Rustle of the record out of its album, click of the shellac on the table, firmer click and the turntable comes to live, drop the needle, static-ky groove, and sweet, low sound.
He's heard it so many times he knows every note, but it still has a sweet spot; that little pocket of bliss.
Peter is curious. The hallway is silence; no indignant knocking on his door, no demands to be let back in.
'Good boy,' Peter thinks idly.
So obedient, for a wild boy.
That isn't entirely a surprise either: Joe's hero worship of Duncan: that need for approval. There are probably some daddy issues there that Peter has no interest in exploring, but the need for an authority figure: Peter can do that.
He drops his long frame into the sofa, musing about where he wants this to go. It was so unlikely that it was days, meals really, before Peter caught on.
The mysterious wooing practices of the wild Scottish chef.
When Peter realised what was going on, he took his time, waiting to see what Joe would do. It was entertaining to watch Joe play nonchalance. Savouring the food, delicious. The promise of appetite.
They would have to talk about it. Joe didn't seem to know what he wanted. The thought of making Joe tell him sends heat curling in Peter's belly.
Peter doesn't really care about that right now, he has more interesting things to think about.
Shrugs out of his suit jacket and lays it over the back of the sofa.
Peter stretches his legs out, rests his hands on his stomach, pressing lightly down. Savouring the slow build of hunger, the reminder of his own skin against the fabric of his clothing, the tingle that Joe's stubble left behind on his lips.
Peter had enjoyed kissing Joe. He was so eager, so intent.
Peter hadn't expected him to be that obedient. As if he had just been waiting for someone to come along and give him a little push.
Peter can't decide how he wants Joe; all the things he wants to do to the younger man.
The image of Joe stripped, on his hands and knees, eyes on the floor, waiting for Peter.
No, Peter wants him in leather. Shirtless, unforgiving leather trousers, the black boots he's seen the chef wear. Peter had noticed them right away. Beautiful black leather, likely beyond the chef's budget.
Joe is so pretty he really ought to be put on display.
Peter wants to watch Joe's face. Watch his pale skin flush: with lust or embarrassment it hardly mattered. Wants to watch those blue eyes get even wider, watch his irises eaten up by lust-blown pupils until just a crescent of blue is left. Such an innocent face, a lie that face.
Pale wrists linked behind the back of one of Peter's chairs: smooth leather cuffs and steel clasps keeping Joe right where Peter wants him.
Now that was an image. His cock appreciates it, certainly.
Peter would make Joe wait, stroll around the bound man, admiring. Joe's legs would sprawl just a little, leather taut across his thighs, faint hair on his chest, and thickening towards his stomach, pink nipples just begging to be tormented, his biteable throat.
Joe's skin is so pale. Peter wants to mark it.
Peter drags blunt nails across his own chest, teases a nipple through the fabric of his shirt. Little barely-there circles that make his lashes shutter.
Peter would stand behind Joe, stroke a hand through his smooth brown hair. Gentle, while the other hand sneaks around to roughly pinch a nipple.
Peter wants to know just how sensitive Joe's nipples are: find out what kind of teasing it takes to make them sensitive. For now he has to be content with his own, so he unbuttons his shirt, folds it and places it across his trousers. He alternates between light touches and shards of pain, roughly pinching and teasing his own nipples until his breath is coming out in quick little pants.
Peter would tease and bite the smooth skin of Joe's neck, learning the shell of his ears with teasing licks and sharp bites, the smooth bumps of spine. Imagines tracing a finger over the bulge in Joe's lap just to hear the sound he makes.
Peter lightly palms himself through his trousers, sighing a little.
He would get a good grip on Joe's hair and yank his head back, taking his mouth in a bruising kiss. Dirty wet kiss that's all teeth and tongue, fucking Joe's mouth as a promise of what was to come.
He would kiss him and tease him until the smaller man's hips were bucking up, desperate for anything. Joe would be such a pretty sight; cock trapped underneath that leather, skin flushed, lips bitten. Peter can nearly smell the warm scent of leather and Joe's arousal.
Peter would tease him through his trousers, keeping his touch light. As appealing as the thought of making Joe come in his pants is, Peter would never let him off that easy.
He'd wait, listening to the pants turn to soft moans, Joe cursing under his breath, wait to hear him say “Please.”
That would earn Joe some relief, or at least released from the trousers. Peter allows himself the same pleasure, unbuttoning his trousers, careful with the zip. Shucks his socks.
Joe's cock would be flushed dark, the tip slick with precome. Peter wants to know what Joe would feel like in his hand, learning his cock with slow teasing touches. Joe would arch against his grip, desperate for more.
