I’m thinking about our delicious and angry Peter Highman… he’s always so stressed and this also so sexy and I’d like to request a very good fuck, like, Peter just got home stressed like hell and he just needs to fuck his beloved wife to calm down… after the fuck he’ll calm down and just turn into a cute lovesick puppy with reader because he loves her too much and maybe they can spend time together cooking like a cute couple
What I would give to get this type of fucking from this man!
Stress Relief
Pairing: Peter Highman x Wife F!Reader
Warning/Rating: 18+; explicit, graphic sexual activity (manual/oral stimulation, penetration, orgasm described in detail), unprotected sex, language, rough sex, dirty talk
Word Count: 2.3 K
The front door slammed with enough force to rattle the picture frames on the hallway wall.
You looked up from your book, already knowing what kind of day Peter had endured just from that single sound. Your husband’s footsteps were heavy, deliberate, each one punctuated with barely restrained frustration as he made his way through the house.
“Peter?” you called out, setting your book aside.
"Don't," he said sharply, appearing in the doorway of the living room. His tie was loosened, hanging askew around his neck. His dress shirt was wrinkled, the top two buttons undone. His dark hair, usually so meticulously styled, was disheveled from what you assumed were countless frustrated runs of his fingers through it. His jaw was clenched tight, a muscle ticking there as he ground his teeth. "Don't ask me about my day. I swear to God, if one more person asks me one more fucking question -"
He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes finally focusing on you. Really seeing you. You were wearing one of his old t-shirts and a pair of sleep shorts, your legs curled underneath you on the couch. Something shifted in his expression - the anger was still there, simmering just beneath the surface, but now it was mixed with something else. Something darker. Hungrier.
"Come here," he said, his voice dropping an octave.
You stood slowly, recognizing that tone. You'd been married to Peter Highman long enough to know when your husband needed to work out his frustration, and you'd be lying if you said the intensity in his eyes didn't send a thrill straight through you.
"Peter -"
"I said come here." It wasn't a request.
You crossed the room to him, and the moment you were within reach, his hands were on you. He grabbed your hips roughly, pulling you flush against him, and you could feel how hard he already was through his slacks. His mouth crashed against yours in a bruising kiss, all teeth and tongue and desperation. There was nothing gentle about it.
"Fuck," he muttered against your lips, his hands sliding up under your shirt, palming your breasts roughly. "I need you. Right now. I need to fuck you right now."
"Yes," you breathed, already feeling heat pooling between your legs. "Whatever you need."
That was all the permission he needed. Peter spun you around, bending you over the arm of the couch. You gasped at the sudden movement, bracing your hands against the cushions. Behind you, you heard the clink of his belt buckle, the rasp of his zipper.
"You have no idea," he growled, yanking your shorts and panties down in one rough motion, "what kind of day I've had. Fucking idiots. All of them. Incompetent fucking morons who can't do a single goddamn thing right."
His hand came down on your ass with a sharp crack that made you yelp. The sting bloomed across your skin, and you felt yourself getting wetter.
"But you," he continued, his fingers sliding between your legs, finding you already slick and ready for him. "Fuck, you're already so wet for me. My perfect fucking wife."
"Peter, please," you whimpered, pushing back against his hand.
"Please what?" He thrust two fingers inside you roughly, making you cry out. "Use your words, baby. Tell me what you want."
"Fuck me," you gasped. "Please, Peter, I need you to fuck me."
"That's my girl."
He withdrew his fingers and you felt the thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance. Without warning or preamble, he slammed into you in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. You cried out at the sudden fullness, the slight burn of the stretch, your fingers digging into the couch cushions.
"Fuck, yes," Peter groaned, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. "So fucking tight. So fucking perfect."
He didn't give you time to adjust. He pulled almost all the way out and thrust back in hard, setting a punishing pace that had you gasping with each stroke. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mixed with your moans and his grunts of exertion.
"This is what I needed," he panted, one hand sliding up your spine to fist in your hair, pulling your head back. "Needed to fuck this perfect pussy. Needed to feel you wrapped around my cock."
"Yes, yes, Peter, fuck -" You could barely form coherent words, overwhelmed by the intensity of it all.
"You take it so well," he praised roughly, his hips snapping against yours with bruising force. "Take my cock so fucking well. Were you waiting for me? Waiting for me to come home and fuck you like this?"
"Yes!" you cried out, feeling your orgasm building already. "Always - fuck - always want you."
His hand released your hair and slid around to your throat, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp. He pulled you up so your back was against his chest, never breaking his rhythm, and his other hand slid down to rub tight circles on your clit.
"Come for me," he commanded in your ear, his voice rough and strained. "Come on my cock. Let me feel you."
The combination of his fingers on your clit, his cock hitting that perfect spot inside you with each thrust, and the possessive grip on your throat sent you over the edge. You came with a sharp cry, your body clenching around him, waves of pleasure crashing through you.
"Fuck, that's it, that's my girl," Peter groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic. "Gonna fill you up. Gonna come so deep inside you - fuck -"
He buried himself as deep as he could go, his body going rigid as he came with a guttural moan. You felt him pulsing inside you, filling you with his release, his arms wrapping around you tightly as he rode out his orgasm.
For a long moment, you both stayed like that, breathing hard, his face buried in your neck. Slowly, gradually, you felt the tension draining from his body. His grip on you loosened, became gentler. His lips pressed soft kisses to your shoulder, your neck, behind your ear.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice completely different now - softer, almost vulnerable. "Was I too rough? Did I hurt you?"
You turned your head to look at him, seeing the concern in his eyes, the way his brow was furrowed with worry. This was the Peter you knew best - the one who worried, who cared too much, who loved you with an intensity that sometimes seemed to surprise even him.
"I'm fine," you assured him, reaching up to cup his cheek. "I'm perfect. You're perfect."
He pulled out of you gently, turning you around so he could see your face properly. His hands came up to frame your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks as he looked at you like you were the most precious thing in the world.
"I love you," he said softly, leaning in to kiss you. This kiss was nothing like the first - it was tender, sweet, full of emotion. "I love you so much. I don't know what I'd do without you."
"You'll never have to find out," you promised, smiling against his lips.
He kissed you again, and again, like he couldn't get enough. When he finally pulled back, there was a sheepish smile on his face.
"I really did have a terrible day," he admitted.
"I gathered that from the door slamming."
"Sorry about that too." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "Let me make it up to you. Let me take care of you now."
"Peter, you don't have to -"
"I want to," he insisted. "Come on. Let's get cleaned up, and then I'm making you dinner."
"You're making me dinner?"
"I'm making us dinner," he corrected, taking your hand and leading you toward the bathroom. "Together. Like a normal couple who doesn't immediately fuck like animals the second I get home."
You laughed. "I like when we fuck like animals."
"Me too," he admitted with a grin, pulling you into the bathroom. "But I also like taking care of my wife."
Twenty minutes later, you were both cleaned up and dressed in comfortable clothes. Peter had changed into grey sweatpants and a t-shirt, his hair still damp from the quick shower. He looked completely different from the stressed, angry man who'd walked through the door - relaxed, content, a soft smile playing at his lips as he moved around the kitchen.
"What are we making?" you asked, hopping up to sit on the counter.
"Pasta," he said decisively, opening the refrigerator. "With that sauce you like. And I'm making garlic bread."
"My favorite."
"I know." He glanced at you with such open affection that it made your heart squeeze. "That's why I'm making it."
You watched as he gathered ingredients, setting them out on the counter beside you. He kept finding excuses to touch you - a hand on your knee as he passed by, fingers trailing across your shoulders, a kiss pressed to your temple as he reached for the olive oil.
"Tell me about your day," he said as he started chopping vegetables. "And I promise I'll actually listen this time, not like when I came in acting like a complete asshole."
"You weren't an asshole," you said. "You were stressed."
"I was an asshole," he corrected, pointing the knife at you for emphasis. "A stressed asshole. Now tell me about your day. Please. I want to hear about something that doesn't involve incompetent coworkers and impossible deadlines."
So you told him about your day - the small, mundane details that made up your life. He listened intently, asking questions, laughing at the funny parts, his hands never stopping their work. There was something incredibly domestic and intimate about it, the two of you in the kitchen together, the smell of garlic and tomatoes filling the air.
"Can you hand me the basil?" he asked, and when you reached for it, he caught your hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss your knuckles. "Thank you."
"You're being very sweet," you observed.
"I'm always sweet to you."
"You're being extra sweet."
He set down the knife and moved to stand between your legs, his hands resting on your thighs. "Because I love you," he said simply. "Because you're the best thing that ever happened to me. Because you let me come home and take out my frustration on you - in the best possible way - and you never complain. Because you're perfect and I'm a lucky bastard."
"Peter -"
"I mean it," he insisted, his eyes serious. "I don't tell you enough how much you mean to me. How much I appreciate you. How much I love you."
You pulled him in for a kiss, slow and deep and full of promise. "I love you too," you murmured against his lips. "Even when you slam doors."
He laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "Especially when I slam doors?"
"Especially then."
He kissed you once more before returning to the stove, and you watched him work, your heart full. This was your favorite version of Peter - relaxed, happy, completely at ease. The stress of the day had melted away, replaced by contentment and love.
"You know what the best part of my day is?" he asked, stirring the sauce.
"What?"
"This." He gestured between the two of you. "Coming home to you. Being with you. It doesn't matter how terrible the day was, because I get to come home to you."
"You're going to make me cry," you warned.
"Don't cry." He abandoned the stove to wrap his arms around you, pulling you close. "I'm just telling you the truth."
You buried your face in his chest, breathing in his familiar scent. "I'm so glad I married you."
"Me too," he said softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "Best decision I ever made."
The timer on the stove beeped, and he reluctantly pulled away to check on the pasta. You watched him move around the kitchen with easy confidence, plating the food, adding the finishing touches. When he was done, he carried both plates to the small dining table, setting them down before coming back for you.
"Come on, beautiful," he said, offering his hand. "Dinner is served."
You took his hand, letting him lead you to the table. He pulled out your chair for you, ever the gentleman, before taking his own seat. Throughout dinner, he kept reaching across the table to hold your hand, to touch your arm, like he needed the constant physical connection.
"This is delicious," you said, and the smile he gave you was radiant.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. You're getting really good at this."
"I have a good teacher," he said, squeezing your hand. "And good motivation. I like taking care of you."
After dinner, you both cleaned up together, working in comfortable silence. Peter kept pulling you in for random kisses, wrapping his arms around you from behind as you washed dishes, nuzzling into your neck.
"You're being very clingy," you teased.
"Can you blame me?" he murmured against your skin. "I have the most beautiful wife in the world and I just want to be close to her."
"Sap."
"Your sap."
You turned in his arms, looping yours around his neck. "My sap," you agreed, kissing him softly.
He sighed contentedly, resting his forehead against yours. "Thank you," he said quietly.
"For what?"
"For being you. For loving me. For being exactly what I need."
"Always," you promised.
And as he held you there in the kitchen, the stress of his day nothing but a distant memory, you knew that this - these quiet moments of love and connection - this was what mattered. Not the rough, desperate sex (though that was certainly a bonus), but this. The tenderness. The devotion. The way he looked at you like you hung the moon.
I’m thinking I’m thinking… reunion sex with Peter Highman x wife reader… Peter returning from one of his business trips and he’s just starving for his wife. That man is intense… some dirty talk too please
Back to You
Pairing: Peter Highman x Wife F!Reader
Warning/Rating: 18+; explicit, graphic sexual activity (oral sex, manual stimulation, penetration, multiple orgasms described in detail), rough sex, explicit language and dirty talk throughout, unprotected sex, possessive themes, adult content.
Word Count: 2.9 K
The sound of keys jangling in the lock made your heart skip. You'd been waiting - trying not to watch the clock, trying not to pace - but the moment you heard that familiar fumbling at the door, all pretense evaporated.
Peter stumbled through the doorway, rolling his carry-on behind him with one hand while loosening his tie with the other. He looked exhausted - rumpled suit, hair slightly disheveled, five o'clock shadow darkening his jaw - but the second his eyes found yours, something electric sparked to life in his expression.
"Well, well," he said, that trademark smirk already playing at his lips. "If it isn't my favorite person in the entire world. And before you ask, yes, that includes Ryan Gosling. Though it's close."
You crossed your arms, leaning against the hallway wall with a smile you couldn't suppress. "Five days, Peter. Five days of radio silence except for three texts that said 'Airport hell,' 'Client is an idiot,' and 'Miss your ass.'"
"In my defense," he said, abandoning his luggage right there in the entryway and stalking toward you with predatory focus, "I was being extremely specific about what I missed. Your ass is exceptional. It deserved its own text."
"Just my ass?"
"Oh no, baby. That was just what I could type with one hand while the other was—" He stopped directly in front of you, close enough that you could smell his cologne mixed with airport staleness and something uniquely him. "Well, let's just say I've been thinking about you. Extensively. In great detail. With visual aids I created myself."
