#peter highman

You stood slowly, recognizing that tone. You'd been married to Peter Highman long enough to know when your husband needed to work out his frustration, and you'd be lying if you said the intensity in his eyes didn't send a thrill straight through you.

"Peter -"

"I said come here." It wasn't a request.

You crossed the room to him, and the moment you were within reach, his hands were on you. He grabbed your hips roughly, pulling you flush against him, and you could feel how hard he already was through his slacks. His mouth crashed against yours in a bruising kiss, all teeth and tongue and desperation. There was nothing gentle about it.

"Fuck," he muttered against your lips, his hands sliding up under your shirt, palming your breasts roughly. "I need you. Right now. I need to fuck you right now."

"Yes," you breathed, already feeling heat pooling between your legs. "Whatever you need."

That was all the permission he needed. Peter spun you around, bending you over the arm of the couch. You gasped at the sudden movement, bracing your hands against the cushions. Behind you, you heard the clink of his belt buckle, the rasp of his zipper.

"You have no idea," he growled, yanking your shorts and panties down in one rough motion, "what kind of day I've had. Fucking idiots. All of them. Incompetent fucking morons who can't do a single goddamn thing right."

His hand came down on your ass with a sharp crack that made you yelp. The sting bloomed across your skin, and you felt yourself getting wetter.

"But you," he continued, his fingers sliding between your legs, finding you already slick and ready for him. "Fuck, you're already so wet for me. My perfect fucking wife."

"Peter, please," you whimpered, pushing back against his hand.

"Please what?" He thrust two fingers inside you roughly, making you cry out. "Use your words, baby. Tell me what you want."

"Fuck me," you gasped. "Please, Peter, I need you to fuck me."

"That's my girl."

He withdrew his fingers and you felt the thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance. Without warning or preamble, he slammed into you in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. You cried out at the sudden fullness, the slight burn of the stretch, your fingers digging into the couch cushions.

"Fuck, yes," Peter groaned, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. "So fucking tight. So fucking perfect."

He didn't give you time to adjust. He pulled almost all the way out and thrust back in hard, setting a punishing pace that had you gasping with each stroke. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mixed with your moans and his grunts of exertion.

"This is what I needed," he panted, one hand sliding up your spine to fist in your hair, pulling your head back. "Needed to fuck this perfect pussy. Needed to feel you wrapped around my cock."

"Yes, yes, Peter, fuck -" You could barely form coherent words, overwhelmed by the intensity of it all.

"You take it so well," he praised roughly, his hips snapping against yours with bruising force. "Take my cock so fucking well. Were you waiting for me? Waiting for me to come home and fuck you like this?"

"Yes!" you cried out, feeling your orgasm building already. "Always - fuck - always want you."

His hand released your hair and slid around to your throat, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp. He pulled you up so your back was against his chest, never breaking his rhythm, and his other hand slid down to rub tight circles on your clit.

"Come for me," he commanded in your ear, his voice rough and strained. "Come on my cock. Let me feel you."

The combination of his fingers on your clit, his cock hitting that perfect spot inside you with each thrust, and the possessive grip on your throat sent you over the edge. You came with a sharp cry, your body clenching around him, waves of pleasure crashing through you.

"Fuck, that's it, that's my girl," Peter groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic. "Gonna fill you up. Gonna come so deep inside you - fuck -"

He buried himself as deep as he could go, his body going rigid as he came with a guttural moan. You felt him pulsing inside you, filling you with his release, his arms wrapping around you tightly as he rode out his orgasm.

For a long moment, you both stayed like that, breathing hard, his face buried in your neck. Slowly, gradually, you felt the tension draining from his body. His grip on you loosened, became gentler. His lips pressed soft kisses to your shoulder, your neck, behind your ear.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice completely different now - softer, almost vulnerable. "Was I too rough? Did I hurt you?"

You turned your head to look at him, seeing the concern in his eyes, the way his brow was furrowed with worry. This was the Peter you knew best - the one who worried, who cared too much, who loved you with an intensity that sometimes seemed to surprise even him.

"I'm fine," you assured him, reaching up to cup his cheek. "I'm perfect. You're perfect."

He pulled out of you gently, turning you around so he could see your face properly. His hands came up to frame your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks as he looked at you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

"I love you," he said softly, leaning in to kiss you. This kiss was nothing like the first - it was tender, sweet, full of emotion. "I love you so much. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You'll never have to find out," you promised, smiling against his lips.

He kissed you again, and again, like he couldn't get enough. When he finally pulled back, there was a sheepish smile on his face.

"I really did have a terrible day," he admitted.

"I gathered that from the door slamming."

"Sorry about that too." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "Let me make it up to you. Let me take care of you now."

"Peter, you don't have to -"

"I want to," he insisted. "Come on. Let's get cleaned up, and then I'm making you dinner."

"You're making me dinner?"

