Owning every inch of Peter is exactly what he's set about to do, though he's distracted by the man's roaming mouth, opening his mouth in a sharp intake of breath. The heel of his hand digs into the front of Peter's jeans, the other man's squirming taking him apart. Adam gives way to a possessive cry, teeth ripping into Peter's earlobe. All his carefully acquired control is gone in an instant, but Peter still looks to him for guidance, and it isn't long before denim joins the pile of clothing on the floor.

"Peter," it's not so much a word as it is a gasp for breath; a proclamation, Adam's mouth seeking the hot flesh of Peter's neck in triumph. He's still holding the other man fast to the mattress, as if he were a true flight risk. He sucks in on the hollow of Peter's throat, finding his steady pulse, lips going numb from the heavy beat.

He needs all of Peter, and it's an all-senses-consuming need. But he's practically thrumming with the terror of running out of time. It spurs him on, ramping up the pace when he wants nothing more than the slow, deliberate exploring of a man with exactly eternity. But here there's a limit and he feels inexplicably as though he's racing himself, raw lips finding Peter's again, thumb slipping over his pulse to take their place.