Heat flooded through you. "Peter…"
"Do you know," he continued, his voice dropping lower as one hand came up to brace against the wall beside your head, caging you in, "what it's like to sit through a four-hour client presentation about sustainable design blueprints when all you can think about is how your wife sounds when she comes? Because I do. Intimately. The guy next to me definitely thought I was having a stroke."
"You're ridiculous," you breathed, but your hands were already reaching for him, fisting in his shirt.
"I'm horny," he corrected. "There's a difference. Well, no, I'm both. But primarily the second thing." His free hand slid to your waist, fingers pressing in possessively. "I've been on planes, in cabs, in meetings with clients who wouldn't know good architecture if it bit them on their remarkably flat asses, and the entire time I've been thinking about getting home to you."
"Yeah?" You tilted your chin up, challenging. "What exactly were you thinking?"
Peter's eyes darkened, his grip on your waist tightening. "Dangerous question, sweetheart. You sure you want the answer? Because I've had five days to compile a very detailed list, and I'm not known for my brevity."
"Try me."
"Okay." He leaned in, lips brushing your ear as he spoke. "I was thinking about how you taste. How you feel wrapped around me. The little sounds you make when I'm inside you - those breathy gasps that drive me absolutely insane. I was thinking about making you scream my name so loud the neighbors finally have something legitimate to complain about."
Your breath hitched. "Peter -"
"I was thinking," he continued, his hand sliding from your waist to your hip, then lower, cupping your ass and pulling you flush against him, "about fucking you so hard you forget every single day I was gone. About making you come so many times you lose count. About reminding you exactly who you belong to."
You could feel him, hard and insistent against your stomach, and it sent a bolt of pure want straight through you. "Big talk from someone who can barely stand up straight."
He pulled back just enough to look at you, and his grin was absolutely wicked. "Oh, baby. I could be on my deathbed and I'd still get it up for you. That's not exhaustion - that's five days of pent-up frustration with your name on it."
"Then maybe," you said, sliding your hands up his chest to loop around his neck, "you should stop talking and do something about it."
"There she is," Peter murmured appreciatively. "I missed that mouth. Both the smart-ass comments and the other things it does." He kissed you then, hard and demanding, one hand tangling in your hair while the other gripped your ass possessively. He tasted like airplane coffee and mint gum and desperation, and you melted into him, five days of missing him pouring into the kiss.
When he pulled back, you were both breathing hard.
"Bedroom," he said, voice rough. "Now. Unless you want me to take you right here in the hallway, which, don't get me wrong, I'm absolutely willing to do, but I'd prefer our first time in five days to involve a bed. I'm traditional that way."
"Since when are you traditional about anything?"
"Fair point." He kissed you again, biting your lower lip. "But I have plans for you, and they require space. And possibly some of that upper body strength I've been maintaining specifically for sexual purposes."
You laughed, breathless, and took his hand. "Come on, then."
He followed you down the hallway, but he couldn't seem to keep his hands to himself. His fingers traced up your spine, slipped under the hem of your shirt, squeezed your hips. By the time you reached the bedroom, you were both practically vibrating with need.
Peter spun you around as soon as you crossed the threshold, backing you toward the bed with purposeful steps. "Do you have any idea," he said, his hands already working at the buttons of your shirt, "how many times I jerked off thinking about this moment? Because it's embarrassing. I'm a grown man. I should have more self-control."
"How many?" you asked, helping him with your buttons because his fingers were shaking slightly - whether from exhaustion or arousal, you couldn't tell.
"Let's just say the hotel shower got a lot of use." He pushed your shirt off your shoulders, his eyes raking over your exposed skin with naked hunger. "Jesus Christ, look at you. How did I survive five days without this?"
"You're such a drama queen."
"I'm a man in love with his wife's tits," he corrected, his hands coming up to cup your breasts through your bra. "There's a difference." He thumbed your nipples through the fabric, watching with satisfaction as they hardened under his touch. "And the rest of her. But right now, specifically the tits."
You reached for his belt, but he caught your wrists.
"Uh-uh," he said, shaking his head. "I've been fantasizing about this for five days. We're doing this my way." He guided your hands above your head, holding them there with one hand while the other traced down your body. "You're going to stand here and let me touch you, and you're going to tell me how much you missed me."
"Peter…"
"That's not telling me." His free hand popped the button of your jeans, slid down the zipper with agonizing slowness. "Come on, baby. Use your words. You're usually so good with them."
"I missed you," you breathed as his fingers slipped beneath your waistband. "I missed you so much."
"More specific." He traced the edge of your panties, not quite touching where you needed him. "What did you miss?"
"Your hands," you gasped. "Your mouth. The way you - oh God!"
He'd slipped one finger beneath your panties, finding you already wet. "The way I what?" he prompted, circling your clit with maddening lightness. "Finish that sentence."
"The way you touch me," you managed. "The way you make me feel. Peter, please."
"Please what?" But he was already pushing your jeans and panties down your hips, releasing your wrists so you could step out of them. "You're going to have to be more specific than that, sweetheart. I've been gone five days. My memory's a little fuzzy."
"You're such an asshole," you said, but it came out breathless and wanting.
"Yeah, but I'm your asshole." He straightened up, his hands going to your bra clasp. "And you love it." He unhooked it with practiced ease, tossing it aside and immediately cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples. "You love when I make you beg. When I take control. When I fuck you so hard you can't think straight."
"Yes," you admitted, arching into his touch.
"That's my girl." He leaned down, taking one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard enough to make you gasp. His other hand slid between your legs, two fingers pushing inside you without warning. "Fuck, you're so wet. Were you thinking about me?"
"Yes," you moaned as his fingers curled inside you, finding that spot that made your knees weak. "Every day. Every night."
"Did you touch yourself?" He added a third finger, stretching you, his thumb finding your clit. "Did you make yourself come thinking about me?"
"Yes! Oh God, Peter!"
"Good girl." He pumped his fingers faster, his mouth moving to your other breast. "But I bet it wasn't the same, was it? Your fingers aren't as good as mine. You couldn't make yourself come as hard as I can."
"No," you gasped, your hands fisting in his hair. "Not the same. Need you. Need you inside me."
"Soon," he promised, but he didn't stop, didn't slow down. "First I want to feel you come on my fingers. Want to watch you fall apart. You're close, aren't you? I can feel it. Your pussy's getting so tight."
"Peter - I'm -"
"That's it, baby. Come for me. Show me how much you missed me."
The orgasm hit you like a wave, your whole body tensing as pleasure crashed through you. Peter held you through it, his fingers still moving, drawing it out until you were shaking and gasping his name.
"Beautiful," he murmured, slowly withdrawing his fingers. He brought them to his mouth, sucking them clean with a groan. "I missed that taste. I missed watching you come. I missed -" He stopped, shaking his head. "Okay, no, I'm done being patient. Bed. Now."
You climbed onto the bed on shaky legs, and Peter finally started stripping off his own clothes. Tie, shirt, undershirt, all tossed carelessly aside. His belt hit the floor with a clatter. By the time he was naked, you were practically squirming with anticipation.
He was beautiful - lean muscle, scattered freckles, and hard everywhere that mattered. His cock jutted out from his body, flushed and ready, and your mouth watered at the sight.
"Like what you see?" he asked, that cocky smirk back in place as he climbed onto the bed.
"You know I do."
"Yeah, but I like hearing it." He settled between your legs, his hands running up your thighs. "Tell me."
"You're gorgeous," you said honestly. "I love your body. I love how you feel against me, inside me."
He kissed you, swallowing the rest of your words. "I love you too," he murmured against your lips. "So fucking much. Even when you're being a smart-ass. Especially then, actually."
"Peter," you breathed, wrapping your legs around his waist. "Please. I need you."
"I know, baby. I know." He reached between you, positioning himself at your entrance. "I've got you." And then he pushed inside in one smooth thrust, filling you completely, and you both groaned at the sensation.
"Fuck," Peter gasped, his forehead dropping to yours. "Fuck, I forgot how good this feels. How perfect you are. How -" He pulled out almost completely, then slammed back in, making you cry out. "How fucking amazing it is to be inside you."
"Move," you demanded, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Peter, please move."
"Bossy," he said, but he was already complying, setting a hard, fast rhythm that had the headboard hitting the wall. "Is this what you wanted? Me fucking you hard? Making you scream?"
"Yes," you moaned, meeting him thrust for thrust. "Yes, just like that. Don't stop."
"Wasn't planning on it." His hands gripped your hips, angling you so he could go deeper. "I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk straight. Until you feel me for days. Until every time you move, you remember exactly who made you feel this good."
"God, Peter!"
"That's right, say my name." He leaned down, biting your neck hard enough to leave a mark. "Let everyone know who you belong to. Who makes you feel this good. Who fucks you like this."
"You," you gasped. "Only you. Peter, I'm…"
"Already? Fuck, baby, you're so responsive. So perfect." He shifted, one hand sliding between your bodies to rub your clit. "Come on, sweetheart. Give me another one. I want to feel you come on my cock."
The combination of his fingers and his cock and his filthy words pushed you over the edge again, your orgasm ripping through you with even more intensity than the first. You cried out his name, your body clenching around him, and Peter groaned.
"Jesus Christ," he panted, his rhythm faltering. "You feel so fucking good when you come. So tight. So perfect. I'm not going to last."
"Don't," you managed, still trembling from your orgasm. "Want to feel you come. Want you to fill me up."
"Fuck," Peter groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic. "You can't say things like that. I'm trying to - oh God!"
"Come for me, Peter," you whispered in his ear. "Please. I need it. Need you."
That did it. He thrust deep one last time, his whole body going rigid as he came with a shout of your name. You felt him pulsing inside you, felt the warmth of his release, and it sent another small aftershock of pleasure through you.
Peter collapsed on top of you, both of you breathing hard, sweaty and satisfied. After a moment, he rolled to the side, pulling you with him so you were tucked against his chest.
"So," he said after his breathing had slowed, his voice rough and satisfied. "On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate that reunion?"
You laughed, pressing a kiss to his chest. "Eleven. Definitely an eleven."
"Damn right." He ran his fingers through your hair, gentle now in a way that contrasted sharply with how rough he'd been moments before. "I really did miss you, you know. Not just the sex. Though the sex is phenomenal and I'm absolutely doing that again in about twenty minutes."
"Twenty minutes?" you teased. "You're not as young as you used to be."
"Watch it," he warned, but there was no heat in it. "I'm plenty young enough to make you regret that comment. In fact -" He rolled on top of you again, pinning you to the bed with a grin. "I think I need to prove a point."
"Peter, you just -"
"I'm aware of what I just did," he interrupted. "I was there. Very actively participating, if you recall. But I've got five days of missing you to make up for, and we've barely scratched the surface." His hand slid down your body, fingers tracing patterns on your hip. "Besides, I distinctly remember promising to make you come so many times you lose count. We're only at two. That's not losing count. That's barely getting started."
"You're insane," you said, but you were already arching into his touch.
"Insane about you," he corrected. "There's a difference." He kissed you, slow and deep this time, less frantic but no less intense. "I love you," he murmured against your lips. "Even when you mock my sexual stamina."
"I love you too," you said, smiling. "Even when you're an arrogant ass."
"Especially when I'm an arrogant ass," he corrected. "That's when I'm most charming." His fingers found your clit again, circling slowly. "Now, where were we? Oh right. I was proving a point about my stamina and your ability to count."
You gasped as he slid down your body, settling between your legs with a wicked grin.
"Peter."
"Shh," he said, his breath hot against your inner thigh. "I'm working. Very important work. Husbandly duties and all that." He pressed a kiss to your thigh, then another, moving closer to where you needed him. "Besides, you taste like both of us right now, and that's incredibly hot. So really, you're doing me a favor."
"You're ridiculous," you breathed, but your hands were already tangling in his hair.
"Yeah," he agreed, looking up at you with those dark eyes full of mischief and love and desire. "But I'm your ridiculous. And I'm home. And I'm going to spend the rest of the night reminding you exactly why you married me."
"I married you because you're charming and funny and - oh God!"
He'd put his mouth on you, cutting off your words with a long, slow lick that had your back arching off the bed.
"Keep going," he said, pulling back just enough to speak. "I like hearing why you married me. It's good for my ego."
"Your ego doesn't need any help," you managed.
"Fair point." He went back to work, his tongue doing things that made coherent thought impossible. And true to his word, he didn't stop until you'd lost count of how many times he'd made you come, until you were boneless and satisfied and completely his.
Later, much later, when you were both finally exhausted and tangled together in the sheets, Peter pressed a kiss to your forehead.
"Next business trip," he murmured sleepily, "you're coming with me. I don't care if it's boring. I don't care if it's just meetings and airport food. I'm not doing five days without you again."
"Deal," you whispered, already half-asleep.
"Good." Another kiss, this one to your temple. "Because I love you. And I really, really love coming home to you."
You smiled, snuggling closer. "I love you too. Even when you're insufferable."
"Especially when I'm insufferable," he corrected, and you could hear the smile in his voice. "That's when I'm at my best."
Summary: After a miserable travel day, you and Peter end up at a rundown motel with only one bed. His anger finally cracks, feelings spill out, and the tension between you turns into a night neither of you expected—or will forget.
