I climb back over her, my cock thick and throbbing against the curve of her hip. I don’t enter her. Not yet. I just tease the entrance, the head of my cock dragging through the mess of bourbon and slick.
“You thought the car was the end?” I whisper, my hand fisting in her hair to pull her head back so she has to see my reflection in the dark window. “That was just the audition, Wendy. This? This is the performance.”
I enter her in one long, agonisingly slow thrust, my eyes locked on her face in the glass. I watch the moment her soul breaks. I watch the moment she forgets Clara, forgets the light, and becomes nothing but a vessel for the dark.
“There she is,” I murmur, my pace picking up, a rhythmic, heavy thud that sounds like a heart failing. “My beautiful, broken Darling.”
I don’t go for the kill. I go for the soul.
I stay buried deep inside her, the heat of her internal walls clenching around me in a frantic, rhythmic pulse that’s trying to swallow me whole. I can feel her heart hammering against my chest through her back, a bird trapped in a cage of bone and silk.
“Look at you,” I hiss, my breath scorching the shell of her ear. “Stretched out and shaking in my bed whilethe world thinks you’re missing. You aren’t missing, Wendy. You’re finally found.”
I pull out, slow enough that I can feel every ridge of my cock dragging against her velvet heat, then I slam back in. The sound is a wet, heavy crack—the sound of skin meeting skin with a violence that makes the headboard groan.
“Fuck, Peter!” she screams into the pillow, her voice a shredded, beautiful mess.
“Tell me,” I growl, my pace picking up until it’s a rhythmic, lethal slaughter. “Tell me whose pussy this is. Tell me who owns the blood in your veins.”
“Yours! It’s yours!”
I don’t stop. I reach around, my hand fisting in her hair to yank her head back even further, forcing her spine to arch until she’s a bow ready to snap. My other hand slides beneath her, my fingers finding her clit and grinding down with a brutal, steady pressure that makes her vision go white.
I’m fucking her with a primal, focused rage, my cock hitting her cervix with every thrust, a blunt-force trauma of pleasure that has her sobbing. The smell of the room is intoxicating—bourbon, sweat, the metallic tang of the warehouse, and the floral scent of her undoing.
“You’re a fucking addict,” I pant, my jaw locked. “And I’m the only one who can fix you. I’m the only one who gets to ruin you like this.”
The friction is building, the heat between our bodies turning into a localised sun. I can feel the sweat dripping off my forehead onto her back, mixing with the spilled alcohol. I’m pushing her higher, faster, the pace becoming animalistic. I’m not just a man anymore; I’mthe darkness she’s been running from her entire life, and I’m finally catching up.
“Please! Peter, I’m going to?—”
“Go then,” I roar, my voice a feral bark as I shove her face back into the pillow. “Explode for me, Wendy. Break into a thousand fucking pieces so I can pick them up and keep them.”
She hits the peak with a high-pitched, keening shriek that rings in the rafters. Her body goes rigid, her muscles seizing around me in a vice-grip that almost brings me to my knees. She’s vibrating, the orgasm ripping through her like a tectonic shift, her bound wrists straining against the zip-ties until the plastic bites deep enough to draw fresh blood.
I don’t let her down. I keep thrusting through her climax, my own control finally shattering into dust. I let out a low, guttural groan, my teeth sinking into the meat of her shoulder as I bottom out one last time.
I dump everything into her. Every ounce of my obsession, every drop of the darkness I’ve been carrying, all of it flooding into her until she’s heavy with me. I stay there, pinned to her back, my lungs burning, the silence of the room returning like a heavy shroud.
I stay buried in her for a long time, listening to her broken, hitching sobs turn into soft, exhausted whimpers. I reach up and snap the zip-ties with the knife I left on the nightstand, letting her arms fall limp.
She doesn’t move. She just lies there, a ruined masterpiece on my charcoal sheets.
I roll off her and lie on my back, staring at the ceiling. My pulse is a steady, victorious thrum. I look at myhand—the one that’s still stained with the scout’s salt and her tears.
My phone on the nightstand lights up again. One last message from Clara.
I’m at the gate, Peter. Open it now or I’m calling the police.
I look at Wendy’s sleeping, battered form. I look at the blood on the sheets. I look at the monster in the mirror.
“Welcome home, Clara,” I whisper, a cold, sharp grin cutting across my face. “Come see what I’ve done to your best friend.”
Peter
The front gate intercom has been screaming for five minutes. It’s a persistent, high-pitched wail that reminds me of a Chihuahua with a vendetta. Most men would be panicked. Most men would be scrambling to hide the evidence of the girl currently tied to their bedsheets.
I, however, am looking for the sea salt.
