The Craigslist ad had been because Peter had been wonderfully, spectacularly drunk. Reservations for the Palm are hard to get, even for someone like Peter, and he's had his name down for eight months. He refuses to waste it. If he hadn't been trashed on expensive pinot noir, he would have considered maybe inviting his best friend, Chris, or taking out a niece or nephew. But no, he'd been three sheets to the wind and decided that he needed to share his Valentine's Day dinner reservations with a random stranger.
Peter groans as he reads over the ad. His head aches, his stomach is rebelling against him, the taste in his mouth is horrific, and the last thing he wants to do is read what his drunk self wrote. But he has to know why his email is blowing up with responses to his ad.
WANTED: VALENTINE'S DAY DATE
I have reservations for two at the Palm, but SHARON decided that she's more interested in sleeping with her yoga instructor than in continuing our relationship. I'd hate for reservations to a quality restaurant to go to waste simply because SHARON is a dirty liar.
Me: Lawyer in my thirties. Devastatingly handsome. Seeking date for Valentine's Day. Will happily pay for dinner. Open to any gender.
You: Not Sharon. Capable of holding intellectual conversation. Willing to be wined and dined. Open to the possibility of letting me touch your ass.
He'd even included a picture of himself shirtless (thankfully from the neck down) as "proof of attractiveness". Well, fuck. That explains the thirty-something emails waiting for him this morning. His phone buzzes, a text from Chris laughing at his pain. Fucker.
Curious despite himself, Peter opens the first email. It contains a phone number and yep, that's a picture of a penis. God, he suddenly understands what Cora means when she talks about unwanted dick pics. Four of the emails are in the same vein, containing pictures of men's penises, a few shirtless shots, and some rather lewd messages. As far as dirty talk goes, they're lacking in creativity.
A few women answer, and they sound nice enough, but not especially exciting. One includes a nude picture of herself, which surprises Peter, but she misspells his name, which he included in the ad. One response is from Cora and it just says, "Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahah!!!"
He considers answering the naked lady's email, if only because at least the company will be attractive, when another email comes in. He sighs, resigning himself to another disappointment, and opens it.
My name's Stiles, and my girlfriend also cheated on me (with her ex, nothing as exciting as a yoga instructor), so I'm very free on Valentine's Day. My plan at the moment is to sit at home in my boxers, eat about five pounds of those candy hearts, and watch Bob's Burgers reruns, though dinner out with a hot lawyer sounds a lot better. I can't promise I wouldn't bug you for help with my constitutional law class, but I can make a valiant effort.
About me: Not Sharon. Male. Capable of holding intelligent conversation (you might not be able to get me to shut up, actually). Willing to be wined and dined. Definitely open the possibility of you touching my butt.
Peter is charmed despite himself and feels a pang of sympathy about the cheating girlfriend. He warily clicks on the attachment, pleased to find that it isn't a dick pic, but a picture of a young man grinning sheepishly. He has brown hair, a smattering of moles, and an absolutely obscene mouth. Peter can think of plenty of worse ways of spending a night than dinner with a cute man. If there's no attraction in person, well, networking with a law student couldn't hurt either.
Well, aren't you a lovely little thing.
I'm sorry to hear about your girlfriend. I hope something horribly inconvenient happens to her, like four flat tires, or whenever she opens a packet of Skittles, all she has are purples.
I would be very pleased if you would abandon the couch of sadness for the evening and accompany me to dinner. I'm sure the Palm is a step up from the college cafeteria. Dress nicely, I'd hate to be kicked out because you wore jeans and tennis shoes.
Constitutional law, hm? Thank god you didn't say patent law, I would have cried tears of boredom.
The reservation is for 8:00 p.m. on Valentine's Day. Try not to be late.
Peter drags himself through the shower once he's sent the email. He feels disgustingly fuzzy and hopes a hot shower will help. It ends up doing nothing for his headache, but he feels less dirty at least. When he's toweled off and dressed, there's a message waiting for him.
Oh my god, you're such an asshole. This is going to be fun. My number's (555) 123-4567.
Peter snorts. He likes this kid already.
Peter works from home for most of the day, not willing to face the idiots in his office with his current hangover. His assistant (the only useful person there) forwards him his important calls and fends off everyone who he doesn't want to deal with. Late afternoon, we wraps up all he can on his most pressing case (defending a woman who is being charged for murdering her husband, even though it's a clear case of self defense), and decides to text Stiles.
Constitutional law, so I'm guessing you're a law student?
The response comes a few minutes later.
Peter, I'm guessing? And kind of...I haven't decided between law and law enforcement yet. It's tempting to become a defense lawyer just to see the look on my dad's face, though.
