sam_storyteller: (White Collar)
sam_storyteller ([personal profile] sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-20 05:30 am
Entry tags:


Title: Bankrobber
Rating: R (Peter/Elizabeth)
Warnings: None.
Summary: Peter robbed a bank, Elizabeth stole a painting, crazy hotel sex couldn't be far behind.
BETA CREDIT JESUS: [ profile] neifile7 and [ profile] 51stcenturyfox beta'd the daylights out of this fic (and it loved every minute of it).

Originally Posted 12.20.2010.

Now available at AO3.


"So you think we can do this?" Elizabeth asked him, when they'd finally gotten past the "talking about it" stage to the "planning it" stage. Peter, lying in bed, one arm cushioning Elizabeth's head and his hand tracing patterns on her collarbone, nodded at the ceiling.

"Sure. I've been doing this kind of thing for fourteen years," he said. "It's not like I don't have the experience. And the firsthand knowledge," he added, grinning. Elizabeth laughed.

"Okay," she said.

"You want me to work on it?" he asked.

She turned into him, kissing his chest, letting him curl his arm tighter around her. "Yeah. I'll make some notes for you."

"I'll talk to my sources," he grinned, and kissed her hair. They fell asleep in the warm, satisfied glow of two people who have finally committed to their course of action.


When Peter walked into the hotel room, untucking the concealed pistol from the small of his back as the door shut, Elizabeth was sitting on the bed, counting cash. His whole body was thrumming with excitement, adrenaline; he put it down to the job they'd just pulled, but some of it was the sight of the cash in Elizabeth's hands. She was crosslegged, toes tucked up under her knees, wearing the tight black shirt from the con. It wasn't exactly revealing -- long sleeves, a high-cut collar -- but that was offset by the fact that the only other thing she was wearing was a pair of demure, lace-edged pink panties.

Peter set the gun on the low dresser, next to the television and the safecracking kit. Outside, a siren wailed.

"Sorry I couldn't get away sooner," he said, as she looked up inquiringly. "Had to lay low for a little while."

"Anyone follow you?" she asked, as he went to the window and peered out around the edge of the curtains.

"Nope, don't think so. Even if they did, they don't know what room I'm in, and they don't have a warrant," he said, returning to the dresser. He put one foot up on it and took his backup out of his ankle holster; not easy to do, between the dizzy rush of being here and the fact that he was already half-hard just thinking about it all. He lowered his foot and began stepping out of his thick-soled boots, unbuckling his belt. "Didn't you already count it?" he added, smiling at her in the mirror.

"Didn't we know how much it would be beforehand?" she replied, just as easily. She licked her lower lip, already slick and full. Peter wanted to bite it. "I like counting it."

"You like spending it," he said, turning and leaning over her, hands on both sides of her hips. She kissed his nose. "So? Where to, with our ill-gotten gains? Venice? Tokyo?"

"Not for a while," she whispered in his ear. "Let the heat die down."

He hummed, pleased with her hands on his shoulders, with the cash strewn casually in a tipped-over pile next to her on the bed. "Not sure that's gonna happen."

"Easy, Romeo," she said, but he could see the soft peaks of her nipples through the tight shirt. "You smell like explosives."

"That's what happens when you blow up a safe," he answered, kissing her, pushing a little. She pushed right back, refusing to be bowled over.

"You blew up half the building, hon," she replied, and bit his tongue when he tried kissing her again.

Peter grinned. "I get excited. Besides -- " he began, and then something near the hotel room desk caught his eye. A large wrapped paper package. They hadn't planned on any deliveries, and this wasn't part of the con...

"What's that?" he asked, tipping his head at it. She gave him a wicked look.

"While you were making things go boom, sweetie, I kept myself busy," she answered. Peter leaned back and she rolled over -- oh, her ass in those panties -- and pulled the bundle out from between bed and desk, offering it to him. He gave her a narrow look, sat on the bed next to her, and pulled the paper off.