Warning/Rating: 18+; explicit, graphic sexual activity (manual/oral stimulation, penetration, orgasm described in detail), protected sex, language.
Parts 1/2/3/4/5
Word Count: 2.2 K
The rental car smells like stale coffee and Peter’s anger.
You’ve been driving for three hours, and he’s been simmering the entire time. It started at the airport - the delayed flight, the gate agent who couldn’t do her job, the lack of legroom that left him cramped and miserable. He’s been silent for the first twenty minutes in the car, jaw clenched, knuckles white on the door handle. Then the rental car company became his next target.
“Mid-size,” He’d snapped. “I paid for mid-size.”
“It’s fine,” You’d said.
“It’s compact.”
And that had been it for another thirty minutes of tense silence, broken only by his muttered curses at other drivers, at the coffee he’s tried to drink and immediately thrown out the window, at the rattling noise the car makes above sixty-five.
Now he’s staring out the window, the frustration radiating from him like heat. His tie is loosened, his shirt wrinkled, his hair a mess from the number of times he’s run his hands through it. Every muscle in his body looks tight, ready to snap.
“That guy didn’t signal,” he says suddenly.
“I saw.”
“No signal. Just merged right over. That’s how accidents happen.”
“Mmmh.”
Silence again. You can feel the pent-up energy radiating off of him, with anger that has nowhere to go. His leg bounces. His fingers drum against his thigh. He shifts in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position that doesn’t seem to exist.
“This seat’s broken,” he mutters.
“I know.”
“My back is killing me.”
“We’’ stop soon.”
“How soon?”
“Soon.”
A frustrated groan escapes him as he goes back to glaring out the window. You’ve learned not to take it personally. Peter Highman is angry at the world, at every minor inconvenience, at the universe itself for making his life difficult. But he’s not angry at you. Not really.
Another ten minutes pass. Then:
“The AC doesn’t work.”
“It works a little.”
“It smells like gym socks.”
“I know.”
“This whole car is a piece of shit.”
“Yes.”
He turns to look at you then, and there’s something in his expression - frustration, but also confusion. Like he can’t figure out why you’re not snapping back at him, why you’re not telling him to shut up or get out.
“Doesn’t it bother you?” he asks.
“What?”
“All of this. The car, the smell, the-” he gestures wildly at everything. “Everything.”
“Not as much as it bothers you.”
He stares at you, then turns back to the window. “Yeah - well. Nothing bothers anyone as much as it bothers me.”
It’s the most honest thing he’s said all day.
The silence that follows is different somehow. Still tense, but less hostile. You drive, and he sits there with his jaw clenched and his hands fisted in his lap, and you can feel something shifting between you.
“I’m not always like this,” he says suddenly.
“Like what?”
“Angry. Frustrated. I’m not-” he stops, shaking his head. “Never mind.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay. I’m being an asshole.”
“A little bit.” you tease.
He almost smiles. Almost. “You’re very patient.”
“Someone has to be.”
This time he does infact simple, just a flicker of it before it disappears back into his default expression of barely-contained frustration, but you saw it and something warm settles in your chest.
“Where are we stopping?” he asks after another few silent minutes.
“There’s a motel up ahead.”
“Id it going to be terrible?”
“Probably.”
“Great.” But there seems to be less bite in his tone.
When you pull into the motel parking lot, Peter looks at it with obvious disgust. It’s exactly the kind of cheap roadside place you’d expect - flicking neon, doors opening to the parking lot, questionable stains on the concrete.
“Perfect,” he mutters. “Just perfect.”
“Do you want to keep driving?”
“No.” he gets out of the car, slamming the door closed harder than necessary. “Let’s just get this over with.”
You head into the office while Peter waits by the car, arms crossed over his chest. The clerk - an older woman with reading glasses on - barely looks up from her magazine.
“One room, two beds,” you say.
She tpes soethign into her computer, frowning. “Only got one room left. One bed.”
Your stomach drops. “That’s it?”
“Convention in the next town over. Lucky you got this one.”
You glance back through the window at Peter, who’s glaring at something in the distance. This is going to go over well.
“Fine. We'll take it.”
When you walk back to the car with the key, Peter straightens. “We good?”
“Yea about that-”
“What?”
“They only had one room left.”
He stares at you, waiting for more information.
“With one bed.”
His jaw tightens. “Of course they do.” he runs a hand through his hair, looking away. “This is - great. This is just great.”
“We can keep driving if you want.”
“No.” he says sharly. “No, it's fine. It’s whatever. Let’s just -” he grabs the bags from the trunk and slams it shut. “Let’s go.”
When you unlock the door to the room, he surveyed with the same critical eye he’s turned on everything else today. His gazr lands on the bed - one queen size bed with a floral bedspread - and his jaw clenches tighter. You can practically hear his teeth cracking with the force.
“Floral bedspread,” he says flatly.
“Yep.”
“Carpet from 1987.”
“Probably.”
He drops the bags on the floor near the edge of the bed and stands there awkwardly, like he’s not sure what to do with himself. He looks exhausted, all the anger draining out of him and leaving something raw and vulnerable in its place.
“I’m going to get food,” you say. “Do you want anything?”
“Whatever.” Then, after a brief pause he looks at you. “Please.”
You leave him there, grateful for the break and the chance to breathe. When you come back twenty minutes later with burgers and friends, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the TV without really watching it.
“Thanks,” He says quietly when you hand the food to him.
You sit on the other side of the bed, putting as much distance between the two of you as possible. Both of you eat in silence. The TV plays some documentary that neither of you are watching. Peter keeps glancing over at you when he thinks you’re not looking, and you’re doing the same to him. The anger has faded, replaced by something else. Something charged. The bed between you feels both too big and too small.
When you’re done eating, you clean up and head to the bathroom to shower and change. When you comeout in your sleep clothes - just an oversized t-shirt and silky shorts - peter is still sitting on the edge of the bed, but not he’s looking at you with an intensity that makes your breath catch.
“What?” you ask.
He doesn’t answer, not right away at least but just looks at you. His jaw working like he’s trying to find the right words and failing.
“Nothing,” he finally says.
You sit down on your own side of the bed, facing him. The air between you feels charged with all of the tension that’s been building up.
“Peter,” you say barely above a whisper. “Are you okay?”
“No.” The word comes out harsh, frustrated. “I’m not okay. I haven’t been okay at all. All week. All-” he stops again, shaking his head. “Forget it.”
“Talk to me.”
“I don’t want to talk.” he stands up abruptly, starting to pace in front of the bed. “I’m tired of talking. I’m tired of being angry. I’m tired of-” he stops in front of you, and the look in his eyes is almost desperate. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”
The admission seems to cost him something. His hands are fisted at his sides, his whole body tense.
“Peter-”
“I know - it’s stupid. We’re stuck on this trip together and I’m making an ass out of myself.” he sighs, “Forget i said anything.”
“I can’t stop thinking about you either.”
He freezes, turning to stare down at you like he can’t quite believe what you just said.
“You - what?”
You stand up from the bed, closing the distance between you. “You hear me.”
“This is a bad idea,” he says, but doesn’t move away.
“Probably.”
“We should stop.”
“Yeah.”
Neither of you does.
He kisses you like he has been holding back all day, like all the anger and frustration has finally found an outlet. It’s hard and needy and almost rough, his hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise. You kiss him back with just as much force, and he makes a sound low in his throat that has wetness flooding between your thighs.
When he pulls back, you’re both breathing hard.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, fisting the fabric of your shirt.
“No.”
He kisses you again, walking you back towards the bed. You fall onto it and he follows, his weight pressing you into the mattress. His hands are everywhere - your breast through the shirt, your waist, your hips, and finally sliding under the fabric.
“Is this okay?” he asks in between kisses.
“Yes.”
He doesn’t waste any more time with words and just pulls your oversized shirt over your head and stares down at you like he’s seeing something he can’t quite believe. His hands are now tracing your sides, cupping your bare breasts.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
You reach up and fist his shirt, pulling him back down into a kiss. He groans against your mouth, pressing his hips against yours, and you can feel how hard he is through the fabric of his pants. Heat pools low in your belly when you realize how big he is, even though those pants.
He kisses down your neck, your collarbone, takes your nipple into his mouth and you gasp, threading your fingers through his hair and arch into his mouth.
“Peter-”
He doesn’t respond with words, just switches over to the other breast, his tongue cirlcing and flicking the sensitive bud as you moan out his name again, giving his hair a gentle tug and earning the groan that escapes him.
“Clothes off,” you manage through another moan. “Now.”
He doesn’t respond with words, but instead sits up and quickly strips down to his briefs. You can see the outline of his cock straining against the fabric, and your mouth practically waters at the sight. You sit up slightly and reach for him, which he quickly grabs your wrist. “Wait,” he says. “I want -” he stops, clearing his throat as he struggles with something. “Let me taste you first.”
“Yeah - okay. Not at all opposed to that.”
You're quick to strip off your pajama shorts and underwear, and his eyes go dark. He drops down to his knees in front of you and settles between your thighs, spreading your thighs wider, and for a moment he just looks at you.
Then his mouth is on you and you cry out, hips jerking up towards his mouth. He’s intense, focused, like he’s channeling all that frustration into eating you out. His tongue works your clit while two of his fingers slide inside you, curling, and pumping.
You’re already close.
“Pete, i’m -”
He doesn’t let up, just double down on his dual movements, and you come with a cry, your thighs clamping around his head. He works you through it until you’re pushing him away from oversensitivty.
When he crawls back up your body, his lips are wet and his eyes are wild.
“Condom,” you manage.
He grabs his wallet from his pants, finding one side - old but not expired - and rolls it on. When he positions himself at your entrance, he pauses.
“You sure?”
“Yes. Now.”
With one swift, smooth thrust, Peter's cock bottoms out and you both groan. He’s thich and hard, stretching you out, and for a moment you both stay still to adjust.
Then he starts to move, and it’s not at all gentle. It’s hard and fast and desperate, all that pent- up frustration finally finding release. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he buries his face in your neck.
“Fuck,” he groans. “Fuck, you feel-”
The sentence abruptly stops, his trusts just keep going, his breath hot against your neck. You can already feel another orgasm building, and your reach between your bodies to touch your clit.
“Yes,” he says roughly. “Touch yourself. Want to feel you come.”
With his thrusts quickening and the added sensation of your fingers, you fall over the edge. You come hard, clenching around him, and he follows immediately after with a choked groan, hips jerking erratically as he spills into the condom.
He collapses on top of you, both of you breathing hard. Neither of you are making a move.
Eventually, he rolls off of you and disposes of the condom, and when he comes back to the bed, he pulls you against his chest without a word. His arms wrapping around your waist as you feel his breathing start to even out.
After the worst day, you can finally feel some of the tension leave his body. Tomorrow will be complicated. Tomorrow you’ll have to figure out what the hell this means. Tomorrow you may have to face the same Peter, but tonight, you’re just going to let yourself have this.
loved full circle would it be possibly to write peter and readers wedding and honeymoon? I want all the fluff and smut!!!!
For Better, For Worse
Pairing: Peter Highman x F!Reader
Warning/Rating: 18+,explicit, graphic sexual activity (manual/oral stimulation, penetration, orgasm described in detail), unprotected sexlanguage, emotional intensity and vulnerability
Part 1/2/3/4/5
Word Count: 3.3 K
Three months later
The venue is small - just a garden overlooking the water, with white chairs arranged in neat rows and flowers everywhere. You didn’t want anything big or elaborate. Just the people who matter most, witnessing you and Peter make this official.
You stand in the small cottage that serves as the bridal suite, staring at yourself in the mirror. Your dress is simple - ivory silk that flows to the floor, with delicate lace overlay and a low back. Your hair is loose, the way Peter likes it, with small flowers tucked behind one ear.
Your best friend adjusts your veil, grinning. “You look beautiful.”
“I feel like I’m going to throw up.”
“That’s normal.”
“Is it?”
She laughs. “You’re marrying the love of your life. A little nausea is expected.”
There’s a knock at the door, and your mom pokes her head in. “Ready? They’re waiting.”
You take a deep breath. “Yeah. I'm ready.”
Outside, the sun is warm on your skin. You can hear music playing - something soft and instrumental. Your dad is waiting at the entrance of the garden, looking handsome in his suit.
“You look perfect, sweetheart,” he says, offering his arm.
“Thanks, dad.”
He walks you down the short path, and then you see them.
Peter is standing at the altar in a dark gray suit, his hair slightly messy in that way that makes your heart skip. But it’s not just him.
Ethan is in his arms.
Your son is wearing a tiny suit that matches his father’s, complete with a little bow tie. He’s nine months old now, chubby and happy, his dark eyes - so much like Peter’s - bright with curiosity.
When Peter sees you, his face transforms. His eyes fill with tears, and he holds Ethan a little tighter.
You’re crying before you even reach him.
Your dad kisses your cheek and places your hand in Peter’s free one. His fingers close around yours, warm and steady.
“Hi,” he whispers.
“Hi yourself.”
