“Fuck you!” I scream, the fury finally bubbling over. I shove at his chest, but it’s like trying to move a mountain. “You think you can just own me because you got me off in an alley? You’re a monster, Peter. Clara was right about you—you’re a fucking rot.”
I spit right in his face.
The white glob of saliva hits his cheekbone and slides down. Time stops.
Peter’s expression doesn’t just change; it vanishes. His eyes go black, the pupils swallowing the blue until there’s nothing left but a void of pure, unadulterated rage. A muscle in his jaw strobes like a heartbeat.
“You shouldn’t have done that, Darling,” he whispers, and the quietness of it is more terrifying than a shout.
He grabs me by the back of my neck, his fingers fisting in my dark curls, and drags me toward the idling black sedan at the mouth of the alley. I’m kicking, scratching at his tattooed forearms, screaming for someone to hear me, but the music from the club swallows everything.
He throws me into the backseat like a sack of grain, his body following mine inside before I can even scramble to the opposite door.
“Drive,” he snaps at the man in the front. “Take the scenic route. I want the long way. And don’t you fucking look back here if you want to keep your eyes.”
The car lurches forward. I try to lung for the handle, but Peter’s hand is already there, locking the child safety. I turn on him, my nails baring like claws. “Let me out! I’ll tell her, Peter! I’ll tell Clara everything you did?—”
“Tell her,” he sneers, his hand flying out to grab the neckline of my dress. “Tell her how much you liked the way it felt when I ripped this off you.”
With a violent, downward jerk, he tears the silk. The fabric screams as it gives way, the thin straps snapping like brittle bone. He doesn’t stop until the dress is a ruined heap around my waist, leaving me shivering and exposed in the dim light of the moving car.
The air hits my skin, raising goosebumps over the swell of my breasts, the dark circles of my nipples hardening instantly in the chill. I feel pathetic, stripped bare, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
“Look at you,” he breathes, his gaze traveling over me with a hunger so thick I can almost feel it. “Fucking beautiful. All that defiance, and you’re still shaking for me.”
He begins to strip, his movements fluid and dangerous. He tosses his jacket aside, then his shirt, revealing the map of his obsession written in ink across his skin. His chest is a landscape of hard muscle and scars, a thick line of hair disappearing into the waistband of his slacks.
Then he unbuckles his belt.
The sound of his zipper is a death knell. He shoves his trousers down, and my breath hitches. He’s massive—thick, veiny, and fully erect, the head of his cock a dark, angry purple. He looks like a weapon, something designed to break me open.
“Get on your knees,” he commands.
“No,” I spit, even as my body betrays me with a fresh wave of heat.
He doesn’t ask twice. He grabs my shoulders and forces me down into the footwell of the car, his strength absolute. He leans back against the leather seat, spreading his legs, his cock standing proud and menacing in the centre of my vision.
He grabs my hair, forcing my face toward him. He doesn’t let me take it—not yet. Instead, he begins to tease me. He drags the hot, velvet head of his cock along my lips, back and forth, the pre-come smearing against my mouth.
“You want it,don’t you?” he murmurs, watching my pupils blow wide. “You want to taste how much I’ve been thinking about you. Beg for it, Wendy. Beg me to fuck you.”
He slides the length of it down my cheek, then under my chin, forcing my head back so he can see the desperation in my eyes. He’s breathing hard now, his hand tightening in my hair until it hurts, the scent of him—musk and power—filling the small space of the car.
“I hate you,” I whisper, even as I lean closer to the heat.
“I know,” he grins, dragging the tip of his cock over my tongue. “Now open up and prove it.”
The car swerves as we hit a pothole, but Peter doesn’t flinch. His hand is a vice in my hair, tilting my head back at an agonising angle until all I can see is the dark, jagged ink on his throat and the terrifying, thick heat of him inches from my mouth.
“Open,” he orders, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrates through the floorboards.
I hate him. I hate the way the leather smells, I hate the way the city lights strobe across his scarred chest—but mostly, I hate the way my mouth waters the second the velvet head of his cock brushes against my bottom lip.
I open for him. Just a sliver.
He doesn’t wait. He guides himself in, the thick, hot silk of him sliding past my teeth. I gasp, the sheer size of him stretching my jaw, and he let out a sound—a jagged, guttural moan that makes my chest vibrate.
“Fuck, Wendy,” he growls, his fingers tightening in my curls until my scalp stings. “Your mouth… it’s so fucking tight. Wrap those lips around me. Suck it like you’ve been dreaming about it since you were a kid.”