Your father doesn't like defense attorneys? That seems a little authoritarian of him.
Nah, he just hates the ones that get scum bags out on technicalities. He's the sheriff, so that's kind of his deal.
Oh my god, you're a defense attorney, aren't you? This is just the best day.
Peter snorts a laugh. He texts Stiles for the rest of the night, very gratified when he sends a picture of his face and get's a text back saying Holy fucking shit. They get into a lively debate about second amendment legislation, and when he goes to bed that night, he's actually looking forward to Wednesday's dinner.
"Oh god, you're hotter in person. This isn't fair," he says, then flushes and scrambles to his feet. "I mean, hi. I have no brain to mouth filter, nice to meet you in person."
Peter smirks and shakes the hand Stiles offers, holding on just a little longer than necessary.
"Pleased to meet you, Stiles," Peter says. "You're even lovelier than your picture." Stiles flushes even redder and oh, Peter wants to see how low that blush goes.
"Hale, party of two?" the hostess calls.
"Shall we?" Peter asks, holding out arm arm.
"How gentlemanly," Stiles says with a smirk, looping his arm through Peter's.
The hostess leads them to a table in a private corner of the restaurant, and a few moments later, their server arrives and gives them a rundown of the wine list and specials of the night. Stiles' eyes are a little wide and Peter's pretty sure he's a bit overwhelmed in the face of expensive food, considering he admitted to existing on tater tots and energy drinks.
"The pinot noir sounds wonderful," Peter says. Stiles shoots him a grateful look.
Stiles looks down at the menu when the waiter walks away, frowning slightly.
"Is something wrong?" Peter asks.
"Huh? Oh, not at all," Stiles says. "I'm just an uncultured swine and have no idea what half of these things are."
Peter laughs softly. "Well, if you're feeling adventurous, the beef wellington is to die for. But you can never go wrong with the filet mignon or dungeness crab," he says.
"I'm not feeling particularly adventurous tonight, so filet mignon it is," Stiles says. He glances down at the menu and blanches. "$55 for a steak?!"
Peter waves away his concerns. "It's worth it for a good steak."
"You realize I barely spend that a week on food?" Stiles says.
"You'll have to come over sometime then, and I'll cook for you," Peter says. "I can't imagine the food on campus is exactly gourmet."
"A lawyer and a fancy cook? Well, aren't we just a jack of all trades," Stiles says.
"I'm a man of many talents," Peter says.
"And completely modest, I see," Stiles says, amused.
"Sometimes," Peter says with a shrug. "Less so when I'm trying to impress cute law students."
Ah, there's that blush again. Peter loves it.
If Peter's being completely honest, he gets bored on dates easily. Usually the person is vapid, or attracted to him for his money. Sharon was both, but she at least had seemed to genuinely care about Peter, so he could put up with minor annoyances she caused.
But he's not bored with Stiles. Not at all. They talk about constitutional law over appetizers, moving on to music while they eat their main course, and settle on family as they share a dessert (the way Stiles licks the whip cream from their mousse off his lip is obscene).
Peter tells him things he didn't tell Sharon in the nine months they were together. He tells him Talia has always been the golden child, despite dropping out of college one semester before graduating when she got pregnant by her boyfriend, which led to a very hasty shotgun wedding (Peter doesn't particularly care about that, but given how conservative his parents are, he'd expected them to). He tells Stiles that he never wants kids, but his nieces and nephews are the brightest parts of his life. He tells him how he became a lawyer to both please and spite his parents.
"Please and spite?" Stiles asks.
"They wanted me to be a lawyer my whole life," Peter says. "They wanted a district attorney in the family. So I went to law school...and became a defense attorney."
Stiles laughs so hard that the nearest table looks at them in surprise, followed by a glare. Peter doesn't care a bit, not when he made Stiles react like that.
"How mad were they?" Stiles asks.
"Livid," Peter says happily. "The comments about me wasting my education died down somewhat after I made partner at my firm, but they're still there."
"Don't take this the wrong way, but I kind of want to kick your parents," Stiles says.
That startles a laugh out of Peter, and Stiles looks positively delighted.
Stiles tells Peter about how growing up, all he had was his best friend Scott, and sometimes his dad. He tells Peter about his dad's drinking. Though he stops short of calling the sheriff neglectful or an alcoholic, Peter can put two and two together perfectly well. He tells Peter about figuring out he's bisexual, and the whole world it opened up for him at college.
"Turns out, I'm attractive at Stanford," Stiles says. "Who knew. It was a big change from being the geeky, awkward kid in high school."
"Trust me, sweetheart," Peter says, reaching across the table to run his fingers over the back of Stiles' hand. "You're attractive everywhere."
Stiles swallows hard, turning his hand so his and Peter's fingers are laced together.
