mysterious sleight of hand, they were both coming at once into the hot space between their bodies, leaving Clinton stupidly elated and dirty in the best way.
He rocked a few more times for good measure, then rolled off Neal and lay beside him, panting and swiping at the come on his own belly. “Sounds like you’ve got it all planned out. Did you mean that?”
Neal shrugged, his eyes half-closed as he fingered the bruise on his jawline.
Clinton hoped he wasn’t regretting it or any of this, and covered by teasing. “So much for spontaneity.”
“I’m playing catch-up.” Neal turned onto his side, folding his arm under his head with a classic Caffrey air of innocence.
God, Clinton had missed that. But he kept a straight face. “Do I get any say in this plan?”
“That depends.” Neal regarded him thoughtfully.
The urge to kiss that smug composure off his face was strong. Clinton swallowed. “I’m going back to New York on Monday,” he said, because that was the plan, and if Neal wanted him to stick around, Clinton was at least going to make him work for it.
But Neal just shrugged. “I can be packed by then.”
For a private hysterical moment, Clinton wondered if he’d blacked out and missed a year of dating without his realizing it, but then Neal leaned in and kissed him, slow, rich and bewitching, and he decided that when an impossible second chance came along, it was only good sense to give it everything. So he did.
END
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But Neal just shrugged. “I can be packed by then.”
I've got to give Neal points for style!
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Is that title from Mae West? \o/
♥
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Ha! No, I made it up myself. ;-P
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