Chapter Text
Peter bit down. Paul fought himself to hold back a scream. Searing pain shot through his neck. Blood drained down his lip. Peter winced as Paul yanked his hair hard as humanly possible. Paul furrowed his brows tightly. Curses, Insults and everything in between ached to escape Paul’s lips. Peter clasped his wrists so tightly his hands went pale and throbbed. Paul gave a long, guttural moan.
He shut his eyes as tight as his weak body would let him. His back burnt like he laid on a scorching stove. The wall froze his chest every time he crashed into it. Peter thrusted with the force of a semi-truck. His nails could’ve dug through Paul’s bruised but hips. A sinking feeling conquered the pain.
Peter was balls deep in Paul, who felt as if his hips were about to shatter—but he’d have it no other way. Peter’s harsh, warm breaths hit his sweat-drenched skin, sending his heart fluttering like a bird.
The smell of Peter’s cologne easily got him drunk. Paul tensed. Euphoria crashed through his veins, pumping his brain stupid. Peter sucked, nipped and full on bit like he was trying to take a chunk out of him. Paul let out a broken gasp, chills running up his spine. He burst into a trembling fit. Peter’s hands crawled up to his shoulders. He grasped them, shoving him—Paul tore away.
His hands landed on Peter’s waist. The two locked eyes. Paul slumped. His eyes sat ungodly wide as he heaved for air. Peter looked up. His stare was as dark as a highway during a blackout. Peter fought to catch his breath. Paul’s fled long ago. Bedclothes were strewn so far in the room it had to be impossible. The bookshelf laid on the ground like it was a murder scene.
Books, clothes and everything in a basic bedroom was on the floor now. The air stunk like sex. Paul wanted to feel bad for the neighbors—besides, the window was open after all. Peter straightened himself out. He’d come in his work clothes. Full black suit. His hat was somewhere on the ground. His once perfectly gelled hair hung in his face.
Paul wanted to hit him. Peter felt the same. That’s what they both wanted, right?
Then why were their lips together again? Why were they on the floor? Paul leaned into Peter as deeply as he could. His heart fluttered in his chest. His lungs constricted like a python hugged them. Peter let out little moans as he cupped his face.
His nails burrowed into his skin. Paul straddled him like he kept him from plunging off a cliff. His hands slithered around Peter’s throat.
“Mr. Stanley, over here!”
Paul’s eyes widened for a moment as he snapped back into it. He relaxed his slightly tensed shoulders, easing out a subtle breath. His eyes begged to go blind as another camera flash met him the moment he turned. His head throbbed.
“Mr. Stanley, Mr. Stanley!” Another eager voice exploded.
Paul turned with a wide, enthusiastic grin.
“Mr Stanley, how is heaven’s on fire?”
Paul smiled wide for another camera. It was like a warzone behind the red rope as one person pushed the other like a starving animal for the last morsel of food. Cameras flashed like stars—if there was no sky left to be seen. Commotion yelled over thoughts Paul didn’t have. Muscle memory was a blessing.
“The shooting has been more enjoyable than anything, really.” He replied happily, trying to make eye contact with the man talking to him. All the faces blurred. Paul’s smile faded a bit.
A little harder. He’d get it. Quick. They’d see him lose his composure- “I’m enjoying it almost as much as I am this event.” He was soft as a cushion. A little lighthearted smile spread across his lips. His large, dull brown eyes failed to smile. His eyes still scanned the crowd for whoever had yelled to him.
“Mr. Stanley!” A woman called out. Paul looked over. Another face buried by the crowd. “Could we catch a glance?”
“Mr-”
Clang!
The fork fell from Paul’s fingers. His eyes focused. A couple in the finest outfits imaginable sat in front of him. Birds sang as they fluttered from rooftop to rooftop. Paul sighed. A perfect combination of smoky and peppery flooded Paul’s nose, hugging his lungs like an old pal. He didn’t even chew. Steak imported fresh from japan melted in his mouth, leaving behind a sweet, nutty kind of taste.
“So how is it, mister Stanley?” The woman said over the gentle, muffled jazz coming from inside the restaurant.
Paul looked over the marble railing and off to the city. Cars jammed the street like ants. Green trees made rows in front of concrete giants. Clouds drifted through the air, taking their sweet time. “I think it’s wonderful. The view’s fine too.” He said with delight as his eyes landed back on her. “This is probably the most expensive thing I’ve ever had.” He added a pinch of humor.
“You’ve done so much for the public, mister Stanley.” The man’s eyes glimmered with admiration. He pieced his fingers together, laying them on the table and leaning close. Excitement melted from his voice. “Even going in to work I hear about your new movie—.. Rumor has it you’ll be singing.”
Paul giggled. He crossed one leg over the other, leaning forward. “Well, maybe it’s true, maybe it’s not.” He smiled playfully. “You won’t know till’ it comes out.”
“Thank you, Stanley.”
“My pleasure.-”
Paul blinked. His hands were set neatly on his lap. He sunk into the leather chair. He looked up. A camera and microphone landed straight in his face. “Mr. Stanley?” Her honey-drenched voice said again. He looked over, raising his eyebrows slightly. Hers drew together. Her face softened.
“Oh, yes?”
“What was it like having dinner with the president?” A smile spread on her bright red lips. Quiet whistled behind her. “He said you were a joy to be around—a real charmer!” She said through a chuckle.
He nodded slowly. “I was—but he could beat me in a long shot.” Paul said gently, leaning close. looked straight at the camera with a small, pursed smile. “Make sure he knows I’d do it again.”
“Do it again.”
“-Mr Stanley.”
Paul looked over. A woman lowered the camera. Her smile was bright as the sun. “Thank you for the picture.”
“No problem.” He smiled a bit wider. His eyes fell to the red rope. Those words brushed back the little bit of anxiety nestled somewhere inside for now. His gaze stopped at the red carpet under his feet.
“Do it again.”
“You’re too kind for your own good, mister Stanley.” The man said through a mouthful of steak, raising his fork and gesturing loosely.
The woman chuckled cheerfully. The man joined her. So did Paul. Paul picked up his fork. He couldn’t help but to look down. The thing had to be hand carved. ‘Made in Italy’ was written in between the dancing baroque patterns. He ran his finger down it. Streaks of light ran perfectly down spotless silver as he tilted it.
“Do it again.”
Now.
Paul rested his arm on the chair. What a week he had. His eyes hit the portrait in front of it. It had come straight out of a museum in Paris for an absurd but reasonable amount of money. A woman stood, staring out at the viewer with an electrifying gaze. Her blond hair blew to the side just like the white gown she wore. A crowd bustled in the back. Yet the still woman stood out.
Was it the colors working their magic? Were all the lines pointing to her?
The ornate frame sparkled pure gold. The walls were gilded. The starch white love seat was embroidered with classical roses and flowy vines. The coffee table was made of mahogany. Paul looked down. His face was just as distant as his eyes. His heart screamed that something was missing. He had everything he wanted though, didn’t he?
So then why was Peter’s face still in the back of his mind?