He puts the car in drive and starts to move, his left hand steering the Mercedes with a casual, terrifying ease while his right hand stays between my legs. The emerald silk is a shredded mess around my hips, and the coolwind from the open top whips against my bare skin, but I’m burning. I’m a fucking wildfire.
He doesn’t start slow. He shoves two fingers deep inside me, his knuckles rubbing against my clit with a rhythmic, heavy pressure that makes my vision snap to white.
“Peter—” I gasp, my head hitting the leather headrest.
“Shhh,” he coaxes, his voice a lethal velvet. “Drive with me, Wendy. Show me how much you hate me while I make you leak all over this expensive leather.”
He picks up speed. The car lurches forward, and the movement forces me back, my hips thrusting instinctively against his hand. I hate that he knows the geography of my body better than I do. I hate that he knows exactly how hard to press to make my breath catch in my throat.
I reach out, my fingers digging into the muscle of his thigh, my nails piercing the expensive fabric of his trousers. I want to hurt him. I want to leave marks. But as he hooks his thumb over my hood and starts a fast, circular friction, my anger turns into a desperate, shameful Need.
“Fuck you,” I moan, the words breaking as he hits a bump in the road, sending his hand deeper.
“That’s it,” he pants, his gaze flicking to the rearview mirror to check for Silas and Clara, then back to me. “Grind for me, Wendy. Show me how much of a good girl you are when the monster is inside you.”
I lose it. The defiance, the fire, the hate—it all collapses into the sensation of his fingers. I start to move with him, my hips rolling in a frantic, messy rhythm against his palm.I’m a heap of emerald silk and exposed skin, my breasts bouncing with the motion of the car, my moans getting louder, more animalistic, echoing off the windshield.
“Faster,” I whimper, my eyes rolling back in my head. “Peter, please, faster.”
“Say it,” he commands, his voice dropping to a guttural growl. He’s driving at sixty miles an hour through a residential zone, his left hand steady on the wheel while his right hand destroys me. “Say you’re mine. Say you want the monster.”
“I’m yours,” I shriek, my body tightening like a high-tension wire. “I’m yours, you fucking bastard! Just finish me!”
He lets out a dark, triumphant laugh and suddenly swerves into a secluded alleyway, slamming the car into park. He doesn’t wait. He pulls his hand away just long enough to unzip his fly, then he hoists me up, my legs wrapping around his waist as he pulls me onto his lap.
The gear shift is digging into my hip, the steering wheel is pressed against my back, and the city of Chicago is just a thin brick wall away, but all I see is him.
He enters me with a single, violent lunge.
I scream into his neck, my teeth sinking into his shoulder as the world explodes. He’s fucking me with a rhythmic, bone-deep intensity, his hands fisting in my hair, pulling my head back so I have to look at the sky while he claims every inch of me.
“Hate me,” he whispers, his breath hot and smelling of gin and victory. “Hate me until it feels like love, Wendy. Because you’re never going back to the light.”
I’m shaking, my climax ripping through me in jagged, electric waves as he bottoms out, his own groanvibrating against my collarbone. I’m a ruin. I’m a mess. And as I collapse against him, smelling the salt and the rubber and the scent of us, I know the fire didn’t burn him.
It just forged the chains even tighter.
Part Two
It’s not the chains you see that matter—it’s the ones you don’t. The ones woven into your pulse, your breath, your want. By the time you notice the door doesn’t unlock, you’re not fighting to get out anymore. You’re fighting not to need him.
Wendy
The silence in the car after the storm is louder than the screaming tires.
I am draped over Peter’s lap, a tangle of torn emerald silk and cooling sweat. The cool Chicago air hits my bare back, making the goosebumps rise, but the heat where our skin meets is still a blistering fever.
My breath comes in jagged, pathetic hitches against the pulse point of his neck. I can feel his heart—steady, slow, and arrogant—thrumming against my jaw.
He doesn’t move. He just rests his large, tattooed hand on the small of my back, his thumb tracing the line of my spine with a terrifyingly gentle possessiveness.
“Look at that,” he murmurs, his voice a low vibration that travels straight to the ache between my thighs. “The lioness has gone quiet.”
I pull back, my hair a matted halo of chestnut tangles. I look at him—really look at him. His pupils are still slightly dilated, his lips curved into that permanent,witty smirk that makes me want to kiss him and kill him in the same breath. He looks invigorated. I look like a casualty.
“I still hate you,” I whisper, though the words lack the venom they had ten minutes ago. They sound more like a confession.
“I’m counting on it,” he says, his eyes sparkling with a dark, intelligent light. “Love is fickle, Wendy. It’s soft. It forgets. But hate? Hate has a long memory. Hate stays awake at night. I want you to remember every second of how I just made you fall apart in the front seat of a Mercedes.”
