I would literally die for a peter strahm x reader thigh riding fic
ASK AND YOU SHALL RECEIVE (500 business days later) 🙏
Peter Strahm x GN!Reader : Thigh Riding (NSFW)
You're hesitant to approach him about this. Peter's never denied you any of your heart's desires, no matter how depraved or pathetic you may feel they are, so you're not entirely sure why. Is it embarrassment? Reluctance to ask him for something you believe is selfish?
As a special agent, Peter Strahm is hardwired to keep his sharp eyes scanning for suspicious activity, and your recaltricance has not escaped his scrutiny.
The minute details of what you are hiding are frustratingly out of his grasp for now, but he's been in the FBI for long enough to know where and when to press a suspect. He's been with you long enough to know your weak points and what you'll spill your guts for.
And so he gets it out of you eventually.
His lower body is so muscled, you realise up close, so imperviously strong with an understated litheness. He's still clothed, you'd asked this of him, denlineating your fantasy as if confessing to a murder.
Fire on ice as your blazingly hot thighs meet his - you liken to Peter's thighs to marble; smooth, cool and sculpted by the finest and most skilled of touches. Need against need: the special agent's near-pathological reliance on having control of the situation and your wanton, practically mindless pursuit of sensation.
Friction, friction that brings tears to your eyes, sensation after what feels like a year without touch, a crescendo of pleasure, nerves lighting up and keening at the fast pace he sets you on. He settles you in his lap (it's like magic, the way he knows where you'll be most comfortable) and it appears to unlock your voice.
You're sure you look ridiculously desperate as you pant at him, short phrases all you can manage. "Yes, please. Right there. Faster."
Fingers in impossibly soft, dark hair - Peter's guided your hand there, let you scratch at his scalp and tug him any way you'd like, allowing you to use him and set your own pace. You'd been clutching at his shirt originally, but this - this is so much better.
"You're doing so well, honey, does this feel good?" Peter croons in your direction, deviously dark eyes lighting up when you release a gasp that hits him like a slap in the face.
He's growing hard under you. Painfully hard. Peter ignores it, pins your hand down when you reach for the zipper of his pants. This is all about you. His needs are secondary, his wants irrelevant, priorities clear.
It's euphoric, how he worships you even as you succumb to self-gratification.
"Please, Peter, please, please, please," is the breathy whine that escapes your tangled mind, a litany of swears and calls of your lover's name following shortly after. You must look like an animal, like someone possessed, rutting against him with a vigour you weren't aware you could display.
With one last supplicatory flash of your eyes, so cervine and submissive now, Peter gives in - "Go on, honey, come for me."
His indulgent smile, his soft touch...it's all too much, too much and not enough, as your body goes taut and your orgasm finally crashes over you, ears ringing with the force of it.
You don't even hear his quiet chuckle of amusement, too caught up in the afterglow. The gentle kiss he presses to your forehead doesn't register, brain rewiring to force your hips to stop moving, shut down the instinctual chasing of pleasure.
That's okay. There's plenty more days like these to be had. There's plenty more kisses and crescendos that Peter will give you.
There's nothing in the world he'd deny you.