“You’re not going anywhere, Wendy,” he rumbles. It isn’t a guess. It’s a fucking sentence.
He closes the distance in a single, prowling stride. One second, there’s a foot of freezing night air between us, and the next, his massive frame is crushing me into the soot-stained brick.
He doesn’t grab my wrists—he slams his palms into the wall on either side of my head, his tattooed forearms caging me in a tomb of muscle and heat.
“Say it,” he growls, his face so close I can see thegolden flecks of fury in his blue eyes. “Tell me you don’t want my hands on you. Tell me you don’t want me to rip this silk dress off your tits and show you exactly who owns every inch of your skin.”
“I… I can’t,” I choke out, my voice a pathetic, broken thread.
“Wrong answer.”
His mouth crashes onto mine, and it isn’t a kiss—it’s a goddamn assault. It tastes like whiskey and years of repressed, filthy need. He doesn’t coax my lips open; he bites his way in, his tongue invading my mouth with a possessive, territorial heat. I moan into him, my hands flying up to grip his hair, my fingers tangling in the dark strands as I pull him closer, begging for the ruin he promised.
He groans, a low, animal sound that vibrates through my chest, and hooks one of my legs over his hip. The silk of my dress rides up to my waist, exposing my bare thighs to the brutal chill of the alley, but I’m burning from the inside out.
His hand slides down my throat, his thumb pressing into my windpipe just enough to make my head light, and then he’s lower. He doesn’t ask. He hooks his fingers into the lace of my panties and yanks. The sound of the fabric tearing is the loudest thing in the world.
“You’re so fucking wet for me, Darling,” he hisses against my lips, his breath hot and ragged. “Look at me, Wendy. Look at me while I do this.”
I open my eyes, my vision swimming in the red neon glow. He’s staring at me, his jaw locked, his expression feral. He slides two thick, tattooed fingers inside me, deep andhard, and a scream rips out of my throat, muffled by his mouth.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he mumbles, his fingers moving in a rhythmic, punishing pace that makes my brain short-circuit. “Take it. You’ve been waiting for this since you were sixteen, haven’t you? Dreaming about Clara’s brother shoving you against a wall and making you his bitch.”
“Peter, please,” I sob, my hips bucking instinctively against his hand, seeking the friction that’s turning my blood into molten lead.
“Please what? Please stop? Or please fuck you until you can’t walk?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. He adds a third finger, stretching me, filling me until I feel like I’m going to split open. His thumb finds my clit and grinds down, brutal and precise, circling the sensitive nub until I’m seeing stars.
I’m falling apart. The brick is scraping the skin off my back, my breath is hitching in broken, jagged sobs, and the world is nothing but the sensation of his hand destroying me. I’m a mess of silk and sweat and shame, and he’s watching every second of it.
“You’re going to cum for me,” he commands, his voice dropping to a gravelly, lethal whisper. “Right here in the dirt. You’re going to cum on my fingers and remind yourself that nobody else gets to touch this pussy. Just me. Forever.”
The orgasm hits me like a freight train. My vision goes white, my muscles seizing in a violent, rhythmic convulsion as I scream his name into the empty alley. I’m shaking, sobbing, clinging to his shoulders as the waves of pleasure turn into an ache so deep it feels like death.
Hedoesn’t let go. He keeps his fingers buried deep inside me, feeling every throb, every contraction of my walls as they try to squeeze the life out of him. His eyes are locked on mine with a terrifying, triumphant glow. He’s not just satisfied; he’s vindicated.
“Mine,” he whispers, leaning in to lick a tear off my cheek, his tongue rough and warm. “Everything you are. Everything you hide. Mine.”
He pulls his hand back, slow and deliberate, dripping with me. He doesn’t look disgusted. He looks like he just won a war he’s been fighting for a decade. He brings his fingers to his mouth, licking my taste off his knuckles, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Sweet,” he murmurs, his voice dark and satisfied. “I told you you’d thank me for the wreckage.”
I’m sliding down the wall, my knees finally giving out, but his arm hooks around my waist, hoisting me back up. He tucks me under his arm, his grip possessive and iron-tight, his fingers digging into my hip.
“We’re going to the car,” he says, his voice final, leaving no room for the “no” I can’t even say. “And when we get home? I’m going to finish what I started. I’m going to bury my cock so deep in you that you’ll feel me in your bones for a week.”
I don’t fight him. I can’t. Because as much as I hate him, as much as the thought of Clara makes my stomach turn with guilt, I know the truth. I’ve never felt more alive than I do right now, covered in his scent, my panties ruined, and my body finally belonging to the monster it’s been hunting for years.
The alleyway is a tomb of wet brick and neon red, and the silence that follows my climax is the loudest thing I’ve ever heard. Peter is still tasting me off his knuckles, that dark, predatory satisfaction written in the hard set of his jaw.
Panic, cold and sharp, finally slices through the haze.
“I’m leaving,” I gasp, my voice trembling as I try to pull the shredded remnants of my silk dress down. “I’m going home, Peter. This was a mistake. A disgusting, fucked-up mistake.”
I turn to bolt, my heels clicking frantically against the damp pavement, but I don’t even make it three steps.
A hand like a manacle snaps around my bicep. Peter jerks me back so hard my teeth rattle, spinning me around until I’m slammed chest-first into his rock-hard torso.
“You’re not going anywhere but with me,” he growls, his face inches from mine. “I told you, Wendy. You don’t walk away from me. Not anymore.”
