duplicity

the making of beds

I'm officially back! Thank you everyone for being patient. My creativity really left me there for a bit, but I'm definitely going to finish this story. I love VegasPete more than anything (seriously, they took over my 1st favorite ship of all time from a ship who had been my favorite for almost 10 years). I hope you all enjoy this chapter :)

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PETE

He busied himself by pulling on his clothes. Pete's hair was still damp from the shower, his neck tingling from the feeling of Vegas walking up behind him beneath the water and lathering his throat with kisses. He hadn't planned to do more. The shower had been to wash off the remnants of his betrayal, but Pete had melted at the feeling of Vegas grabbing his hips and pressing his cock to his ass, half-hard and ready for another round.

Without an ounce of hesitation, Pete had turned in Vegas' arms and pulled him into a kiss so deep that it felt as if they could only survive off the air that they breathed into each other's lungs. Vegas had backed him into the tile of the shower, hitched up his legs, and slid into him with a grunt, Pete leaving the proof of their entanglement as sharp, red marks scratched down his back.

Now Pete knew he had to go, before this became more than what it should. He could feel the urge to stay pulling at him. His bones and muscles didn't want to hold up the flesh of his body, instead the desire to lay back on the bed and spread his legs once more sung through every ounce of him.

He didn't need that. Neither of them needed that. Pete shook the desire off and fixed his shirt. It was strange how he could sense Vegas behind him, leaning against the frame to the bathroom, wrapped in a bathrobe courtesy of the hotel.

Vegas had tried to urge him into the second one provided. Pete had shaken his head and pushed it away, although he'd almost floundered in his resolve to resist as Vegas touched the soft, warm fabric to his skin. A shuddering breath and a twist away, and Pete had grabbed the towel to quickly dry himself off.

He was still a little wet in his rush, but it would have to do.

"You should stay."

Pete's body froze at the words as he picked up his wallet and phone from where they'd fallen from his jeans. He tapped it on, relieved when there were no new messages. Maprang must've bought what he'd said about him being sick, but he fully expected to see her tomorrow with a container of soup—that was just the sort of girlfriend that she was.

"I can't." Pete turned, looking to Vegas briefly before pulling his eyes away. He couldn't look at him for more than a moment—not out of any kind of guilt because it was strangely absent, but because despite the absence of guilt, he just couldn't do this again. They couldn't do this.

A one-time fling, a lapse in judgment, that's one thing. But if he were to give in to Vegas like every nerve-ending in his body was screaming at him to, then it'd be a full-blown affair and Pete wasn't entirely sure he was prepared for whatever that meant.

"You want to," Vegas argued, stepping forward and off the frame of the door. Pete's breath hitched as fingers grazed beneath his chin and then tilted his head up. Vegas' hair was still damp as well, mostly pushed back away from his face, but there were a few strands falling in front of his eyes.

Pete had the urge to reach up and push them away. He didn't know what that meant.

"Want to or not isn't the issue," he replied because that was the truth. He wanted to, of course he fucking wanted to—this time spent with Vegas was freeing. It was a side of Pete that he'd been too terrified to let out and now that he had, the idea of shoving him back into the closet, into a box, made him feel sick. But he had duties he had to fulfill, promises he'd made. Pete was loyal—he couldn't go back on that. "I can't."