“I would,” I murmur, looking up at her, my eyes dark with a terrifying, unhinged devotion. “I would let you slide the blade in right now. I would bleed out on this floor just to see you have the life you want. But Wendy…”
I lean in, my breath hot against her inner thigh, my hand sliding deeper, my fingers slick with the proof that her body is still a traitor to her mind.
“I would rather fucking drown in you,” I growl, the words tearing out of my chest. “I would rather spend eternity in this dark room, suffocating on your hate and your heat, than spend a single second in a world where I can’t feel your heart beating. You aren’t a collection. You’re the air in my fucking lungs.”
She lets out a low, shattered sob, her head falling back as I move my mouth to the sensitive skin of her hip. I’mbeing tender, but it’s a feral tenderness—the kind that leaves bruises on the soul. I’m kissing her as if I can swallow her grief, as if I can lick away the fear that I’ll ever get bored of the way she breaks for me.
“Don’t,” she whimpers, her body arching toward my touch even as she tries to push the words away. “Peter, stop… you’re making me… you’re making me forget…”
“Forget everything,” I command, my hand working her with a slow, agonising intimacy that has her sliding down the front of my body until we’re both on the floor, tangled in the ruins of the afternoon. “Forget the rules. Forget the blood. Just feel me, Wendy. Feel how much I fucking need you.”
I pull her robe open, exposing her to the shrine of herself on the wall. I want her to see what I see—not a prisoner, but a goddess built of rage and lace. I lean over her, my bloody shirt staining her skin, and I kiss her with a desperation that tastes of salt and surrender.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper against her lips. “And neither are you. We’re going to rot in this beautiful grave together.”
I don’t stand up. I don’t let her breathe. I haul her up from the floor, my muscles screaming with a feral strength, and slam her back against the edge of the mahogany desk. The maps and photos of her life scatterlike autumn leaves, sliding off the polished wood as I force her down into the centre of my obsession.
I grab her ankles and shove them upward, draping her slender, trembling legs over my shoulders.
The position is total. It’s a complete, undeniable exposure. I pull the black silk of her robe back, pinning it under her weight, until she is laid bare beneath the harsh, unforgiving light of the office.
“Look at you,” I rasp, my voice thick with a dark, hunger. “You’re so fucking beautiful it’s a crime.”
I stare at her, my heart hammering against my ribs. Her pussy is a masterpiece of soft, pink flesh and damp, golden curls, swollen and weeping from the way I’ve been working her. It’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen—vibrant, raw, and glistening with a nectar that smells like honey and heat. The folds are flushed a deep, sunset red, pulsing with every terrified, expectant breath she takes.
“Peter… please,” she whimpers, her hands frantically searching for purchase on the edge of the desk, her knuckles white.
“Stay still, Wendy,” I growl. I reach up and pin her wrists to the wood above her head, my large hands acting like iron manacles. “You wanted to know if I’d get bored? I could spend a lifetime right here, mapping every inch of this.”
I lean in. I don’t rush. I want her to feel the agonising crawl of my intent.
I press my face into her pussy, breathing in the scent of her surrender. Then, I flick my tongue out, tasting the very first bead of her desire. She’s hot—scorching—and the taste of her is a drug that hits my system harder than any whiskey. I start to lick her, long, slow, agonisingly wetstrokes that start at her perineum and drag all the way up to the hooded peak of her clit.
She lets out a sharp, shattered cry, her hips bucking, trying to find the friction she needs. But I hold her down, my shoulders acting as a vice for her legs, my hands keeping her wrists locked against the desk.
“No moving,” I murmur against her wet skin, my voice a muffled vibration that makes her entire body shudder. “You’re going to feel every single second of this.”
I settle in, my tongue becoming a rhythmic, relentless tool of worship. I swirl it around her opening, tasting the champagne and the honey and the pure, concentrated essence of her. Then I focus on her centre, my tongue flattening out, lapping at her with a steady, punishing pressure.
“Oh god, Peter!” she screams, her head thrashing from side to side on the desk. “It’s too much! I can’t… I’m going to… please!”
She’s a wreck beneath me, her pussy clenching and unclenching around the air, the walls of her heat pulsing in a frantic, starving rhythm. I can feel her climax building, a tidal wave just offshore, and I increase the pace. I suck her into my mouth, my teeth grazing the sensitive skin, my tongue flicking over her with a feral, obsessed speed.
I want to drown in her. I want to swallow every sob, every moan, every drop of the sweet, sticky ruin she’s becoming.
“You’re mine,” I growl into her heat, the words vibrating through her pelvis. “Every beautiful, broken inch. Mine.”
She hits the ledge and shatters. Her body goes rigid, her back arching so high off the desk I think her spine might snap, a long, high-pitched wail of total, unhinged ecstasy tearing from her throat. Her internal walls spasm against my tongue, milk-warm and frantic, as she spills over me in a flood of pure, honest surrender.
I don’t stop. I keep licking, keeping her in that agonising, beautiful peak, proving to her that I will never, ever get bored of the taste of her soul.
I don’t just lick her; I devour her. I bury my face into that soft, weeping heat, my nose pressing against her pubic bone, losing myself in the slick, iron-scented scent of her. I’m filthy with her. My tongue is a broad, relentless muscle, lapping at her opening with a sloppy, desperate hunger that echoes through the quiet office.
I want to taste the very core of her fear and her love. I want to swallow the shame she feels for wanting me.
“Peter… oh god, I’m… I’m going to?—”
Her voice breaks into a high, jagged sob as her fingers claw at the wood of my desk, her nails leaving white scores in the expensive finish. I don’t let up. I suck her clit into my mouth, my lips creating a vacuum of pure, unadulterated sensation, while my tongue flickers like a flame against the most sensitive nerve endings she owns.