"So, uh, I don't want to be presumptuous, but are we going back to your place after this?" Stiles asks. "I'd invite you back to mine, but I have three roommates and none of us own a vacuum."
"Oh, sweetheart, you're not being presumptuous at all," Peter says, tightening his grip on Stiles' hand. "I would love nothing more than to have you in my bed and take you apart until you remember nothing but my name."
Stiles swallows hard, eyes wide. "Yes, um. Yes, that," Stiles says. "I am all on board."
Peter grins. "Good."
Peter's never been an overly patient man when it comes to what he wants, but he does manage to restrain himself from ravaging Stiles at the dinner table until the check comes. He pays in cash, leaving a generous tip, before taking Stiles by the hand and leading him out of the restaurant.
The drive back to his apartment is awful. Stiles is beautiful and enticing in the front seat, running his fingers up the inseam of Peter's pants, over his thighs at every stop light, pulling his hand back with a smirk when the light turns green. By the time they pull into Peter's parking garage, he's hard and wanting, straining against the front of his pants. He's gratified to see that Stiles is no better, the front of his dress pants tight around an impressive bulge.
Peter's doorman doesn't blink an eye, blandly wishing them a pleasant evening, as they pass by. As soon as the elevator doors close, Peter is on Stiles, pressing him against the wall and kissing him. Stiles gasps, wrapping his arms around Peter, grinding their hard cocks together. Peter groans, pulling back enough to kiss down Stiles' throat, sucking a dark mark under the hinge of his jaw.
"Fuck," Stiles moans, nails digging into Peter's back. "Peter..."
Peter can't wait to hear more of his name fall from Stiles' lips, but the elevator doors ping open to his penthouse apartment and he has to pull away. Peter wraps a hand around Stiles' wrist and tugs him into the apartment, stopping occasionally to press a searing kiss to Stiles' lips or bite possessively at his pale throat.
As they stumble into the bedroom, Peter spares a thought to be grateful he cleaned before he left for the date, before he's pushing Stiles back onto the bed. Peter crawls over him, blanketing him with his larger frame. Stiles can't keep his hands to himself, running them over Peter's chest and arms and back, his eyes blown wide with lust.
"I'm going to ruin you," Peter growls in Stiles' ear, nipping at the mark on his throat. Stiles shudders under him, rocking his hips up to grind against Peter's. "I'm going to wreck you for anyone else, sweetheart. You're never going to want to leave my bed."
Peter's going to do his damnedest to make sure that's true. It's been one date and he already wants to keep Stiles. He didn't click like this with Sharon, with any of his exes or flings. He wants to keep Stiles for himself, make sure everyone knows he's his.
"Come on," Stiles murmurs, long fingers fumbling at the buttons of Peter's shirt. "I've wanted to see you naked since the second I saw you, fuck."
Peter grins against Stiles' skin before pulling back, shrugging off his shirt. Stiles groans, running his hands up Peter's chest. He traces the muscles of his pecs, down his torso, trailing fingers over his abs, down the vee of his hips.
"This is unfair, how are you real?" Stiles asks.
He leans up, licking a stripe up Peter's chest, flicking a tongue over his nipple. Peter groans, pleasure zipping through him, and wraps a hand in Stiles' hair. He tugs back, and Stiles whines, his hard cock jerking against Peter's.
"Please," Stiles whimpers.
"Strip," Peter orders, tightening his grip on Stiles' hair briefly before letting go, not missing the way Stiles' eyes flutter at that. He has the feeling that Stiles has a truly beautiful submissive streak, and that's something he looks forward to exploring in the future.
Stiles does as he's told, tugging his sweater over his head. Peter moves to the side to take off his slacks and briefs, giving Stiles a chance to slide out of his own. Stiles is fair-skinned and lithe, more muscled than Peter had anticipated. There's a tattoo of a raven holding a rose on the right side of his chest, beautifully done, and Peter doesn't resist the urge to touch, to run his hands over Stiles' chest and pinch at his nipples. Stiles arches into his touch with a gasp, making Peter grin. He does so love the sensitive ones.
His cock is hard and red between his thighs, pre-cum beaded at the tip. Peter crawls back over Stiles, pressing a thigh between his legs. Stiles whines, grinding his hard cock down against Peter's thigh. Peter pinches Stiles' nipples harder, reveling in the whimpering and writhing man beneath him.
"Peter, you fucking tease," Stiles groans, nails digging in where he's gripping Peter's biceps. "Come on, fuck me."
"Mm, I can't say no to that," Peter says.