"I'm making us dinner," he corrected, taking your hand and leading you toward the bathroom. "Together. Like a normal couple who doesn't immediately fuck like animals the second I get home."

You laughed. "I like when we fuck like animals."

"Me too," he admitted with a grin, pulling you into the bathroom. "But I also like taking care of my wife."

________________________________________________________________

Twenty minutes later, you were both cleaned up and dressed in comfortable clothes. Peter had changed into grey sweatpants and a t-shirt, his hair still damp from the quick shower. He looked completely different from the stressed, angry man who'd walked through the door - relaxed, content, a soft smile playing at his lips as he moved around the kitchen.

"What are we making?" you asked, hopping up to sit on the counter.

"Pasta," he said decisively, opening the refrigerator. "With that sauce you like. And I'm making garlic bread."

"My favorite."

"I know." He glanced at you with such open affection that it made your heart squeeze. "That's why I'm making it."

You watched as he gathered ingredients, setting them out on the counter beside you. He kept finding excuses to touch you - a hand on your knee as he passed by, fingers trailing across your shoulders, a kiss pressed to your temple as he reached for the olive oil.

"Tell me about your day," he said as he started chopping vegetables. "And I promise I'll actually listen this time, not like when I came in acting like a complete asshole."

"You weren't an asshole," you said. "You were stressed."

"I was an asshole," he corrected, pointing the knife at you for emphasis. "A stressed asshole. Now tell me about your day. Please. I want to hear about something that doesn't involve incompetent coworkers and impossible deadlines."

So you told him about your day - the small, mundane details that made up your life. He listened intently, asking questions, laughing at the funny parts, his hands never stopping their work. There was something incredibly domestic and intimate about it, the two of you in the kitchen together, the smell of garlic and tomatoes filling the air.

"Can you hand me the basil?" he asked, and when you reached for it, he caught your hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss your knuckles. "Thank you."

"You're being very sweet," you observed.

"I'm always sweet to you."

"You're being extra sweet."

He set down the knife and moved to stand between your legs, his hands resting on your thighs. "Because I love you," he said simply. "Because you're the best thing that ever happened to me. Because you let me come home and take out my frustration on you - in the best possible way - and you never complain. Because you're perfect and I'm a lucky bastard."

"Peter -"

"I mean it," he insisted, his eyes serious. "I don't tell you enough how much you mean to me. How much I appreciate you. How much I love you."

You pulled him in for a kiss, slow and deep and full of promise. "I love you too," you murmured against his lips. "Even when you slam doors."

He laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "Especially when I slam doors?"

"Especially then."

He kissed you once more before returning to the stove, and you watched him work, your heart full. This was your favorite version of Peter - relaxed, happy, completely at ease. The stress of the day had melted away, replaced by contentment and love.

"You know what the best part of my day is?" he asked, stirring the sauce.

"What?"

"This." He gestured between the two of you. "Coming home to you. Being with you. It doesn't matter how terrible the day was, because I get to come home to you."

"You're going to make me cry," you warned.

"Don't cry." He abandoned the stove to wrap his arms around you, pulling you close. "I'm just telling you the truth."

You buried your face in his chest, breathing in his familiar scent. "I'm so glad I married you."

"Me too," he said softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "Best decision I ever made."

The timer on the stove beeped, and he reluctantly pulled away to check on the pasta. You watched him move around the kitchen with easy confidence, plating the food, adding the finishing touches. When he was done, he carried both plates to the small dining table, setting them down before coming back for you.

"Come on, beautiful," he said, offering his hand. "Dinner is served."

You took his hand, letting him lead you to the table. He pulled out your chair for you, ever the gentleman, before taking his own seat. Throughout dinner, he kept reaching across the table to hold your hand, to touch your arm, like he needed the constant physical connection.

"This is delicious," you said, and the smile he gave you was radiant.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You're getting really good at this."

"I have a good teacher," he said, squeezing your hand. "And good motivation. I like taking care of you."

After dinner, you both cleaned up together, working in comfortable silence. Peter kept pulling you in for random kisses, wrapping his arms around you from behind as you washed dishes, nuzzling into your neck.

"You're being very clingy," you teased.

"Can you blame me?" he murmured against your skin. "I have the most beautiful wife in the world and I just want to be close to her."

"Sap."

"Your sap."

You turned in his arms, looping yours around his neck. "My sap," you agreed, kissing him softly.

He sighed contentedly, resting his forehead against yours. "Thank you," he said quietly.

"For what?"

"For being you. For loving me. For being exactly what I need."

"Always," you promised.

And as he held you there in the kitchen, the stress of his day nothing but a distant memory, you knew that this - these quiet moments of love and connection - this was what mattered. Not the rough, desperate sex (though that was certainly a bonus), but this. The tenderness. The devotion. The way he looked at you like you hung the moon.

"I love you," he whispered.

"I love you too," you whispered back.