Ethan reaches for you, making grabby hands, and you laugh through your tears. “Hi, baby.”
The officiant - a friend of Peter’s - smiles at the three of you. “Well, this is already the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen, so let’s make it official.”
The ceremony is short. You and Peter decided to write your own vows, and when it’s his turn to speak, he shifts Ethan to one arm and takes both your hands in his.
“I’m not good at speeches,” he starts, his voice rough with emotion. “But I’m good at showing up. At being present. At choosing you every single day.” He pauses, glancing down at Ethan, then back at you. “You gave me something I didn’t even know I was missing. A real partnership. A real family. You taught me what it means to build something together - not chase some fantasy, but create something real and messy and absolutely perfect.”
Your vision blurs with tears.
“I promise to keep showing up,” he continues. “To keep choosing you. To be the partner you deserve and the father our son - and any future children - deserve. I promise to be present. To build this life with you. To love you exactly as you are, every single day, for the rest of my life.”
You’re full-on crying now, and Ethan reaches out to pat your face with his chubby hand, which makes everyone laugh.
“Your turn,” Peter says softly.
You take a shaky breath. “I didn’t know what I was looking for when I met you on that road trip. I just knew something was missing. And then there you were - angry and broken and absolutely perfect.” You squeeze his hands. “You’ve taught me what real partnership looks like. What it means to choose someone every day, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”
Peter’s thumb rubs circles on your hand.
“I promise to keep building this life with you,” you say. “To keep showing up. To be your partner in everything. To love you and Ethan and whatever comes next with everything I have. I choose you, Peter. Today and every day. Forever.”
“Forever,” he echoes.
The officiant grins. “Well, I think we can skip the ‘does anyone object’ part. By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. Peter, you may kiss your bride.”
Peter hands Ethan to your mom in the front row, then pulls you into his arms. The kiss is soft and sweet and full of promise. When he pulls back, he’s smiling through his tears.
“We did it,” he whispers.
“We did.”
He kisses you again, deeper this time, and everyone cheers.
Your mom brings Ethan back, and the three of you stand there - husband, wife and son - while the photographer captures the moment.
The reception is in the same garden, with string lights overhead and a small dance floor. Dinner is served family-style, and there are toasts - your best friend makes everyone cry, Peter’s best friend makes everyone laugh, and your dad gives a speech about how he knew from the moment he met Peter that he was the one.
When it’s time for the first dance, Peter takes your hand and leads you to the floor. The song is slow and romantic, and he pulls you close, one hand on your waist, the other holding yours.
“How are you feeling, Mrs. Highman?” he asks.
You grin. “Pretty damn good, Mr. Highman.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You rest your head on his shoulder. “This is perfect. All of it.”
“Even the part where Ethan tried to eat the ring during the ceremony?”
You laughed. “Especially that part.”
He kisses your temple. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
You dance for a while, just swaying together, and then other couples join in. your parents. Peter’s best friend and his wife. Your friends.
Later, when Ethan is getting fussy, Peter takes him from your mom and dances with him, bouncing gently to the music. Your son’s head rests on his father’s shoulder, his eyes drooping.
It’s on a private beach in the Caribbean - white sand, turquoise water, and a villa that’s all open windows and soft white curtains. There’s a king-sized bef with gauzy netting draped around it, a bathroom with a massive soaking tub, and a private deck with a plunge pool.
“This is insane,” you say, dropping your bag and walking straight to the windows. The view is breathtaking - nothing but ocean and sky.
Peter comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. “You like it?”
“I love it.”
He kisses your neck. “Good. Because we’re not leaving this villa for at least twenty-four hours.”
You turn in his arms, grinning. “Oh really?”
“Really.” His hands slide down to your hips. “I have plans for you, Mrs. Highman.”
Heat pools low in your belly. “What kind of plans?”
“The kind that involve you naked and screaming my name.”
You laugh, swatting his chest. “Subtle.”
“I’m done being subtle.” He backs you toward the bed, his eyes dark with intent. “I’ve been thinking about this for weeks. Getting you alone. No baby monitor. No interruptions. Just you and me and all the time in the world.”
Your back hits the mattress, and he follows you down, his body covering yours. “We’re supposed to be trying for baby number two,” you remind him breathlessly.
“Oh, I’m very aware.” He kisses you deeply, his tongue sliding against yours. “Which means I get to spend the next week making love to my wife as many times as humanly possible.”
“That’s a lot of pressure.”
“I’m up for the challenge.” He grinds his hips against yours, and you can feel how hard he already is. “Are you?”
“Definitely.”
He grins, then sits back on his heels and starts unbuttoning his shirt. You watch, your mouth going dry as he reveals his chest - lean and muscled, with a trail of dark hair disappearing into his jeans.
“Your turn,” he says.
You sit up and pull your sundress over your head, leaving you in just your bra and underwear. Peter’s eyes darken as they travel over your body.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he says, his voice rough.
“You’re not so bad yourself.”
He reaches for you, unhooking your bra with practiced ease and tossing it aside. His hands cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they peak.
“I love your body,” he murmurs, leaning down to take one nipple into his mouth. “Every inch of it.”
You arch into him, your fingers threading through his hair. “Peter -”
"I know." He switches to the other breast, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak. "But I'm taking my time. We have all week, remember?"
"You're evil."
He laughs against your skin. "You love it."
He's right. You do.
He kisses his way down your stomach, his hands sliding your underwear down your legs. Then he's settling between your thighs, his breath warm against your most sensitive skin.
"I've been thinking about this," he says, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your inner thighs. "About tasting you. Making you come on my tongue."
"Peter, please -"
"Please what?"
"Stop teasing."
He grins up at you. "But it's so much fun."
Then his mouth is on you, and you forget how to breathe.
He's always been good at this - attentive and thorough, learning exactly what makes you fall apart. But now, with no time constraints, no baby about to wake up, he takes his time. His tongue moves in slow, deliberate strokes, alternating between broad licks and focused attention on your clit.
"Oh God," you gasp, your hips lifting off the bed.
He holds you down with one hand, the other sliding two fingers inside you. The combination is overwhelming - his mouth and his fingers working together, building the pressure until you're trembling.
"That's it," he murmurs against you. "Let go. I've got you."
You come with a cry, your body arching, pleasure crashing over you in waves. Peter doesn't stop, drawing it out until you're shaking and oversensitive.
When he finally pulls back, his lips are wet, his eyes dark with satisfaction. "Fuck, I love watching you come."
You're still catching your breath. "Get up here."
He crawls up your body, kissing you deeply. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and it's filthy and perfect.
"Your turn," you say, reaching for his jeans.
He helps you strip him, and then he's naked above you, his cock hard and ready. You wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly, and he groans.
"I want you inside me," you say.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Now."
He doesn't need to be told twice. He's positioning himself at your entrance, his eyes locked on yours.
"I love you," he says.
"I love you too."
He pushes inside slowly, and you both moan at the sensation. He's thick and hard, stretching you perfectly, and when he's fully seated, he pauses, letting you adjust.
"Okay?" he asks.
"More than okay."
He starts to move - slow, deep thrusts that make your toes curl. His hands are everywhere - your hips, your breasts, your face - like he can't get enough of touching you.
"You feel so good," he groans. "So fucking good."
"Harder," you gasp.
He obliges, his hips snapping against yours, the sound of skin on skin filling the room. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he curses.
"I'm not going to last," he warns.
"Then don't."
He buries his face in your neck, his rhythm faltering as he chases his release. You can feel him getting close - the tension in his body, the way his breathing changes - and then he's coming with a groan, his hips jerking as he spills inside you.
He collapses on top of you, both of you breathing hard.
"That was -" he starts.
"Yeah."
He lifts his head to look at you, grinning. "And we have a whole week of this."
You wake to sunlight streaming through the windows and Peter's mouth on your neck.
"Morning," he murmurs against your skin.
"Mmm. Morning."
His hand slides down your stomach, between your legs, and you gasp as his fingers find you already wet.
"Someone's eager," he teases.
"Whose fault is that?"
He laughs, rolling you onto your back and settling between your thighs. "Mine. Definitely mine."
He rolls you onto your back and settles between your thighs, his body covering yours. When he pushes inside you, you both moan.
"Fuck," Peter breathes. "You feel incredible."
"So do you."
He moves slowly at first, savoring the sensation, but it doesn't take long before the pace picks up. His hands grip your hips, pulling you into each thrust, and you meet him eagerly.
"I'm going to fill you up," he says, his voice rough. "Get you pregnant again. Give Ethan a little brother or sister."
"Yes," you gasp. "Please."
The dirty talk pushes you both closer to the edge. Peter's thumb finds your clit, rubbing in tight circles, and you come with a cry, your body clenching around him.
He follows seconds later, groaning your name as he spills inside you.
Afterward, he stays inside you, his forehead resting against yours. "I love you," he says.
"I love you too."
He kisses you softly, then carefully pulls out.
"Just making sure it takes," he says with a grin.
You laugh, swatting his shoulder. "You're ridiculous."
The days blur together in the best way - lazy mornings in bed, afternoons by the pool, evenings watching the sunset from your private deck. And sex. So much sex.
On the beach at sunset, Peter pressing you against a palm tree, his hand over your mouth to muffle your moans.
In the outdoor shower, water cascading over both of you as he takes you from behind.
In the plunge pool on the deck, you riding him slowly while the stars come out overhead.
Every time is different. Sometimes it's slow and tender, other times fast and desperate. But it's always good. Always them.
Tonight, you're in the big soaking tub, surrounded by candles and bubbles. Peter is behind you, his arms wrapped around your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder.
"I don't want to leave," you say.
"Me neither."
"Can we just stay here forever?"
He laughs. "As much as I'd love that, I think Ethan would miss us."
"I miss him," you admit. "Is that weird? We've only been gone five days."
"Not weird at all. I miss him too." He kisses your shoulder. "But I'm also really enjoying having you all to myself."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." His hand slides down your stomach, between your legs. "Very much enjoying it."
You lean back against him, letting your legs fall open. His fingers move expertly, circling your clit, dipping inside you, building the pleasure slowly.
"You're insatiable," you gasp.
"Only for you."
He brings you to the edge twice, then stops, making you whimper in frustration.
"Peter -"
"Patience."
"I don't have any patience left."
He laughs, then finally - finally - lets you come, his fingers working you through it until you're boneless and satisfied.
"Better?" he asks.
"Much."
You turn in his arms, straddling him in the tub. Water sloshes over the sides, but neither of you care. You can feel him hard against you, and you reach down, guiding him inside.
"Fuck," he groans as you sink down onto him.
You start to move, slow and deliberate, your hands braced on his shoulders. His hands grip your hips, helping you find a rhythm.
"You're so beautiful like this," he says, his eyes locked on yours. "Taking what you want. Using me."
"Is that okay?"
"More than okay. It's fucking perfect."
You ride him harder, chasing your pleasure, and he meets you thrust for thrust. When you come again, it's with his name on your lips, and he follows seconds later, his fingers digging into your hips as he empties himself inside you.
You collapse against his chest, both of you breathing hard.
"I think we're going to need to refill this tub," you say.
Your last night at the resort, you have dinner on the deck - fresh seafood and wine, with the ocean as your backdrop. The sun is setting, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange.
"This has been perfect," you say, reaching across the table to take Peter's hand.
"It really has."
"Thank you. For all of this. For marrying me. For being the partner I always needed."
His eyes soften. "Thank you for choosing me. For giving me a second chance. For building this life with me."
"Always."
After dinner, you move to the bed, the curtains billowing in the warm breeze. Peter undresses you slowly, reverently, like he's unwrapping a gift.
"I want to take my time with you tonight," he says.
"We have all night."
"Exactly."
He lays you back on the bed and proceeds to worship every inch of your body. His mouth and hands explore you thoroughly - your neck, your breasts, your stomach, your thighs. By the time he finally settles between your legs, you're already trembling.
He makes you come twice with his mouth before finally sliding inside you. The sex is slow and deep, your bodies moving together in perfect sync. You've done this so many times over the past week, but it never gets old. Never feels routine.
"I love you," he says, his forehead pressed to yours.
"I love you too."
When you both come, it's together - a perfect moment of shared pleasure and connection.
Afterward, you lie tangled together, his hand resting on your stomach.
"Do you think it worked?" you ask.
"The baby-making?"
"Yeah."
He's quiet for a moment. "I don't know. But even if it didn't, we'll keep trying. And if it did -" He pauses, his hand moving in slow circles on your belly. "Then we'll get to do this all over again. The pregnancy, the birth, the sleepless nights. All of it."
"You're really okay with that? Another baby?"
"More than okay. I want it. I want to grow our family. With you."
You turn to face him. "You're going to be an amazing dad. Again."
"We're going to be amazing parents. Again. Together."
You're in the bathroom again, staring at another plastic stick.
Two lines.
Pregnant.
You walk out to the living room, where Peter is on the floor with Ethan, building a tower of blocks. Your son is almost a year old now, babbling and laughing as the tower falls over.
"Peter?"
He looks up, and something in your expression makes him go still. "What is it?"
You hold up the test.
