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Peter rounds the end of the kitchen peninsula towards Stiles and stands a little too close. The files he brought with him fan out across the tile in front of Stiles when he tosses them down. He asks, “aren't you going to offer me anything? Coffee, perhaps?” A little smile that Stiles knows well by now plays on Peter's lips.

Stiles taps a finger on the files trying to wrestle his lust and frustration under control enough to get through this interaction without embarrassing himself. His erection has barely flagged at all this whole time, and it's becoming a little awkward to keep facing the counter with Peter so close, looking at him.

“No french press. Sorry, but I don't think you'd like the Folgers I use. Oh well.” Stiles straightens up the files. “Well, I have these now. Derek will get them first thing.” He holds his breath when Peter leans closer. Fuck, fuck, fuck . He doesn't say “so you can leave now, and I can jerk off as fast and as hard as possible in peace .”

Peter's hand comes up to rest on Stiles’ lower back. “I apologise for interrupting your evening, Stiles.” His voice is a fraction deeper; his tone is completely unapologetic. That coupled with Peter’s close proximity and his hand on Stiles’ back have Stiles shivering. It's as much arousal as trepidation.

“I must have intruded on something important.” Peter's hand moves until just his fingertips are skirting along the small of Stiles’ back. “Maybe there is something I could offer you instead.”

Peter shifts closer still until his chest presses against Stiles’ shoulder and arm, breath ghosting across Stiles’ neck as his hand drifts down and cups one ass cheek. His palm is wide, warm through the slick material of Stiles’ basketball shorts.

This is not where he'd pictured his night going when he'd first decided to reward himself with a nice slow fuck on his favorite dildo. It’s more like the setup of one of those cheesey pornos he used to watch on his laptop as a high schooler. It seems impossible that, even with the workplace flirtation, Peter is actually propositioning him. Stiles should say no.  

That would be the responsible and smart adult thing to do. But he and Peter have been skirting the line of inappropriate flirting for months now. Stiles had assumed Peter only engaged out of amusement in flustering his nephew's personal assistant; it had felt a little bit scandalous, but,  overall safe, to Stiles. Peter may be a partner at Derek's law firm, but Stiles technically works for an employment agency that hired him out.  

He knows what he should do. He needs to find it in himself to politely decline and establish a more professional boundary. Stiles should step out of Peter's reach, tell him to leave, and end all unnecessary interaction with him. He doesn't know if showing up at his apartment to drop off files for Derek was just a flimsy excuse for Peter to see him after hours, or not, but, truthfully, he doesn't care. Hot, older, gorgeous Peter Hale is here, hand on his ass, and all but asking outright to fuck.

Stiles clears his throat, but doesn't move away. He catches Peter's gaze and asks a question he knows the answer to. “How do you know you interrupted anything?”

Peter gives him a slow once over, fingers gripping Stiles’ ass so that his fingertips curve under the crease where ass meets thigh. He gives a little victorious smile. “I can smell the arousal on you. And the cheap lube you were using.” Peter leans closer, his other hand coming up to rub at the obscene tent in Stiles’ shorts that he'd been trying to hide. “I can smell how wet you are.”

Stiles' hips rock into the light pressure, abandoning any pretense of ending things. “You aren't supposed to use your abilities around humans. It's rude.” He breathlessly chastises.

Stiles was hired by Derek because Stiles has a history with working around werewolves. He knows the etiquette regarding human and werewolf interaction. This definitely breaks that decorum. Not that Stiles has ever much cared about those boundaries when it benefits him.

Peter hums. “How am I supposed to ignore it when your body is practically an engraved invitation? Do you want me to leave?” He thumbs at the head of Stiles’ cock.

“No.” Stiles turns his head, lips parted. He swipes his tongue over his bottom lip, watching as Peter's pupils dilate.

“Do you want me to take care of you?” Peter’s fingers slide along Stiles’ crease, downward until he can push in at Stiles’ hole.

Stiles lets out a tiny noise and spreads his feet, accommodating. “Please.” He braces his hands on the edge of the counter.

Peter growls, “tell me what you were doing when I interrupted you, baby.” He bites along the join of Stiles’ neck and shoulder, teeth blunt where the collar of Stiles’ shirt is stretched out from age.

Stiles flushes. The steady pressure on his cock and the fingers toying with his rim through his shorts are convincing enough though. He shudders.

“I was trying to get off. It's been almost a week between work and Scott, my roommate, hanging around all the time. Was fucking myself with a dildo when you rang the bell.” His words come out rushed, tumbling from his mouth excitedly.

