“I’d do it every day for a thousand years,” he whispers. “I’d burn every city on this map if it meant I got to stand here and watch you breathe. You’re mine, Wendy. Not because I took you. But because there isn’t a world left where you belong to anyone else.”
He kisses me then—a long, slow reclamation that tastes of the future we stole. There is no needle. There is no fear. There is only the two of us, two broken, beautiful monsters living in a paradise built on a foundation of ash and gold.
The golden light of the Mediterranean spills across the balcony, but as Peter leads me back inside the villa, the air turns cool and heavy with the scent of lilies and the underlying heat of him. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. The way he looks at me—like I’m a holy relic and a crime scene all at once—is enough to make my knees go weak.
He stops me in the centre of the bedroom, a space of white marble and shadowed silk. His hands move to the belt of my robe, his fingers slow and deliberate. He isn’t rushing. He has all the time in the world, and he wants me to feel every agonising second of his focus. He unties the knot, and the silk slides off my shoulders, pooling at my feet like a shed skin.
I stand before him completely bare, the sunlight from the terrace catching the curves he spent fifty million dollars to reclaim. My body is different now; the hollows of my hips have filled out, my skin is glowing and supple, no longer paper-thin and grey. My breasts rise and fall with my shallow, quickening breath, the nipples tighteninginto hard, pink peaks under the intensity of his gaze.
“You are so fucking beautiful, Wendy,” he rasps, his voice a low vibration that I feel in my very marrow.
He drops to his knees before me. He doesn’t touch me yet. He just looks. He studies the soft swell of my stomach, the curve of my thighs, and finally, the dark, damp curls between my legs. I’m already aching, a heavy, pulsing throb beginning to build as the air hits my folds. I’m soaking, my own heat rising to meet him, my pussy swollen and slick, weeping a silent, transparent need that glitters in the light.
“Look at you,” he whispers, his breath hot against my inner thigh. “Wet for me. Only for me.”
He reaches out, his large, calloused hands slowly sliding up my legs. The contrast of his rough skin against my soft, pampered flesh makes me gasp, my back arching instinctively. He parts me with his thumbs, revealing the deep, dark crimson of my centre, the hood of my clit peeking out from the slickness, engorged and desperate for the slightest friction.
“Please, Peter,” I whimper, my fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling him closer.
He ignores my plea, intent on his slow torture. He leans in, the tip of his tongue tracing the very edge of my labia, tasting the salt and the sweetness of my arousal. I cry out, my legs trembling so violently I have to lean my weight on his shoulders. He drinks me in, his tongue working with a slow, rhythmic cruelty that has me teetering on the edge of a precipice.
But then he stands. He wants more than just a taste.
He strips off his linen shirt, tossing it aside, and then his trousers.When he stands before me, he is magnificent and terrifying. His cock is thick, heavy, and fully engorged, a dark, veined pillar of muscle that looks almost too large for the space between us. The head is blunt and weeping its own anticipation, the skin stretched tight and pulsing with his heartbeat. It’s a weapon of pleasure, the only thing in this world that can truly fill the emptiness he saved me from.
He reaches down, his hand wrapping around the base of himself, his knuckles white. He strokes himself once, slowly, the sight of it making my throat go dry.
“I’ve thought about this every night we were running,” he growls, stepping into my space until the heat of his skin is radiating off me. “Every night I couldn’t touch you because you were too fragile. Every night I had to be the saviour instead of the man.”
He grabs my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh, and pulls me flush against him. The feeling of his hard, hot length pressing against my soaking wet pussy is an electric shock. I’m sliding against him, my juices lubricating the friction as he grinds his hips in a slow, agonising circle.
“Tell me what you need, Wendy,” he commands, his mouth hovering just over mine. “Tell me exactly what you want me to do to you.”
He doesn’t give me time to answer. He doesn’t give me time to breathe. He hooks his hands under my thighs and hoists me up in one brutal, effortless motion. I wrap my legs around his waist, my heels digging into the small of his back, my arms clinging to his neck as he lunges toward the wall.
The marble is ice against my spine. The shock of thecold stone against my bare back, contrasted with the furnace-heat of his body pressing into my front, makes me scream. The sound echoes off the high ceilings of the villa, raw and unashamed.
“Peter—”
“Look at me,” he snarls, his face inches from mine. His eyes are dark with a terrifying, possessive hunger.
He pins my wrists above my head with one hand, his grip like iron manacles. With the other, he reaches down between our bodies. I’m so wet I’m dripping down his thighs, my pussy pulsing and open, begging for the weight of him. He finds his own length and guides the blunt, throbbing head of his cock to my entrance. He doesn’t push in. Not yet. He just rubs the crown of himself against my clit, smeary and slow, over and over until I’m sobbing, my hips bucking against the marble in a desperate search for friction.
“You’re shaking, darling,” he whispers, his lips grazing my jaw. “Is it the cold? Or are you just realising you’re never getting away from me?”
“Inside,” I choke out, my head thrashing against the stone. “Please, Peter. Now. I can’t… I’m going to break.”
He lets out a low, guttural growl and lunges forward.
He sinks into me in one long, devastating thrust. It’s a conquest. He fills me so completely that the air is punched out of my lungs, my internal muscles stretching and screaming as they try to accommodate every thick, veined inch of him. I’m tight—so tight it hurts—but the pain is a holy thing, a grounding reminder that I am alive and I am being claimed by the only man who matters.
I let out a high, thin wail, my eyes rolling back in my head. He stays there for a moment, buried to the hilt, hisforehead pressed against mine as he waits for my body to accept him. I can feel the frantic thud of his heart against my chest, the heat of his skin searing into mine.
“Mine,” he rasps, the word a vow. “Every inch of this pussy. Every drop of this life. Mine.”
Then, he begins to move.
He doesn’t do it gently. He pulls back until he’s almost out, the tip of him teasing the very edge of my opening, before slamming back home with a force that makes the marble vibrate behind me. Crack. Crack. Crack. The sound of our skin meeting is a wet, rhythmic percussion, a soundtrack to my undoing.