Peter reaches over to the nightstand, briefly pressing his thigh harder between Stiles' legs, making him keen. He comes back with a bottle of lube and wastes no time slicking up his fingers and moving back so he can trace around Stiles' hole. Stiles is breathing hard and biting his lip, swollen and red from how hard Peter had kissed him. He moans when Peter slides a finger into him, eyes closing in bliss. Stiles is hot and tight around him, and opens up so beautifully, especially when Peter brushes against his prostate.
"There we are," Peter murmurs as Stiles cries out. Peter presses against it harder, making Stiles' legs shake. "So lovely, so good for me."
"More," Stiles whimpers, rolling his hips, forcing Peter's finger deeper into him. "I can take more."
"Such a good boy," Peter murmurs, grinning when Stiles' breath catches. He presses in a second finger, twisting and scissoring them to open him wide. "Your hole is so hungry for me. So greedy."
Stiles just moans, spreading his legs wider. He's shameless and needy, and Peter can't get enough of it. He mouths at Stiles' nipple, nipping and sucking at the nub as he opens Stiles up. It's only a few minutes before Stiles is begging for another finger, and a few more until he's thrusting against Peter's movements, desperately trying to get more inside him. That's when Peter decides he's ready, when he's whimpering and trying to fuck himself on Peter's fingers.
Peter withdraws his fingers from Stiles' wet, clenching hole, making Stiles groan. Stiles follows his movements with heated eyes as Peter slicks up his dick. Stiles licks his lips as he stares at Peter's thick cock, like he wants to get his mouth on him. Next time, Peter is more than okay with that, but now he needs to fuck Stiles until he can't remember his own name.
Peter tugs Stiles closer by the thighs, lining his cock up at Stiles' loose entrance. Stiles groans as Peter presses slowly into that clutching heat, legs trembling on either side of Peter's hips. Peter grits his teeth as he bottoms out, having to close his eyes as he stills. Stiles feels incredible around him, tight and perfect. Peter rolls his hips experimentally, making Stiles gasp. His hands are tight on Peter's wrists, desperate for something to hold onto.
"Don't stop," Stiles says, rolling his hips up, taking Peter to the hilt. "Please, don't stop, Peter..."
And Peter, well, he loves having a desperate partner begging beneath him. He grips Stiles' hips tight and thrusts into him, earning a shout of pleasure. Peter starts slowly, but Stiles doesn't want slow. He urges him on, begs and demands until Peter's pounding into him. The room is filled with obscene squelching noises, with the sound of skin on skin. Stiles is beautiful under him, clinging to him and crying out, chanting Peter's name like a litany.
Peter leans forward, his elbows on either side of Stiles' head, and thrusts his hips forward. Stiles' cock is dragging between their bellies, smearing pre-cum over their skin. He's making these soft little whimpers as Peter grinds into him, their faces inches apart. Stiles wraps his arms around Peter's shoulders, burying his face in Peter's neck. His breaths are short and hot against Peter's skin, his hole tightening around Peter's cock.
"That's it, baby," Peter murmurs, snapping his hips harder. "I know you can come for me like this. Come on my cock, little one."
Stiles whines, body shuddering. He spasms around Peter, his cock jerking between them as he comes, crying out Peter's name. Peter doesn't slow down, fucks him through it, pounding his clenching hole. Stiles digs nails into Peter's back, crying out at Peter's thick cock dragging inside him. Peter groans as he comes, cock twitching as he spurts deep inside Stiles. His body feels alight with pleasure, coursing through his veins until it finally fades, leaving him lethargic and sated.
He can't remember the last time he came that hard, the last time he's had such a wonderful, enthusiastic partner under him. He's reluctant to move, perfectly happy being inside Stiles, but his knees are going to start protesting soon, so he rolls to the side. Stiles grumbles as he slides out, a trail of cum trickling out of his fucked out hole.
Peter dangles his arm off the side of the bed, grabbing the first piece of clothing he can reach. Luckily, it's Stiles' shirt, so he won't have to wash cum out of his own clothes. He uses it to wipe off Stiles' stomach and gently between his thighs, before cleaning off his own cock. Stiles glares when he sees that it's his sweater Peter's using.
"I take back everything I said about you being a gentleman," he grumbles.
"I am very gentlemanly," Peter says. He tugs Stiles closer, grinning as he cuddles against his side, an arm thrown over Peter's waist. He nuzzles against Peter's chest before resting his head over his heart. "I'm not kicking you out, am I?"
"Really reaching for the stars there," Stiles says with a snort.
"In the morning, I'll make you French toast and blow you in the shower," Peter says.
"Mm, getting there," Stiles says. He looks up at Peter with a smirk. "Throw in access to your law library and I'll consider upping you to gentleman status."
"You're incorrigible," Peter says. He leans down and kisses Stiles softly. "I love it."