It was a painting, unframed, a study in grey and ochre: a man and a woman standing together, just outside a door in a narrow dim alleyway. The woman's shawl was gathered up to show her long red petticoats; the man's high collar was lined with fur, and a shaft of light far behind them illuminated a sliver of a building's facade in pure white. He recognized it. Sargent: A Street In Venice.

"Cunning little thief," he said, wondering how she'd pulled this off. Elizabeth got up to a lot of mischief when he wasn't around. He leaned the painting up against the desk chair and turned back to her, sliding a hand under her shirt, feeling the way her skin shivered against his.

Twelve years of marriage and he never tired of this, rediscovering her body, relearning her skin. He couldn't say it, wasn't good about saying things usually, but she knew. She had to know.

"I'd give you the world," he murmured into her mouth, and she twisted a hand in his t-shirt, pulling him closer.

"Don't need it," she answered, and for a minute they fought each other, both pushing, moving at cross-purposes, until Peter figured it out and gave in and pulled instead, getting her up on his lap, straddling him. She ground down against him, hips working against his, and he moaned. "Got you."

He tugged at the hem of her shirt, working it up her hips, her ribs, the smooth muscles at the base of her shoulders -- she lifted her arms and pulled it the rest of the way off, which gave Peter the opportunity to lean in, securing an arm around her waist as he cupped her breast and bit gently on one nipple, already stiff against his tongue.

"I love how this gets you off," she told him, hips still moving, fingers twisting in his hair.

"Why else do it?" he asked against her skin, running one hand down under the lace waistband of her panties. It was almost a shame to lose them, really, so he cupped her ass with a hand between fabric and skin, held her there and let her try to rock against him, obviously wanting more than she was getting. There was, however, the matter of the painting to consider, and the fact that he hadn't been in on it. She writhed a little, and he ignored it. He'd told her about the safecracking, after all. Fair was fair.

"Baby," she breathed, as he pinned her against him. Her hands were pressed to his chest, scrabbling against his t-shirt.

He kissed her, brief and quick, and then swung her around, landing her on her back on the bed. She laughed, hair splayed against the pillow, right hand pushing some of the cash on the bed clear of their bodies. Peter, reluctant to step away from her, still stood up and shed his pants, pulled off his shirt and crawled over her, catching her wrists when she tried to pull his head up to hers, kissing her stomach and the soft undersides of her breasts. He was hard, almost unreasonably so, but he wanted this to last. After all, here they were, master criminals hiding out in a hotel room, some cop on their trail, and they had all the time in the world --

Except, of course, that Elizabeth was her usual impetuous, impatient self, and she kept squirming, wrapping a leg around his waist and rubbing her heel against his ass, twisting up when he sucked at her nipple. Finally he let go of her hand and pressed his palm over her stomach, trying to still her. She stopped moving, a little breathless, and looked up at him with those big, deep blue eyes. The first time they'd met he'd felt like he was going to get lost in them. He'd always been a sucker for blue eyes.

He slid his hand down slowly, thumb under the lace, gentle inside her, rubbing across her clit. She moaned loud enough the people in the next room would probably hear, but he didn't have to care about them. The room was in an assumed name, anyway. He pressed lightly and Elizabeth's thighs tensed, almost tightening against his shoulders before falling open, her body for him, and he loved that. Out of all the men in the world she could have chosen, she'd chosen him. Because really he'd known, very early, that he was for her, and there wouldn't be anyone else like her, ever.

"What are you thinking?" she asked, around a breathless sigh, and he realized his emotions must have shown on his face. He shifted back, tugging her panties down and off before he leaned in and kissed her -- lips, cheeks, the crease at the edge of her eyelid. It was easier. He said he loved her all the time, that was easy -- bye honey, love you; okay, love you too; you made dinner, I love you! What did you...oh, it's a good thing I love you -- but here it was more difficult. It meant more.