His face breaks into the biggest smile you've ever seen. He scoops up Ethan and crosses to you, pulling you both into his arms.
"We did it," he says, his voice thick with emotion.
"We did."
Ethan reaches for the test, trying to grab it, and you both laugh.
"Not for you, buddy," Peter says. "But you're going to be a big brother. How does that sound?"
Ethan squeals, clearly having no idea what that means but happy anyway.
Peter kisses you deeply. "I love you. So much."
"I love you too. All of you."
You stand there in your living room - husband, wife, son, and the promise of another baby on the way - and you think about how far you've come. From that chaotic road trip to this moment. From strangers to partners to a family.
It's not perfect. It's messy and real and sometimes hard.
💖 rough kiss / hot and heavy / making out for Peter Highman because we know he's intense
Collision Course
Pairing: Peter Highman x F!Reader
Heart Game | Heart Game Masterlist
Warning/Rating: PG-13 romantic tension, workplace chemistry. Contains passionate kissing and heavy making out, physical intimacy (hands over/under clothing), charged sexual tension, mild language ("damn," "shut up"), and themes of attraction/unresolved feelings between characters.
Word Count: 696 K
"You're insufferable, you know that?"
Peter's eyes glinted in the dim light of his apartment, the city sprawling below through those ridiculous floor-to-ceiling windows he'd insisted were "architecturally essential." He loosened his tie with one hand, that infuriating smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
"And yet," he said, voice dropping lower, "you're still here."
You should leave. You'd told yourself that twenty minutes ago when the argument about his latest project had devolved from professional critique into something else entirely - something charged and dangerous. But your feet stayed planted on his polished hardwood floor, your pulse hammering against your throat.
"Maybe I'm a glutton for punishment."
"Or maybe…" Peter closed the distance between you in two strides, and suddenly the air felt thinner, "You like that I don't handle you with kid gloves."
His cologne hit you first, expensive and woodsy, then the heat radiating from his body. You'd been dancing around this for months - the loaded glances across conference tables, the arguments that felt more like foreplay, the way his gaze would linger on your mouth when you challenged him.
"You're awfully confident for someone who -"
His mouth crashed against yours before you could finish, swallowing whatever sharp retort you'd prepared. The kiss was nothing gentle, nothing tentative - it was all consuming heat and barely restrained hunger. His hand cupped the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair with just enough pressure to make you gasp against his lips.
You grabbed his shirt, pulling him closer, and felt his responding growl vibrate through your chest. Peter kissed like he did everything else - with complete focus and devastating precision. His teeth caught your bottom lip, tugging, and you couldn't stop the sound that escaped your throat.
"That's what I thought," he murmured against your mouth, smug even now.
"Shut up," you breathed, and pulled him back in.
This time you gave as good as you got, your fingers working the buttons of his shirt while his hands mapped the curve of your waist, your hips, pulling you flush against him. He walked you backward until your shoulders hit the cool glass of the window, the contrast making you shiver.
"Cold?" His lips traced your jaw, found that sensitive spot below your ear.
"No." Your voice came out rougher than intended. "Don't stop."
Peter's laugh was dark, pleased. "Wasn't planning on it."
His mouth returned to yours, deeper this time, more demanding. One hand braced against the window beside your head while the other slid beneath your blouse, palm hot against your ribs. You arched into his touch, your own hands exploring the lean muscle of his back, feeling him tense and flex under your fingertips.
The city lights blurred behind your closed eyelids. Every nerve ending felt electrified, hyperaware of everywhere he touched you - his thigh pressed between yours, his thumb brushing the underside of your breast, his lips moving from your mouth to your neck with bruising intensity.
"You drive me crazy," he said against your collarbone, and you felt the words as much as heard them. "Every damn day, walking into meetings with that sharp mind and those eyes."
You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging his head back to look at him. His pupils were blown wide, lips swollen, that carefully maintained composure completely shattered.
"Peter."
"Yeah?"
"Less talking."
His grin was wicked. "Yes, ma'am."
This kiss was slower but no less intense, a deep exploration that made your knees weak. His hands roamed with purpose now, learning every curve, every place that made you sigh or grip him tighter. You lost track of time, lost in the taste of him, the weight of his body pinning you to the glass, the delicious friction building between you.
When you finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Peter rested his forehead against yours. The city glittered behind you, indifferent to the way your world had just tilted on its axis.
"So," he said, voice rough and low, "still think I'm insufferable?"
You traced your thumb across his bottom lip, felt him shudder. "Absolutely."
"Good." He captured your mouth again, softer this time but no less promising. "Wouldn't want to disappoint."
Summary: You and Peter hate each other, but are forced to work together on an important presentation. The arguing is never ending, but their anger turns into a heated office hookup.
Warning/Rating: 18+; explicit, graphic sexual activity (manual/oral stimulation, penetration, orgasm described in detail), protected sex, language.
Word Count: 3 K
You had never wanted to strangle someone more in your entire life.
Peter sat across from you in the conference room, his mouth running a mile a minute about some obscure detail in the Henderson project renderings. His voice - that perpetually anxious drone - had been grating on your nerves for the past six hours. Six. Fucking. Hours.
“And you know what’s really interesting about the material specification on the facade? The thermal properties of the glazing system. It’s all about the U-value and the solar heat gain coefficient and -”
“Peter, I swear to God, if you don’t shut the fuck up right now, I’m going to throw this laptop at your head.”
He looked up at you, eyes wide. “That seems like an overreaction.”
“Does it? Does it really?” You gripped your pen harder, your knuckles going white. “Because I've been listening to you obsess over every single material selection and structural consideration since we started this morning, and I'm starting to think assault with a deadly weapon might be preferable to another minute of this.”
This whole nightmare had started when your boss decided you and Peter needed to collaborate on the Henderson account presentation. You were a pragmatic architect focused on client needs and project delivery. Peter was a detail-obsessed designer who got caught up in technical specifications and design minutiae. You had three days to put together a pitch that could make or break landing this major client.
And you fucking hater each other.
“You know, hostility isn’t good for your cortisol levels,” Peter said, raking his fingers through his hair. “My therapist says -”
“I don’t give a shit what your therapist says, Highman.”
“ - that repressed anger can manifest in really unhealthy ways.”
Your eyes narrowed in his direction. “There’s nothing repressed about my anger, Peter. It’s very, very expressed.”
He had the audacity to look offended. “I’m just trying to make sure we don’t present subpar work. We’re supposed to be professionals. We might as well be civil.”
“Civil? You want to be civil?” you laughed. “You’ve complained about everything. My slide layouts. My font choices. My data interpretation. The way I organized the appendix. You rewrote my executive summary without asking. You’ve made us stay late every single night. And you won’t stop fucking talking.”
“I have standards!”
“I don’t care!”
The conference room fell into silence for approximately thirty seconds before Peter opened his mouth again. “You’re really uptight, you know that?” your head snapped toward him. “What did you just say?”
“Uptight. Tense. Would up like a -”
“I heard you the first time.” Your voice came out higher than you expected. “I’m uptight?”
“Yeah. You've been rigid and controlling this entire project. It’s like you have stick up your -”
You stood up abruptly from your chair, pushing it backward until it hit the wall. Peter’s eyes widened slightly as you walked toward the conference room door. For a moment he thought you were leaving - storming out to cool off, maybe - but instead you closed the door firmly and turned the lock with a click.
“What are you -”
You turned back to face him, something hot and dangerous coiling in your gut. The office beyond the glass walls was dark and empty - everyone else had gone home hours ago. Just the two of you, the scattered presentation materials, and the tension that had been building all week.
“You think I'm uptight?” your voice was low now, dangerous.
Peter’s expression shifted instantly - his eyes darkened, his jaw clenched. He stood up slowly, his chair gliding back along the floor. When he spoke, his own voice was low and dangerous.
“Yeah. I do.”
Before you could respond, Peter crossed the space between you in two long strides. He didn’t ask permission or hesitate - he just grabbed you by the back of your neck, his fingers tangling through your hair with enough roughness to make your scalp tingle, and pulled you toward him. His mouth crashed against yours with brutal force, all teeth and aggression and raw dominance.
You didn’t have a moment to process or a chance of exploration. Peter kissed you like he was claiming you, like he had been waiting for an excuse all week. His other hand gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him. He controlled the angle of your head with his hand, controlling the depth and pace of the kiss, shutting down any attempt at reciprocal control.
When he finally broke away, both of you were panting, and his eyes were dark and furious.
“You want to know what I think?” he said, his voice commanding. “I think you’re wound so fucking tight you’re about to snap and honest - i think you like it.”
“Fuck you,” you spat, but your hands were already gripping his dress shirt, pulling him back toward you. “That’s the idea,” he growled, and this time when his lips crashed against yours, it was even more aggressive. His hand tangled in the air at the nape of your neck again, forcing your head back slightly, exposing your neck. He broke away from the kiss, his teeth finding your jaw and making his way to your neck, biting at the skin hard enough to make you gasp.
Your grip on his shirt tightened, tugging at it - moaning at the sensation of his mouth against you. But Peter was taking control again. He shoved your cardigan off your shoulders in one aggressive motion, pinning your arms briefly before releasing you. His hands moved to your blouse, and instead of working the buttons, he simply grabbed the fabric and ripped it open. Buttons scattered across the conference room floor, bouncing in all directions.
“That was expensive,” you snarled.
“I don’t care,” he said flatly, his mouth back to your neck. He bit and sucked hard enough to leave marks, his teeth scraping against your skin. His hands gripped your waist, controlling your movement, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. You reached for his belt, flicking it open and then unzipping his pants - your hand shoving inside his boxers. He was already hard, and when you wrapped your fingers around his cock, he made a low, guttural sound against your throat - not a gasp, but a growl of satisfaction.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
“That’s the idea,” you said, repeating the words back to him, stroking him roughly. This wasn’t about pleasure - or rather, it was, but the angry, spriteful kind, the kind that came from wanting to prove a point.
Peter’s hand slid under your skirt, pushing your panties aside, and when his fingers found you already wet, he actually laughed - a hard, mean sound that sent chills through you. “Uptight, huh?” he said, sliding two fingers through your folds and then pushed them inside you without warning, without gentleness. He started pumping them quickly, his eyes locked on yours with dark intensity. “You’re soaking wet for me. That’s not uptight. That’s desperate.”
You gasped, your grip on his cock tightening enough to make him groan. “Shut up.”
“Make me,” he said flatly, and there was a challenge in it - a command disguised as a dare.
You did, kissing him again, brutal and graceless. His fingers worked inside you, rough and relentless, but the friction was exactly what you needed. You could feel the anger in every movement, the frustration of the entire week channeled into this. You broke away from the kiss and looked around - the office beyond the glass walls was dark, empty cubicles stretching out into shadow. The risk of being discovered sent a thrill through you, even as you knew logically that everyone had left hours ago.
You shoved Peter backward until he hit the edge of the conference table. Before he could say anything you dropped to your knees and yanked his pants and boxers down. His cock stood hard and flushed, and you wrapped your hand around the base. You took him into your mouth in one swift motion, as deep as you could manage, and felt him jerk above you.
“Jesus - fuck -” peter’s hand flew to your hair, gripping tight enough to sting. His other hand braced back against the conference table, scattering papers and knocking over an empty coffee mug. “That’s it. Take it.”
He didn’t wait for you to set the pace. His hips thrust forward, driving his cock deeper into your mouth. His grip tigthened in your hair, using it as leverage to control your head, forcing you down onto him with each aggressive thrust. “Fuck, your mouth,” he growled, his voice raw. “That’s what you’re good for.” you gagged slightly as he pushed deeper, but he didn’t slow down, didn’t ease up. His thighs flexed as he fucked your mouth, his breathing harsh and ragged.
“Look at me,” he commanded. And you did - your eyes locking with his. “Don’t you fucking look away.”
He thrust harder, faster, his hand in your hair pulling you down to meet each stroke. His other hand gripped the edge of the table, his jaw clenched tight as he used your mouth exactly how he wanted. “Shit, that’s good,” he grunted, his hips driving forward relentlessly. “Take it all. Take every fucking inch.” you tried to pull back, needing air, but his hand in your hair yanked you right back down, forcing you to take him deeper. He wasn’t interested in your comfort or your pace - he was taking what he wanted, using you with unapologetic intensity.
“Don’t you dare pull away from me,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. His thrusts became more erratic, more forceful, his breathing turning into harsh grunts and growls. “Fuck - you feel so good. So fucking good.” he was close, his movements becoming more desperate, more aggressive. His hand in your hair was almost painful now, controlling every movement, every breath.
You pulled back and took him in again. Your mouth was hot and wet around him, your tongue pressing flat against the underside of his shaft as you worked him. There was nothing delicate about it - you hollowed your cheeks and sucked hard, using your hand to stroke what you couldn’t fit in your mouth.
Peter made a strangled sound above you, his hips jerking involuntarily. “Shit, that’s -”
You finally freed yourself from his cock, looking up at him with pure venom in your eyes. “Still think I'm uptight?” before he could answer, you pulled back completely and stood up, leaving him gasping and furious.
