He doesn’t use his hands. He uses his tongue. He starts at my collarbone, a long, slow, wet stroke that drags the honey upward. I let out a broken, shameful sound, my fingers fisting in his hair, pulling him closer even as I try to push him away.
“You’re shaking,” he mumbles against my skin, his voice muffled by my flesh. He licks the honey from the underside of my breast, his tongue rough and insistent. “Is it fear, Wendy? Or is it the fact that you’ve never felt more alive than when you’re covered in my mess?”
He moves lower, his tongue tracing the sticky path toward my navel. Every lick is a slow-burn torture, a calculated undoing of my sanity. He stops just above the damp curls between my legs, looking up at me with eyes that are black with a viral, unhingedhunger.
“The North End thinks they can buy you,” he says, his voice a guttural rasp that vibrates through my entire pelvis. “They think you’re a bargaining chip. But they don’t understand. I wouldn’t trade a single drop of your sweat for the entire fucking city. I’d watch Chicago burn to the ground just to see the fire reflected in your eyes while I’m inside you.”
He reaches for the chilled champagne from the bucket by the bed and pours a slow, freezing stream over my honey-coated thighs.
The shock of the cold against the warmth of the honey makes me scream, my hips bucking off the bed. The liquid splashes into my heat, stinging and sweet all at once.
“Fucking look at me,” he snaps, grabbing my chin and forcing my eyes open.
I’m a wreck. I’m covered in gold and bubbles, my body a map of his appetites. I’m trembling so hard I can hear the bed frame rattle.
“You hate me because I’m a monster,” he whispers, his thumb sliding into the wetness he just created. “But you’re moaning for the monster’s touch. You’re cumming for the man who hung a face on your curtains. That makes us the same, Darling. Two predators in a bed made of silk and secrets.”
He buries his face in my lap, his tongue finding the champagne and the honey and the core of my desperation. I lose my mind. I’m sobbing, my head thumping against the headboard, my legs locked around his head as he eats the sweetness and the sin out of me.
“I hate you,” I scream into the empty room, myclimax hitting me like a physical blow. “I fucking hate you, Peter!”
“Good,” he growls, his voice muffled against my inner thigh. “Hate me until you can’t breathe. Hate me until you forget your own name. Just never stop wanting me.”
He stands up slowly, the golden honey and champagne glistening on his chin like a predator’s spoils. I’m a mess on the edge of the mattress, my legs trembling, my chest heaving, watching him through a haze of tears and unadulterated lust.
He doesn’t rush. He watches me watch him.
His fingers go to the buttons of his white shirt, popping them one by one with a methodical, terrifying precision. He sheds the fabric, revealing the hard, tensed landscape of his torso—shoulders like slabs of marble, his chest crisscrossed with thin, silver lines of old scars and the dark, intricate ink that tells the story of the Hale bloodline.
Then, he reaches for his belt. The heavy leather creaks. The sound of his zipper is a jagged rasp in the quiet room.
When he pushes his trousers down, I forget how to breathe. He’s thick, heavy, and pulsing—a dark, vein-ridged length of pure intent that looks far too large for the fragile space between my thighs. He’s fully aroused, the head of his cock weeping a bead of pre-cum that catches the morning light.
“Look at it, Wendy,” he growls, his voice a low, viral vibration. “This is the only thing in this world that’s honest with you. No lies. No poetry. Just the hunger.”
I can’t look away. My mouth is dry, my pussy throbbingin a rhythmic, wet ache that demands him. I hate that I want the very thing that’s destroying me.
“You make it so fucking hard,” he whispers, his eyes boring into mine as he steps into my space. “I’ve had queens, Wendy. I’ve had women who would burn cities for a glance. But you? You make me want to tear the world apart just to see if you’ll smile at the rubble. You make me feel… feral.”
He reaches down, his large hands fisting in my hair and hauling me up off the bed. I let out a choked gasp as he spins me, my back hitting the mattress, and then he’s lifting me, my legs instinctively locking around his waist.
He sits back on the edge of the bed with me straddling him, his cock a hot, hard iron rod pressed against the entrance of my heat. I’m covered in the sticky remains of the honey and the cold champagne, and as I sink down, the friction is almost too much to bear.
“Take it,” he commands, his hands gripping my hips, his thumbs digging into my pelvic bone. “Show me how much you hate me, Wendy. Grind that hate right into my skin.”
I let out a broken, filthy moan. I start to move, my hips rolling in a slow, agonising circle against him. The tip of him slides against my clit, sending jolts of white-hot electricity straight to my brain. I’m panting, my forehead resting against his as I drive my weight down, forcing the blunt head of him to stretch me.
“Oh, fuck,” I sob, my nails clawing at his tattooed shoulders. “Oh, fuck, Peter… you make it so… so fucking hard… to hate you.”
“Don’t stop,” he pants, his head falling back,his throat working as I pick up the pace. “Hate me harder, Darling. Break me.”
I’m wild now. I’m grinding against him with a rhythmic, frantic desperation, the honey making everything slick and messy, the sound of our skin slapping together echoing like a heartbeat. I want to be filled. I want him to ruin the memory of everything else.
I lift myself up and then slam back down, taking an inch, then two, the fullness of him making me see stars. My pussy clenches around him, a tight, weeping vice that has him groaning, his eyes rolling back in his head.
“You’re a fucking drug,” he hisses, his hands moving to my breasts, squeezing them until I cry out. “A beautiful, poisonous drug. And I’m going to overdose on you, Wendy. I’m going to sink so deep inside you that you’ll never find your way back to the surface.”
I’m moving like a dervish, my hair whipping around my face, my moans turning into raw, guttural screams as I feel the pressure building. I’m driving him wild, my internal walls pulsing around him in a frantic, starving rhythm.