"Ah," she said, and kissed him back, a little less desperate now, calmer. They kissed for what felt like a long time, her leg drawn up against his hip, his cock rubbing almost absently against the line of her thigh. It kept him just that far from rational, kept him from thinking too much. Mindless. They both tended to think too much. Made them good at what they did, but it could be trouble, too.

"Peter," she moaned, against his cheek. "I swear to God if you don't actually fuck me -- "

"Easy, beautiful," he grinned, kissing her. "That's what you want? I could -- " he flicked his tongue out over his lips and she laughed, because he was blushing, too.

"No, baby," she said, and one of her hands pressed against the small of his back, trying to urge him down, trying to take control. He let her, pressed his cock right up against her cunt, felt her fingers, warm, as she guided him in, nails dragging lightly along sensitive skin when his hips snapped forward. Tight and slick, God, she was perfect, with her hand back on his hip, the other one tugging almost painfully in his hair. Perfect, and he wanted it to last, but this was getting to him, the hush of the hotel room and the siren again, wailing outside, and the cash fluttering off the bed to the ground and a damn Sargent sitting on a pile of brown paper wrap two feet away and Elizabeth, who'd been counting money in pink panties when he'd come in.

He wondered if the guns did it for her. Never had asked, never had really thought about it. Guns were just something he had and used, but the way she'd tracked him when he took his off, he wondered. He wondered how they instinctively knew by now what the other wanted. In many ways it had become the same thing.

He pushed again, hard, and she bucked up to meet him, warm under his hands, head tipped back. He slid an arm under her shoulder and rolled them both, because he did know Elizabeth loved how solid he was, the flex of muscle in his arms and chest. She held on for a second and then got both her hands on his chest, thumb grazing a nipple (he moaned, sharp and sudden, and the graze wasn't an accident). She pushed herself up, breasts swaying temptingly, and twitched her hips.

Peter fell into the rhythm she set, the roll and twist and rise of her, one hand on her hip, the other never still -- cupping her throat, feeling the soft weight of her breast, exploring where their bodies joined to add that little extra jolt that made her voice go high, her words leave her. She jerked out of rhythm for a moment, breath fast, and came against his thumb, around his cock, came with his name in her mouth. Peter held her through it, waited until she was breathing evenly before he moved again. She cried out, soft. The first time he'd done this -- Jesus, thirteen years ago and change -- he'd been worried she was objecting, had stopped and freaked out because he didn't want to hurt her.

"Why'd you stop?" she'd asked that first time, looking annoyed. "That was the best part."

Since then he didn't stop. And he didn't stop now, pushing harder, pushing for more, until she collapsed against his chest and bit down on his skin, the little sharp tweak of pain and the flutter of her second orgasm shorting out his nerves, sending him silently over the edge.

(That was just the way he was. Elizabeth used to worry, but Peter was quiet by nature, and quiet in this. She never worried anymore.)

After a few seconds she arched her back, slow and langorous, lifting her hips so that he slid out of her. He made a soft noise of protest and twined his fingers in her hair, pulling her up to kiss him before she rolled away onto her side, next to him, a hand resting over his racing heart.


When Peter felt like he could breathe again, he pushed himself up on an elbow and leaned over her. Her eyes were closed, the smile on her face blissed-out.

"So?" he asked, grinning. "That was..."

"Amazing," she said. She opened her eyes and turned to him. "I mean, that was, right? That was amazing."

"Yeah, I thought so," he agreed. "Wow. I wasn't sure about it -- "

"You wanted it," she said with a grin, swatting his arm. He caught her hand and kissed the palm, slowly.

"You suggested it," he reminded her.

"Yes I did," she said, impenitent. "But you set it up."

"Well, I thought it might be fun. Roleplay is supposed to be fun, right?" he said. "Being on the other side of the law...I didn't think it'd be that much fun. There's something..."

"Transgressive?" Elizabeth suggested.

"Maybe," Peter allowed. "Pretending to be the kind of guy I normally chase. Makes you feel powerful."

"Bad boy," she murmured. "Okay, speaking of which, I have to ask. When I got here there was a suitcase on the table with a hundred thousand dollars in it labeled 'PROP'. Sweetie, are you holding out on me?"