“What the actual fuck?” he snarled, his eyes blazing with anger and frustration. His cock was still hard, glistening with your saliva, and he grabbed your wrist roughly. “You don’t get to stop.”
“My turn,” you said flatly.
“I don’t think so,” he growled. In one swift motion, he yanked you toward him and spun you around, bending you forward over the conference table. His hands gripped your hips, and he shoved your skirt up around your waist, tearing your panites down your legs. “You want to tease me?” he snarled, his voice low. “I’ll show you teasing.”
He dropped to his knees behind you, and before you could say anything, his mouth was on you - not gentle, not tentative. He gripped your ass with both hands, spreading you open, and his tongue drove into you. He wasn’t eating you out - he was devouring you, consuming you, taking exactly what he wanted from your body. “Fuck -” you gasped, your hands scrabbling for purchase on the conference table.
Peter’s tongue worked you with brutal force, licking through your folds with long, hard strokes before focusing on your clit. He sucked it into his mouth and flicked his tongue against it rapidly, his grip on your ass keeping you exactly where he wanted you. “You don’t get to control this,” he growled against you, his voice muffled but no less commanding. “You don’t get to decide when we stop. I take what I want from you.”
He drove his tongue into you again, fucking you with it, his nose pressed against your clit. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open, prevently any movement, any escape. He was taking his time now, but there was nothing gentle about it - every movement was deliberate, aggressive, designed to prove his dominance.
“That’s it,” he growled, pulling back just enough to speak. “You’re going to come on my mouth, and you’re going to do it now.”
He attacked your clit again, sucking and licking with single-minded intensity, his hands locked around your thighs. There was no mercy in it, no consideration for your pace or your comfort. He was using you, dominating you, taking what he wanted. Your legs started to shake, your breathing becoming ragged. The pleasure was building fast, intense, overwhelming. “Come,” he commanded. “Come for me. Now.”
And you did, your orgasm crashing over you as he continued to work you through it, his mouth unrelenting, his grip unforgiving.
He pulled away from you, your legs shaky, and looked back at Peter. His face was flushed, his lips and chin glistening with your arousal, his cock still hard and leaking. In seconds, your hands were on each other - removing the remaining articles of clothing. Peter’s shirt tossed onto a chair. Your bra followed, landing on top of the scattered presentation materials. You kicked your panties off completely, letting them fall to the conference room floor.
By the time you were both as naked as you needed to be, you were already reaching for him again. Peter grabbed you first, though, pulling you back toward the conference table. He swpt his arm across the surface, sending papers, folders, and your laptop crashing to the floor that made you both freeze for a moment, listening.
Silence. The office was still empty.
Peter maneuvered you until you were bent over the conference table again, your palms pressed flat against the cool surface. You heard the crinkle of a condom wrapper - at least one of you was still thinking clearly - and then he was positioning himself behind you, one hand pressing between your shoulder blades to keep you down, the other gripping your hip. “Still think I'm annoying?” he asked, and you could hear the smirk in his voice even though he couldn’t see his face.
“Absolutely,” you said, looking back at him over your shoulder. “No shut up and fuck me.”
He did.
Peter lined himself up and drove into you without hesitation, without mercy. He didn’t ease in - he forced his way inside you in one brutal stoke, his hips slamming against your ass with enough force to knock the breath from your lungs. A hard groan tore from his throat, raw and futtural. “Fuck, yes,” he snarled, his voice rough. “That’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to fuck you exactly how I want.”
He pulled back and slammed into you again, harder this time, his hand between your shoulder blades pressing you down flat against the table. His other hand on your hip allowed him to use it as leverage to drive into you with relentless force. There was no buildup, no consideration for your adjustment - just raw, aggressive power.
“You feel that? He groaned, his breathing harsh and ragged. “That’s my cock inside you. That’s what you get for teasing me.”
He set a brutal pace, his hips snapping forward with each thrust, his body using yours without apology. The sound of skin against skill filled the conference room - wet, obscene, undeniable. His grunts came with each stroke, animalistic and possessive. “This is mine,” he snarled, his hand leaving your hip to tangle in your hair, yanking your head back. “You’re mine right now. Say it.”
“Fuck you,” you gasped, but your body was already responding, already meeting his thrusts. “That’s what you’re doing,” he growled. He pulled your hair harder, forcing your back to arch, changing the angle of his thrusts. “You’re fucking me. And you’re going to take everything i give you.”
His thrusts became more frantic, more desperate, his breathing turning into hard sounds. He was using you completely, his body dominating yours, his grip unforgiving. His hand in your hair kept you exactly where he wanted you - bent, exposed, completely under his control. “Shit, you’re so tight,” he groaned. “So fucking tight. Do you like this? You like me using you like this?” He didn't wait for an answer. He just kept driving into you, his pace becoming almost frantic, his grunts turning raw. His hand released your hair and gripped your shoulder instead, using it to pull you back onto his cock with each forward thrust.
“I’m going to come inside you,” he growled. “And you’re going to come with me.” His hand dropped between your bodies, reaching your clit and rubbing tight circles against it - your pleasure building quickly. His thrusts became erratic, desperate, drawing your second orgasm out - it crashing over you as you cried out his name. His whole body tensed as he drove into one final time, burying himself deep. A harsh groan tore from his throat as he came, his hips jerking against yours as he empted himself inside the condom, his grip on your shoulder almost painfully tight.
For a moment, you both just breathed - harsh, ragged breaths that echoed in the empty conference room.
“Fuck,” he finally said, his voice rough and satisfied. He pulled out slowly, and you felt the loss of him immediately.
You straightened up, your legs shaky, and turned to look at him. His hair was disheveled, his face flushed, his expression still dark and intense. He was already disposing of the condom, moving with the efficiency of someone who had just taken exactly what he wanted.
“Well, “ you said, your voice hoarse, “I guess hate-sex is quite good for the soul.”
Despite yourself, you felt your lips twitch. “Your shirt is on the floor.”
He looked at it, then back at you, and something that might have been amusement crossed his face. “We should probably get back to the Henderson presentation.”
“Probably,” you agreed, reaching for your bra.
But as you both started gathering your scattered clothing, you couldn’t help but think that maybe - just maybe - you were onto something after all.
You stare at the plastic stick in your hand, heart hammering so hard you can feel it in your throat.
Two lines.
Pregnant.
You sit on the edge of the bathtub, the test still clutched in your fingers, trying to process what this means. You and Peter have been together for a year and a half now - living together for the past six months after you finally took that step. Things are good. Better than good. He’s different now - lighter, more open, more himself than he was when you first met him on that chaotic road trip.
A baby.
Your baby. His baby. Your baby together.
The bathroom door opens. Peter leans against the doorframe, hair still messy from sleep, wearing nothing but grey sweatpants. “You okay? You’ve been in here for -”
He stops when he sees your face. Then his eyes drop to the test in your hand.
The silence stretches between you, heavy and electric.
“I’m pregnant,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.
Peter goes completely still. His face drains of color, and for a moment you think he might actually pass out. His hand grips the doorframe so hard his knuckles turn white.
“Peter?” Your voice cracks.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stares at the test in your hand.
Your chest tightens. “Say something. Please.”
“I -” His voice breaks. He closes his eyes, takes a shuddering breath. When he opens them again, they’re wet. “I need a minute. I just - I need -”
He turns and walks out.
You sit there, frozen, listening to his footsteps retreat down the hallway. A door closes. The apartment falls silent.
Your heart is racing. You set the test down with trembling hands and try to breathe.
Five minutes pass. Then ten.
You’re about to go after him when you hear footsteps returning. Peter appears in the doorway again, his face blotchy, eyes red-rimmed. He’s been crying.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice rough. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have -” He stops, shaking his head. “Can I come in?”
You nod, not trusting your voice.
He crosses the bathroom slowly, like he’s afraid you might disappear. Then he drops to his knees in front of you, just like he did that first time, and takes both your hands in his.
“I’m overwhelmed,” he says quietly. “In the best way. In the most terrifying way.” He looks up at you, tears streaming down his face.”I want this. God, I want this so much. With you. A family with you.”
You squeeze his hands, your own eyes filling. “You scared me.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” He brings your hands to his lips, kissing your knuckles. “I just - I’ve learned what it means to want something this badly. And I’ve learned that wanting it isn’t enough. You have to do the work. You have to show up every day and choose it.” He pauses. “I needed a minute to make sure I was ready. To make sure I could be the partner you need. The father our baby needs.”
“And are you?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. “Yes. Because this time, I’m not chasing a fantasy. I’m building something real. With you. We’ve already built something real. This is just -” His voice cracks. “This is us choosing to grow it. Together.”
You cup his face in your hands, brushing away his tears with your thumbs. “I’m scared too.”
“I know.”
“But I also know we can do this. We’ve done everything else together.”
He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch. “We have, haven’t we?”
“Yeah. We have.”
He pulls you into his arms, holding you so tight you can feel his heart racing against your chest. “I want this baby,” he says, his voice muffled against your neck. “I want our family. And I want to do this right. With you. As partners. As equals.”
You're crying now too, your face buried in his shoulder. "I love you."
"I love you too. So much." He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands cradling your face. "We're going to be amazing at this. Because we're already amazing at us."
You laugh through your tears. "Pretty sure that's not how parenting works."
"Then we'll figure it out. Together. Like we always do."
He kisses you then - soft and tender and full of promise. When he pulls back, he's smiling through his tears. "We're having a baby."
"We're having a baby," you repeat, and suddenly it feels real. Terrifying and overwhelming and absolutely real.
He rests his forehead against yours. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For choosing me. For building this life with me. For trusting me with this."
Peter's hand is splayed across your belly, his eyes wide with wonder. You're lying on the couch, your shirt pushed up, and he's been waiting for the past ten minutes for the baby to move again.
"Did you feel that?" you ask.
"I -" He stops, his expression shifting to pure joy. "Oh my God. Was that -?"
"That's him."
Peter's face breaks into the biggest smile you've ever seen. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your stomach, his hand trembling slightly - not with fear, but with excitement.
"Hey, little guy," he says softly. "It's your dad. I felt you. You're strong already."
You run your fingers through his hair, smiling at the wonder in his voice.
"You okay?" you ask.
He looks up at you, his eyes bright. "I'm perfect. This is perfect. You're perfect." He laughs. "I know I'm supposed to be cool about this, but I can't. I'm so excited I can barely stand it."
"You don't have to be cool."
"Good. Because I'm not." The baby kicks again, stronger this time, and Peter laughs - this surprised, delighted sound. He shifts, lying down beside you on the couch, his head resting on your shoulder so he can keep his hand on your stomach. "I can't believe this is happening. That we're doing this."
"Believe it."
"I keep thinking about all the things I want to teach him. Show him. But then I remember -" He pauses. "I remember that the most important thing is just being present. Being there. Not for some imagined future, but for right now. For you. For us. For whatever comes."
"You've gotten very wise," you tease.
"I've had a good teacher." He turns his head to look at you. "You've taught me what it means to actually be in a relationship. To be a partner. To build something together instead of just existing side by side."
Your throat tightens. "We've taught each other."
He kisses you softly, his hand still resting on your belly. "I'm going to be present. Not just for him, but for you. For us. That's the foundation of everything."
"I know you will."
The baby kicks again, and Peter smiles against your lips. "He's strong."
"Like his dad."
"Like his mom," Peter corrects. "You're the strongest person I know."
You laugh, swatting his arm. "We're both strong."
"Damn right we are. This kid doesn't stand a chance."
Peter stands in the doorway, hands on his hips, surveying the room. The crib is assembled, the walls painted a soft gray-blue. There’s a rocking chair in the corner, a changing table against the wall, and a shelf with a modest collection of books.
"It's perfect," you say, coming up behind him.
He turns, pulling you into his arms. "It really is. We did good."
"We did."
He looks back at the room, his expression thoughtful. "I keep thinking about how different this feels. How right it feels. Not because everything's perfect, but because we're doing it together. Every decision, every choice - it's ours."
You wrap your arms around him from behind, resting your cheek against his back. "That's what makes it work."
"Yeah." He turns to face you. "I'm not worried about getting lost in this. Because you won't let me. And I won't let you. We keep each other grounded."
"Exactly."
He pulls you close - or as close as he can with your belly between you. "I love you. And I love him. But I need you to know that you're my priority. Always. Our relationship is what makes everything else possible."
"I know," you whisper. "And I love you too. Both of you."
He kisses your forehead, then drops to his knees in front of you. It's become his ritual—talking to the baby, his hands cradling your belly.
"Hey, buddy," he says softly. "It's Dad. Your room is ready. Well, almost ready. Your mom says we don't need more books, but I think she's wrong." He pauses. "I want you to know something. Your mom and I - we're a team. And we're going to raise you as a team. We're going to show you what real partnership looks like. What it means to choose someone every day. To be present. To build something together."
You run your fingers through his hair, your own eyes stinging with tears.
"I'm so excited to meet you," he continues. "To see who you are. To watch you grow. But more than anything, I'm excited to do this with your mom. Because she's the best partner I could ever ask for. And together, we're going to give you the best life we can."