“Then you had to pretend to be calm and collected.” Peter tucks his hand into Stiles’ shorts. When he feels the elastic of the jockstrap Stiles has on, he hisses. “Fuck, baby. Let me see you.”

Stiles lets him yank his shorts down until they pool at his feet. He's standing there in a ratty t-shirt and the jockstrap he bought for himself because he'd thought it would look hot. That is, if he ever had a chance to go out and find someone to hook up with, someone who might appreciate the sight. He looks down to kick the shorts away, catches sight of the shiny reflection of Peter's dress shoes. He’s still dressed in the suit Stiles remembers him wearing at work today, sans jacket and tie.

“Look at you,” Peter practically purrs as he steps back to admire the view. “Pert little ass framed so nicely.” He smacks one ass cheek lightly. Stiles can feel it jiggle against the thin strap of elastic along the bottom of his ass.

“Please,” Stiles leans forward on his arms, tilting his hips back.

Peter isn't touching him at all now, and it feels as if he's been hard all night. Stiles needs some relief. Being exposed like this while Peter is still fully clothed, leaves Stiles vulnerable and feeling just the slightest delicate. He clenches his jaw at that thought, trying to suppress the urge to whine.

Finally, Peter's hands are back on him, thumbs pulling his cheeks apart so the cool air hits his most intimate place. He slides a thumb across his hole, circles it once, twice, then pushes in just enough to tug at the rim. “Yeah, you're ready to go, aren't you.”

Stiles whimpers when he hears the unmistakable sound of a zipper. He looks over his shoulder, back at Peter. “Oh fuck.”

Peter hasn't bothered to undo his belt or pull his shirt out of his pants, just unzipped and pulled his cock out. Stiles curses again and drops his chin to his chest, face burning at the effect that visual has on him. He's going to be jerking off to this for years . When Peter slides his cock along Stiles’ crease, blunt head catching and rubbing against his hole, Stiles shivers.

“What do you want, baby?” He keeps up the motion, fucking the shallow channel of Stiles’ ass crack slowly. Peter leans over Stiles’ back until he can get his mouth against Stiles’ ear. “Tell Daddy.”

Stiles whines, mortification and arousal running through him at Peter's words. He's never been into this sort of thing, never really even been into older guys. But Peter seems to be the outlier here. Stiles’ cock straining against the confines of his jockstrap is a clear indication he's into everything going on. He feels hot all over, hot and wanted in a way he hasn't felt in a long time. Stiles licks his lip again.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

“Fuck me, Daddy.” Stiles feels only slightly ridiculous saying that, but quickly forgets when Peter starts to push inside. His mouth takes over, reins cut. “Oh, fuck, Daddy, yes .”

Peter's cock is wide, splits Stiles open and takes his breath away. It's a rough slide from half-dried lube, but Stiles had worked himself open slowly earlier enough that the friction only adds to the pleasure. The sting dulls as Stiles adjusts to the intrusion, groaning. Once Peter is all the way in, he stills, and Stiles tries to catch his breath, overwhelmed.

He hasn't been fucked in a couple months. The last time he hooked up was with a woman he met at one of Boyd's art exhibits. He'd let her ride his fingers and she'd blown him in an empty hallway. Since then, he's mostly just jerked it in the shower or in bed before he has to get up too fucking early. Derek likes his coffee delivered to his desk before anyone is on the floor, while he's pouring over briefings as the sun comes up over the cityscape. Stiles has missed getting fucked by a real, live cock.

He likes not having complete control over the pace, depth, or angle. Stiles pushes back, impatient for Peter to start moving. He does it just to feel Peter’s weight behind him, anchoring him to the side of the kitchen counter. This is nothing like fucking a silicone dildo, wrist and back straining at the awkward angle. Claws run up beneath his shirt, along his spine have him freezing in place, shivering at the implied threat.

“Be a good boy for me, baby. Let me take care of you.” Peter grinds in, his claws dragging once more down Stiles’ back in something between a tickle and a sting. He wraps his hands around Stiles’ hips and starts pulling out in a delicious slide.

Stiles moves his arms so his elbows are braced on the counter top. His skin slips a little where sweat has beaded up. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Stiles chants as Peter pushes back in, nailing him just right.

He keeps a harsh pace, grinding in every few strokes with the shaft of his cock pressed up and playing Stiles’ prostate perfectly. Stiles can't stop the noises crawling up the back of his throat, little ah sounds that he would deny later. Right now though, fuck , he doesn't care what he sounds like as long as Peter doesn't stop.