Peter burst out laughing, falling back into the blankets. "No. Neal had a hundred grand lying around he wasn't using, I asked if I could borrow it. Man, that was funny, you should've seen his face. Peter, are you in trouble? You need help? I don't want you getting kneecapped," he said, in a pretty good imitation of Neal's most worried voice.

"What'd you tell him?" Elizabeth asked.

"Told him it was a prop for a job," Peter said, rolling into her body as she curled up around him. "He wanted in on the job." Elizabeth giggled. "I said no."

"Hm, going to tell him what it was really for when you give it back?"

"No intimate details," Peter said, pressing his forehead against hers. "Quid pro quo, hon. That replica -- Neal's too?"

She kissed him. "It's a present. I'm just glad you didn't look on the back. That would totally have ruined the game."

"Why...?" Peter rolled away briefly, groping for the painting, and sat up as he turned it over, studying the back of the canvas. In block letters, in Neal's handwriting:

Happy Anniversary,
-- NC

Elizabeth draped herself over his back, giggling again, face pressed against his neck. Peter rolled his eyes, muttered, "Caffrey," and set the painting aside, leaning back to kiss her.

"So," he said. "Why don't Peter and Elizabeth Burke, world-class bank robber and high-society art thief, get dressed and go to the very nice steakhouse where I booked us a table for dinner, and then we can come back here and -- "

"Have lots of sex?" Elizabeth suggested.

"Well, I was going to suggest pinochle, but sure, sex works," he said, and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, resting her chin on one of them. "Love you," he said gently.

"You too," she answered, kissing his ear. "You know none of this is necessary, right? I'd have been happy with the corner table at Donatella's."

"As certain people keep telling me, a little fantasy is good for the soul," he answered.

Elizabeth stroked his hair, and Peter leaned into it like a cat.

"Come on, let's get a shower," she said. "I like my arm candy freshly scrubbed and dressed pretty."

"Well, I'll do my best," Peter drawled, and followed her into the bathroom.


"So, how'd the long weekend go?" Neal asked on Monday, when Peter arrived at the office. "You get my present?"

"Yeah. Nice inscription," Peter said, and Neal laughed.

"Just letting you know I didn't steal it," he said.

"I know you didn't. Speaking of," Peter held up the briefcase in one hand, and passed it to Neal. "Thanks for the assist."

"Sure you weren't paying off a loan shar -- Peter, it's all out of its bands," Neal said, peering into the case. He sounded like he'd asked Peter to watch his dog and come home to find it missing all its fur. "What did you do to it?"

"I told you, it was for a job," Peter said, innocent, hands raised. Neal eyed him suspiciously. "You can get it counted and re-bound at the bank, it's all there. Technically it belongs to the FBI anyway."

"I take my custodial duties very seriously," Neal said, shoving the suitcase under his desk. "So you had a good anniversary?"

"Great, yeah," Peter said. "Classy hotel, good food, fun to get away for a little while. DC's nice this time of year. We went to a bunch of museums."

"Uh huh," Neal replied. He raised a hand and touched the skin under his own ear, just behind his jaw. "You got a little something..." he said, tapping his finger there.

"That's because I am a very lucky man," Peter told him. "What is this, high school? Do we have a case?"

"I don't know, I didn't think people gave people hickeys after high school," Neal said, following him through the bullpen. "Diana, do you ever -- "

"If you say one more word to me it's not going to end pretty," Diana said, without looking up from her desk. "Welcome back, boss. Have a good time on vacation?"

"Yeah, great time. Come on, everyone, my vacation diary can wait," Peter said, as they filed into the conference room. "Okay, what's on?"

"Bank robbery," Diana said. "Neal's been prepping the file."

Peter was aware that the tips of his ears were turning red, but Diana and Jones were discreet and Neal was busy presenting the case. He had a feeling bank robbery was going to be a distracting subject for a while.


A Street In Venice

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