Peter eases a hand down to tease himself through his pants, the fabric growing damp.
He shuts his eyes and imagines the Joe's cock in his hand.
Slides his hand inside of his pants and teases himself just like he would Joe: quick almost rough twists against the tip of his cock, and slow, light strokes along his length. Peter would get Joe to pick two numbers between one and twenty.
The anticipation of watching Joe struggle to decide, watching him wonder just what Peter plans to do: it’s delicious. The numbers say, twelve and nineteen would be turned against him, rapidly rubbing the slit and head of his cock twelve times and eighteen slow, light strokes.
And then Peter would switch.
It would never be quite enough to get Joe off. Peter opens his eyes and swallows. He ceases his teasing, breathing hard, easing himself off the edge.
He wants to get Joe to a place where the tease is better than the orgasm. Peter can't wait to hear all the sounds Joe makes, what he sounds like when he's right on the edge; if he gets louder or goes silent, strung out on lust.
Peter would pull away suddenly, enjoying the frantic protests it would undoubtedly earn from Joe.
“Did you know,” Peter would say, slowly tracing his thumb across the bow of Joe's top lip, “that your lips,” learning the bottom lip, “and your tongue” press his thumb against those bruised lips, demanding entry, “and fingers” pressing inside that hot, slick mouth, “contain most of the nerve endings in your body?” watching watch Joe suck on his fingers, teasing them with his tongue.
Peter shudders at the image.
He wants to fuck Joe's mouth. Fuck. Peter wants to watch Joe swallow him down, all the way to the hilt. Those pretty lips wrapped around his cock, wants to thrust hard and fast so that Joe is choking on him.
He's torn between bringing himself off at the thought of coming inside of Joe's mouth (stripes of come against his cheek, chin, and those pretty eyelashes of his) or dragging out the fantasy.
He could take his time, bring out a toy or two. Peter can usually get hard again with something inside of him, fingers or a cock or a toy hitting that sweet spot.
Either way, he should probably take this to his bed. He smiles at the thought of bending Joe over the sofa.
Peter turns the record player off. Silently makes his way to his bedroom, skin alive to everything.
Peter lays down on his bed, sheets smooth and cool against his hot skin. He lies with his left hand behind his head, the other slowly tracing the skin of his bare hip. He slides off his pants, breath coming fast.
Wraps his fingers around his cock. He decides against using anything but his fingers to get off.
He would untie Joe, having on his hands and knees on the floor. Peter would take his sweet time preparing Joe. Maybe trace his tongue down that lovely ass of his, learn the heat and taste of him. Slow, slow tease of fingers and tongue until Joe was whimpering, begging.
Peter strokes himself slowly, savouring the image. He can feel himself getting close, so he pulls in deep, slow breaths. Doesn't stop touching though, loving the edge of it.
Peter would stop, hold the cock-ring in front of him, waiting for Joe to focus.
“Do you need it? Or can you be a good- boy? Slut? Everyone seemed content to call him a wild boy, and wouldn't it be fun to turn that association on its head? - “be a good boy and wait for me to let you come?”
The needy, obedient Joe inside of Peter's fantasy knows what Peter wants to hear, and promises to wait.
“Don't you dare come,” Peter would warn.
Peter would push in, slowly. He wants to Joe so desperate for it that he barely notices the burn, wants greed, Joe pushing back before he's ready.
He begins stroking himself in earnest, eyes closed, lower lip between his teeth.
“Close, I'm, I'm, I need,” begging, so beautifully.
“You need to do as I say,” Peter would growl in his ear.
Peter would fuck Joe against the hard floor. Fast and hard enough to make his slick fingers slide against the wood floor, knees bruising. Peter
“Please, something, I can't-” voice cracking, so fucking hot.
Peter would take what he wanted. He suspects that Joe would love it, being treated like a body, just a thing for Peter to get off in. He wants to reduce the smaller man to wordless noise, animal and desperate. Taking it. Perfect.
Peter roughly fucks his fist, hips snapping. Feeling it build, arching into it.
He comes so hard he can't make any noise, it's so sharp and sweet and goes on and on, stroking himself until it's too much, hissing at his touch on his oversensitive cock.
Peter collapses against the bed, panting.
He gets his breath back, boneless, pleased. Peter slides his fingers through the come that's slick across his stomach. Grins.
Joe. He'd still be hard. Full of Peter's come and doesn't that make his spent cock twitch. So does the thought of Joe begging.
Peter would let him come. Eventually. Peter gives a content hum. A shower, then bed.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow is going to be interesting.