"Together," you echo.
He stands, pulling you into his arms. "I've learned a lot about what matters. And what matters is this. Right here. Right now. You and me and the family we're building. Not some fantasy of what it should be, but the real, messy, beautiful thing it actually is."
You kiss him softly. "I wouldn't want it any other way."
You wake Peter with a hand on his shoulder, trying to keep your breathing steady. "It's time."
He's awake instantly, eyes wide but focused. "Okay. Okay. We've got this." He takes your hands. "Right here. Right now. You and me."
"You and me," you repeat.
The drive to the hospital is quiet but not tense. Peter holds your hand, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on your skin. Every so often, he glances over at you, checking in without words.
"Talk to me," you say between contractions.
"About what?"
"Anything. I need to hear your voice."
He's quiet for a moment, then: "I keep thinking about how we got here. That chaotic road trip. That first night. How angry I was. How broken." He squeezes your hand. "And then you. You saw past all of that. You gave me a chance to be better. To build something real."
"We built it together," you say.
"We did. And now we're about to meet the person we made together. How incredible is that?"
You smile despite the pain. "Pretty incredible."
"I'm not scared," he says, and you can hear the wonder in his voice. "I thought I would be. But I'm not. Because I know we can handle whatever comes. Together."
"Together," you whisper.
At the hospital, everything moves fast and slow at the same time. Nurses, monitors, questions. Peter doesn't leave your side. He holds your hand through every contraction, wipes the sweat from your forehead, whispers encouragement in your ear.
And you can see it in his eyes - not fear, but determination. Love. Partnership.
Hours pass. The pain intensifies. You're exhausted, shaking, ready to give up.
"I can't do this," you gasp.
"Yes, you can." Peter's face is right there, his eyes locked on yours. "You can do this. You're the strongest person I know. And I'm right here with you. Every step."
"I'm scared."
"I know. But we've got this. You and me. We've handled everything else together. We can handle this too."
"Right here," you repeat. "Right now."
"That's right. Stay with me."
And then, finally - finally - the doctor says, "One more push."
You bear down with everything you have left, Peter's hand gripping yours, his voice in your ear -
And then there's a cry.
A loud, indignant wail that fills the room.
"It's a boy," the doctor announces.
Peter makes this sound - half laugh, half sob - and you look up to see his face transformed with joy.
The nurse places the baby on your chest - this tiny, squirming person covered in vernix and blood and absolutely perfect.
"Oh my God," Peter breathes, reaching out with a shaking hand to touch the baby's tiny fist. "Oh my God, look at him."
The baby's fingers curl around Peter's thumb, holding on tight.
"He's perfect," Peter says, tears streaming down his face. "He's absolutely perfect."
"He looks just like you," you whisper.
And he does. Even now, minutes old, you can see it. The same nose. The same chin. The same dark hair.
Peter leans down, his forehead resting against yours, his hand still held captive by the baby's tiny fingers. "We did it," he says, his voice wrecked with emotion. "We actually did it."
"We did."
"Thank you." He kisses you - soft and reverent. "Thank you for this. For him. For us. For everything."
The nurse comes to take the baby for measurements and tests. Peter watches, his eyes never leaving his son, a smile permanently fixed on his face.
"You did so good," he says, turning back to you. He leans down, pressing his forehead to yours. "You were amazing. Absolutely amazing."
"We were amazing," you correct.
"Yeah. We were."
When they bring the baby back, cleaned and swaddled, Peter asks if he can hold him. The nurse shows him how to support the head, how to cradle him properly.
Peter takes his son into his arms like he's holding the most precious thing in the world. Because he is.
He sits in the chair beside your bed, staring down at the baby with an expression of pure wonder.
"He really does look like me," Peter says quietly.
"Identical."
"Poor kid." But he's smiling. Really smiling. "What are we going to name him?"
You've talked about names for months, but nothing ever felt quite right. Now, looking at Peter holding his son - your son - you know exactly what his name should be.
"What about Ethan?" you suggest. "It means 'strong' and 'enduring.'"
Peter looks up at you, his eyes bright. "Ethan," he repeats, testing it out. He looks back down at the baby. "Ethan Highman." He smiles. "What do you think, buddy? Do you like that name?"
The baby yawns, his tiny face scrunching up.
Peter laughs - that same genuine, joyful laugh you've come to love. "I think that's a yes."
Ethan is crying - again - and you're trying to soothe him, bouncing him gently as you pace the living room. You've fed him, changed him, checked his temperature. Nothing seems to help.
"Hey." Peter appears in the doorway, hair messy, eyes half-closed. "Let me take him."
"You have work in the morning."
"I don't care." He crosses to you, gently taking Ethan from your arms. "Go back to bed. Get some sleep. We're a team, remember? That means we take turns."
You're too tired to argue. You kiss Ethan's forehead, then Peter's cheek, and stumble back to bed.
You wake a few hours later to sunlight streaming through the window. Panic hits immediately - Ethan should have woken you by now for a feeding.
You rush to the nursery, but it's empty. Then you hear it - Peter's voice, low and soft, coming from the living room.
You find him on the couch, Ethan asleep on his chest. Peter's eyes are closed, one hand resting protectively on the baby's back.
Your heart clenches.
You grab your phone, snapping a picture. Then another.
Peter's eyes flutter open. He sees you and smiles sleepily. "Hey."
"Hey yourself." You sit beside him carefully. "How long has he been asleep?"
"About an hour. He finally settled down around four."
"You should have woken me."
"You needed sleep." He looks down at Ethan, his expression so tender it makes your chest ache. "Besides, I wanted to. This is what we do. We take care of each other. We take care of him. Together."
You lean your head on Peter's shoulder, watching your son sleep. He really is identical to Peter - the same features, the same expressions.
"I love this," Peter says quietly. "All of it. Even the hard parts. Especially the hard parts, because they remind me that this is real. That we're doing this together."
"We are."
Ethan stirs, making a small sound. Peter immediately starts rubbing his back in slow circles, murmuring soft reassurances. The baby settles again, his tiny fist curling against Peter's chest.
"I used to think I knew what I wanted," Peter says. "But I didn't. Not really. Because what I have now - you, him, this life we're building - it's better than anything I could have imagined. Because it's real. Because we chose it. Because we're doing it together."
It's the best sound in the world - this pure, delighted giggle that makes both you and Peter stop whatever you're doing just to listen.
Peter is on the floor, making ridiculous faces at his son. Ethan is in his bouncer, his dark eyes - so much like his father's - bright with joy.
"You're going to make him think that's normal behavior," you say from the couch.
"It is normal behavior. For me, anyway." Peter grins up at you, then turns back to Ethan. "Right, buddy? Dad's hilarious."
Ethan squeals, his whole body wiggling with excitement.
You shake your head, smiling. Peter has been incredible these past six months. He does the night feedings without complaint, changes diapers like a pro, spends hours just talking to Ethan about everything and nothing. But more than that - he's been present. For you. For your relationship. He checks in constantly, making sure you're okay, making sure you feel seen and heard and loved.
"Come here," Peter says, reaching for you.
You join them on the floor, and Peter immediately pulls you close, kissing your temple. Ethan reaches for you, his chubby hands grasping at air.
"Hi, baby," you coo, leaning down to kiss his forehead.
"He's getting so big," Peter says, a note of wonder in his voice. "Wasn't he just born yesterday?"
"Six months ago."
"Impossible." Peter reaches out, running a finger down Ethan's cheek. Then he looks at you, his expression serious. "Can I tell you something?"
"Always."
"I'm so happy. Like, genuinely, completely happy. And I know that's because of you. Because of us. Because we built this together. We're partners in everything, and that makes all the difference."
"We do it together," you say.
"We do." He kisses you softly. "I've learned what really matters. It's not about chasing some perfect outcome. It's about showing up every day. Being present. Choosing each other. Building something real."
Ethan makes an indignant sound, as if protesting being left out of the conversation.
Peter laughs, scooping him up from the bouncer. "And you, of course. You're the best thing we ever did."
Ethan grabs Peter's nose, squeezing hard.
"Ow - okay, okay, I get it. You're strong. Just like your mom."
You watch them together - Peter holding Ethan close, Ethan's tiny hand still clutching his father's nose, both of them looking so much alike it's almost comical. Your heart feels too full, like it might burst.
"Do you ever think about how different things could have been?" you ask.
"All the time." Peter's arm tightens around you. "If I hadn't gotten on that plane. If I hadn't met you. If I'd stayed stuck in my anger." He pauses. "I think about the life I would have missed. This life. With you. With him."
"No regrets?"
"Not a single one." He turns to look at you, his expression serious. "You gave me something I didn't even know I needed. A real partnership. A real family. Something built on choice and presence and love - not fantasy, but reality. And it's better than anything I could have imagined."
"And it's ours," you add.
"And it's ours." He leans over, kissing you again, Ethan squished between you. "I love you. More than anything."
"We love you too," you whisper.
Peter pulls back slightly, his expression shifting to something you can't quite read. Nervous. Excited. Determined.
"Actually," he says, his voice a little unsteady, "there's something I want to ask you."
Before you can respond, he shifts Ethan in his arms and reaches into his pocket. Your breath catches when you see what he pulls out - a small velvet box.
"Peter -"
"Wait." He opens the box with one hand, revealing a simple, beautiful ring. Then he carefully places the box in Ethan's chubby hands, guiding the baby's fingers to hold it. "Okay, buddy. This is your big moment. Help Dad out here."
Ethan looks down at the box with wide eyes, then immediately tries to put it in his mouth.
"No, no -" Peter laughs, gently redirecting him. "Not for eating. For Mama. Can you give it to Mama?"
He guides Ethan's hands toward you, the ring box wobbling precariously in the baby's grip.
Your eyes are already filling with tears.
"I know this isn't some grand romantic gesture," Peter says, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm sitting on our living room floor in sweatpants, using our six-month-old as a wingman. But that's us, isn't it? Real. Messy. Perfect in all the imperfect ways."
Ethan makes a happy sound, shaking the box like a rattle.
"I've learned what it means to build something real," Peter continues. "To show up every day. To choose someone. And I choose you. Every single day, I choose you. I want to keep choosing you for the rest of my life."
He helps Ethan extend the box toward you, the baby's face breaking into a gummy smile.
"Will you marry me?" Peter asks. "Will you let me be your partner, your husband, Ethan's dad - officially and forever?"
You can't speak. Your throat is too tight, your vision blurred with tears. You reach out with shaking hands and take the ring box from Ethan's grasp. The baby immediately reaches for you, and you pull him close, kissing his forehead as tears stream down your face.
"Yes," you finally manage, your voice breaking. "Yes. Of course yes."
Peter's face transforms - pure joy, pure relief, pure love. He takes the ring from the box with trembling fingers and slides it onto your hand. It fits perfectly.
"I love you," he says, pulling you and Ethan into his arms. "I love you so much."
"I love you too." You're crying and laughing at the same time. "Both of you. Always."
Ethan squeals, clearly delighted by all the attention, and grabs a fistful of Peter's shirt.
"Good job, buddy," Peter says, kissing the top of Ethan's head. "You're officially the best wingman ever."
You look down at the ring on your finger, then at Peter, then at Ethan - your son, your family, your future.
"This is perfect," you whisper. "This is exactly perfect."
"Yeah?" Peter's eyes are bright with unshed tears.
"Yeah." You kiss him softly. "Because it's real. Because it's us."
He rests his forehead against yours, Ethan nestled between you. "I'm going to spend the rest of my life showing up for you. For us. Being present. Building this life together."
"I know you will. We both will."
Ethan makes a happy gurgling sound, as if agreeing.
This is it, you think. This is everything.
Not perfect. Not a fairy tale.
But real. And messy. And absolutely, completely yours.
Peter catches you staring at the ring and smiles. "What?"
"Nothing. Just - I'm proud of us. For building this. For being partners. For choosing each other."
His eyes glisten. "Me too. And now I get to choose you forever."
"Forever," you repeat, the word feeling like a promise.
He pulls you both close—you and Ethan—and for a moment, you just sit there on the floor, wrapped up in each other. Engaged. A family in every way that matters.
This is your family. Built on a foundation of real partnership, real presence, real love.
Summary: The morning after a complicated night, tension replaces intimacy. As they continue their road trip, emotions rise and secrets come to light, revealing that the situation is far more complicated than it seemed. Even though they both know they should pull away, their connection is hard to ignore. By the end, they’re left in uneasy silence—aware that what’s happening between them isn’t simple, but not ready to walk away either.
Warning/Rating: 18+; explicit, graphic sexual activity (manual/oral stimulation, penetration, orgasm described in detail), protected sex, language; emotional damage; divorce
Part 1/2/3/4/5
Word Count: 2.8 K
Your eyes flutter slowly open when the sunlight streaming through the gap in the motel curtains hits them, it is harsh and unforgiving. For a moment, you forget where you are. What you did. Then you feel the weight of Peter’s arm across your waist, his breath warm against the back of your neck, and everything comes rushing back.
The anger. The tension. The way he kissed you like he was drowning.