“That's it.” Peter twists one hand in the band of elastic that circles Stiles’ hips, tugging him back by the jockstrap. Peter is getting a little breathless now too, which is gratifying.

Stiles leans down against the counter, cheek sliding across the tile every time Peter pounds into him. Eyes shut in ecstasy, he moans, “daddy.”

Peter fucks in quick, then pulls out slow again. The head of his cock catching on Stiles’ rim, holding him open. He uses his other hand to push Stiles’ t-shirt up so he can lick a line up his spine. Peter's teeth are sharp when he bites at Stiles’ shoulder blade.

Stiles jerks against the counter, away from Peter with a guttural sound. Almost as soon as the pain registers, Peter's tongue soothes the abused skin. He sucks as it, rolling his hips forward until he's buried all the way inside again. When he pushes back up, one hand braced on the tile next to Stiles’ elbow, Stiles sobs. He's overstimulated with pain and pleasure, his nervous system conflicted.

“I didn't break the skin, Stiles.” Peter croons. “But I left you a nice little mark.”

Stiles’ mouth, always ready to say something, fails him. All he can do is pant and make broken sounds. It feels like he's lit up from the inside, growing brighter and brighter until he'll just explode like a supernova. He reaches down to slide the front of his jockstrap out of the way so he can stroke himself. Just a little more and he'll be there.

Peter sets a punishing pace, quick and rough and exactly what Stiles needs. It's not even a full minute before Stiles is coming, splattering the cabinets and slicking up his knuckles. His thighs are burning from the position, lock up at the climax running through him. Then he's slumping across the counter, strings cut and totally fucked out as he comes down. He works to clench around Peter, make it as good for him as he can.

“God damn it, baby.” Peter groans grinding in and stilling as he empties himself in Stiles. “So good for me.” He thrusts a few times, only moving enough to rub against Stiles’ prostate. A shocky thing that has Stiles sucking in breath as his fingers scramble across the tile, caught.

Peter steps back as he carefully pulls all the way out. He tugs Stiles up by his jockstrap.

Stiles whines and turns around, seeking touch after such a brutal and amazing fuck. He's rewarded with a kiss on the cheek, forehead, then lips. Peter’s arms surround him, hands slowly running up and down his back as they kiss.

They really shouldn't have done this. Stiles can hear a voice in the back of his head, scandalized, that sounds a little like Scott. He should not have let Peter fuck him. Still, Stiles deepens the kiss, tongue sliding across Peter's. He wraps a hand around the back of Peter's neck to hold him there while one of Peter's fingers gently edges around his rim. When he pushes the tip in, Stiles groans and shudders.

Peter smiles against Stiles' lips, then breaks the kiss and pulls his finger back out. When Stiles reluctantly lets him go, Peter makes a pleased noise. “You're going to smell like me for a while.”

Stiles blushes, suddenly remembering he's going to have to face Derek in less than twelve hours. Excitement runs through him at the thought. “It's not technically against the rules.” He bites his bottom lip.

“I like you.” Peter’s eyes sparkle, amused and fond. He stares Stiles down as he tucks himself back in and zips up. He barely looks like he's done more than had a couple drinks, if alcohol could affect werewolves. Sweat is drying along his hairline, face just a little red from exertion.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I bet you say that to all the PA’s you fuck.”

The words come out a little shallow. He grabs his shorts off the floor and pulls them back up so he doesn't have to see Peter's expression. It's not like he doesn't know what this is. It's a one-off. A really fucking hot one-off that Peter gets to feel smug about and Stiles gets to check off his sexual bucket list.

“But a rarely mean it.” Peter reels him in when Stiles tries to put some distance between them. He ducks his head so Stiles is forced to look at him. “And I do mean it, Stiles.”

He laughs because there's no fucking way, right? “Sure, man. It's okay, really. I don't expect this to be anything more than it is.”

Peter regards him for a moment then tugs Stiles against him. His lips are soft when he kisses him again. “Let me take you to dinner tomorrow.”

Stiles quirks his lips “what, you wanna be my sugar daddy now too?” He tugs at the hem of his shirt, straightening it to cover his anxiety.

“Sure, baby. I'll be whatever you want as long as you're mine.” Peter's got that stone cold look on his face that Stiles has learned means he's serious about winning. “Go out with me.”

Stiles drags Peter in by the neck, mouths crashing together once more. They're both grinning and it's more a clash of teeth than anything, kind of awkward but that doesn't matter.

When they break apart, Stiles says, “you could have asked me out like a normal person instead of fucking my brains out first.”

Peter runs the back of a finger down Stiles’ cheek. “But where's the fun in that?”