You don’t move, not wanting to break whatever spell kept him soft and pliant beside you throughout the night. But then his breathing changes, and you know he’s awake. He’s now tense, pulling away from you.
“Morning,” you say quietly.
He doesn’t respond right away. When you turn to lay on your back, you look over at him and he’s staring at the ceiling, jaw already clenched. The peace from last night is gone, replaced by something that looks a lot like regret.
“Morning,” he finally says, his voice rough with sleep.
He sits up, running both hands through his hair. His back is now to you, and you can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his spine is rigid. He’s already pulling away, building his walls back up.
“Peter-”
“We should get going,” he says, standing abruptly. “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover today.”
He doesn’t look at you as he stands from the bed, gathers his clothes from the floor, and disappears into the bathroom. Not once meeting your gaze with his own. You hear the shower start, and you sink back into the bed - which unfortunately still smells like sex and his cologne - feeling something cold settle in your chest.
This is how it’s going to be, then.
By the time you’re both dressed and checked out, Peter has perfected his mask of professionalism. He loads the bags into the trunk, holds the passenger door open for you with exaggerated politeness, and starts the car without a word.
For the first thirty minutes, it’s spent in completel silence. He keeps his attention on the road, hands at ten and two, his jaw clenched so tight you’re surprised his teeth don’t crack. Every line of his body screams tension, but it’s different from yesterday. Yesterday was frustration with the world. Today is something more specific. More personal.
“Sleep ok?” you finally ask, unable to take the unbearable silence.
“Fine.”
“Peter-”
“I slept fine. Thank you for asking.” His tone is clipped, formal, like you’re a stranger he’s being forced to make small talk with.
You stare at him with narrowed eyes. “Are you serious right now?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You’re acting like nothing happened.”
His jaw clenches harder. “I’m acting professional.”
“Professional,” you repeat flatly.
“Yes.”
“We fucked last night, Peter. Twice. Your face was buried between my legs. Professionalism kind of went flying out the window.” He flinches at your words, knuckles going white from the death grip he has on the steering wheel. “That was-” he stops, shaking his head slightly. “That was a mistake.” The word lands like a slap to the face, making you turn to look out the window, something hot and angry rising in your chest. “A mistake.
“Yes.”
“Which part? The first time or the second? Or maybe when you spooned me all night? Was that a mistake too?”
“All of it,” he says, but his voice cracks slightly on the words. “All of it was a mistake.”
“Bullshit.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said bullshit.” You said, turning back to face him. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to act like I seduced you or like you didn’t want it just as much as I did.”
“I never said-”
“You’re acting like it. You’re actling like last night was something I did to you instead of something we did together.” His jaw works, and you can see him struggling with something. “It shouldn’t have happened.”
“But it did.”
“And now we move on.”
“Just like that?”
“Yes. Just like that.” but he won’t look at you, and his hands are almost as white as a ghost at this point. You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m being realistic.”
“You’re being a coward.” that gets his attention. His head snaps in your direction, eyes flashing with anger. “What did you just say?”
“You heard me. You’re being a coward. You’re scared of what you felt last night, so you’re running away from it.”
“I’m not-” he stops, shaking his head again. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then explain it to me.”
“There’s nothing to explain.”
“Peter-”
“Drop it,” he snaps. “Just drop it, okay? We made a mistake. It’s over. We’re moving on.” but you can see the way his hands are trembling, the way his breathing has gone shallow. You can feel the tension radiating off him in waves, and it’s not anger this time. It’s something else. Something more complicated.
“Pull over,” you say.
“What?”
“Pull the car over.”
“We need to keep-”
“Pull the fucking car over, Peter.”
He stares at you for a long moment, then jerks the wheel to righ, pulling onto the shoulder of the highway. He puts the car in park but doesn’t shut it off, just sits there with his hands still death gripping the steering wheel.
“What?” he says, his voice tight.
“Look at me.”
“No.”
“Peter - look at me.”
He reluctantly turns his head and the look in his eyes nearly breaks you. It’s not anger. It’s fear.
“Talk to me,” you plead.
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“There’s everything to talk about. You’re falling apart and pretending you’re not.” he laughs, but it sounds broken. “I’m fine.”
Now it’s your turn to laugh, but there is no humor in it. “You’re not fine. You haven’t been fine since we got in this stupid car yesterday. Maybe longer.”
He turns away from you, staring back out the windshield at the empty highway ahead. He doesn’t say anything. Not right away. But then he speaks.
“My ex-wife is pregnant.”
The words hang in the air between you, heavy and complicated. You hadn’t known he was divorced, hadn’t known much about his personal life, but this changes everything. “How far along?” you ask, surprised you were even able to get the words out. “Seven months..” his voice is barely above a whisper. “It’s a girl. We’re having a girl.”
Your stomach drops, you feel sick. “Peter-”
“I know,” he says quickly, resting his forehead against the steering wheel now. “I know what you’re going to say. I know what kind of person this makes me. I know-” he pauses, clearing hsi throat. “I know I'm a piece of shit.”
“I wasn’t going to say that.”
“You should.” he finally looks back at you again, and there are tears in his eyes. “You should say it because it’s true. Sarah is at home, seven months pregnant with our daughter, and I should be there. I should be helping her, supporting her, preparing to be a father. Instead I'm here with you, and all I can think about is how much I want to touch you again.”
Your eyes widen. “Peter-”
“I haven’t felt like this in years,” he continues, the words spilling out of him now. “Maybe ever. Sarah and I - we were good together once. We made sense but by the end it was just comfortable. Safe. We got divorced six months ago, and then she found out she was pregnant, and now everything is-” he stops, pressing his palms into his eyes. “And then you. You make me feel like I'm losing my mind. Like i’m seventeen again and everything is too much and not enough at the same fucking time.”
“That’s not-”
“I’m terrified.” he admits, his voice breaking. “I should be focused on becoming a father. I should be at doctor’s appointments, helping Sarah get ready, figuring out how to co-parent with my ex-wife, but I don’t want to think about any of that. I want to stay in this shitty car with you forever. I want to pull over at every motel between here and LA and spend the night learning every inch of your body. And that makes me the worst fucking person.”
You don’t respond. Unsure what to say. There’s nothing you really can do that will make this better, that will make it okay because it’s not okay. None of it is. “We should stop,” you finally say. “We should stop before this gets worse.”
“I know.”
“We should forget what happened last night and just get through this trip.”
“I know.”
“Peter-”
He kisses you.
It’s desperate, guilty, and wrong, but you kiss him back anyway. His hands cup your face, and you feel the slight tremble in them. “We can’t,” you gasp against his lips.
“I know.”
“This is wrong.”
“I know.”
But neither of you stops. He pulls you across the center console, and you end up straddling his lap in the driver’s seat. The steering wheel digs into your back. “Backseat,” he breathes against your mouth. “We need - backseat. Now.”
You scramble off of his lap and over the center console to the back seat. It’s graceless and desperate, and he follows immediately, nearly falling as he climbs between the seats. Suddenly you’re in the cramped backseat together, the space impossibly small.
“This is the last time,” he says, but his hands are already sliding under your shirt. “After this, we stop. We have to stop.”
“Okay,” you breathe, even as you’re reaching for his belt.
“I mean it,” his voice is rough. “I can’t - I can't keep doing this.”
“I know.”
But both of you know it’s a lie. You can see it in his eyes, in the way his hands are already pulling your shirt over your head. He tosses it somewhere in the front seat, and then his mouth is on your neck, your collarbone, trailing down.
“We’re terrible people,” you whisper.
“I know.” His breath is hot against your skin. “God, I know.”
You should absolutely stop. You should push him away, climb back into the front seat, finish this drive in silence. Instead, your fingers thread through his hair and pull him closer.
The backseat is cramped - you're pressed back against the door, your legs bent awkwardly. Peter’s trying to find space for his knees, his shoulders hitting the roof of the car as he leans over you. It’s uncomfortable and graceless, but then his mouth closes around your nipple and nothing else matters.
“Peter-” you arch up at the sensation. “Tell me to stop,” he says against your breast, tongue cirlcing the sensitive bud. “Please. Tell me to stop.”
“I can’t.”
He groans, and moves to your other breast. His hands move between your bodies, working the buttom of your jeans. You lift your hips to help him, and he pulls them down along with your underwear in one swift motion. “Fuck,” he mutteres, sitting back on his heels - or trying to, there’s not enough space. He’s bent at an awkward angle, his head hitting the roof. “This car is-”
“I don’t care.” you reach for him, pulling him back down. “I don’t care about the car.”
He kisses you again, rougher and more despereate. His hands roam your body, wanting to memorize every inch, every curve. When his fingers slide between your legs, you moan into his mouth. “You’re so wet,” he breathes, his fingers cirlcing your clit. “Fuck, you’re-”
“Please,” you beg. “Peter, please.”
“I should-” he practically panting, his forehead pressed against yours. “I should take my time-”
“We don’t have time.” your hands are now fumbling with his belt, getting it undown and pushing them down with his boxers just enough to free his cock. “I know, but I can’t stop thinking about it. About this. It’s driving me insane.” you can see the guilt, but underneath it is raw need. Want. desperation. It mirrors how you’re feeling.
He shifts, trying to find a position that works in the cramped space. He finally manages to position himself between your legs, one foot braced against the floor, the other knee on the seat. “Wait,” he says suddenly, reaching for his wallet. “Condom. I need-”
You watch him gumblr with the wrapper, finally getting it open and rolls it on. “Last time,” he says again, but it sounds like something he doesn’t quite believe.
“Last time,” you echo.
He positions himself at your entrance, then pushes forward, just the tip, and you both groan. “Fuck,” he breathes. “Fuck, you feel-” he doesn’t finish. Instead, he pushes in further, slow and steady, and you can feel every inch of him stretching you. It’s an awkward, uncomfortable position, but the sensation of him filling you makes everything else fade. “Oh god,” you gasp when he’s fully inside you. “Peter-”
“I know. Fuck - I know.”
He starts moving - it’s hard and desperate and tinged with self-loating. The car starts rocking with each thrust, the suspension creaking. Your back slides against the leather seat, and you have to brace aginasr the window to keep from hitting your head on the door. “Is this-” he pants. ”Am I hurting you?”
“No.” you moan, wrapping your legs aroun dhis waist as best you can, pulling him deeper. “Don’t stop. Please - don’t stop.”
He leans down and buries his face in your neck, and you can feel his breath hot against your skin. His hips snap forward again and again, finding a rhythm despite the awkward position. One of his hands grips at your hips while the other is braced against the back seat. His thrusts grow harder, more desperate - seeing the inner battle behind his eyes as he fucks you into the backseat.
His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit, and you cry out his name. “Come for me,” he says roughly against your ear. “Please. I need - I need to feel you come.” his fingers work your clit in tight circles, and combined with the relentless thrust of his hips, you can feel your orgasm building.
“Peter-” your nails dig into his shoulders, making him. “I’m close. I’m-”
“Yes.” he groans, his thrusts becoming more erratic, harder. “Come for me - let me feel it.”
Your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, crashing over you with an intensity that steals your breath. Your walls clench around him, whole body tensing, and you hear yourself cry out his name. “Fuck,” peter groans, and then he’s coming too, his hips jerking forward as he spills into the condom. His face is curied in your neck, groaning. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
He collapses on top of you, both of you breathing hard. His weight is heavy and warm, and you can feel his heart racing against your chest. Neither of you moves. Neither of you speaks.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers against your neck, his voice broken. “I’m so sorry.”
You don’t know if he’s apologizing to you or to Sarah or his unborn daughter or to himself. Maybe all of the above.
“Me too,” you whisper back.
He lifts his head to look down at you. “What are we doing?” he asks.
“I don’t know.”
He kisses you again, this time soft and gentle, and it’s somehow worse than the desperate fucking. It’s tender. It means something and that makes it worse.
Eventually, he pulls away, disposing of the confom and fixing his clothes. You do the same, and then you’re both climbing back into the front seats, not looking at each other.
He starts the car. Pulls back onto the highway. The silence between you is different now—heavier, weighted with guilt and want and the knowledge that you're both terrible people. You watch the landscape blur past your window and try not to think about his ex-wife. His pregnant ex-wife. His daughter who will be born in two months.
“I’m sorry,” Peter says suddenly, his voice rough.
“Don’t.”
“I’m sorry,” he repeats.”For all of this. For dragging you into my mess.”
“I’m not exactly innocent here.”
“Still.”
Eventually the silence stretches between you. Miles pass. The sun climbs higher in the sky, harsh and unforgiving.
Then you feel it—his hand reaching across the center console, finding yours. His fingers lace through yours, and he squeezes gently. It's such a small gesture, but it feels monumental. More intimate somehow than anything you did in the backseat.
You squeeze back.
He doesn't let go. Not when you pass through small towns. Not when you stop for gas. Not when the highway stretches empty before you. He just holds your hand, his thumb tracing small circles on your skin, and you let him.
It doesn't make it okay. Nothing can make this okay. But for now, in this moment, it's enough.
The road stretches ahead, and neither of you knows where it's leading. You just know you're not ready for it to end.
