“I said don’t touch.”
She shimmies her hips, and the heavy obsidian fabric slides down her torso, catching on the curve of her ass for one agonising second before it pools at her feet in a dark, discarded heap. She’s standing there in nothing but a pair of lace panties so thin they’re practically a suggestion.
She’s a goddess built of moonlight and spite.
She runs her hands up her own body, her fingers tracing the ribs, the waist, the curve of her hip. She’s showing me exactly what I’ve been craving, teasing the edges of the marks I left on her skin earlier. She looks at me, a playful, wicked tilt to her head, and for the first time, I see the girl who smiled at the fire. She’s not afraid of the heat anymore. She is the heat.
“You like the view, Peter?” she whispers, her voice a sweet, mocking purr.
I let out a breath, my knuckles white as I grip the railing behind me. “I’m going to fucking ruin you for this, Wendy. You know that, right?”
“You can try,” she says, stepping over the ruins of the dress and walking towards me with the grace of a panther. “But only when I tell you you’re allowed.”
She stops an inch away. I can smell her—honey, skin, and the scent of a woman who knows she’s just turned her captor into her slave.
I’m a man who has built an empire on control, on being the one who dictates the pace of the kill, but standing here with my back against the cold brass, I am utterly at her mercy. My breath is coming in short, ragged hitches, and my heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs—a rhythm she’s conducting with every move of her hips.
She doesn’t wait for my response. She steps into the cradle of my thighs, her bare skin meeting my trousers, and the heat is enough to make my vision blur. She reaches up, her hands settling on my shoulders—not to pull me in, but to steady herself as she hikes one leg over me.
She straddles me, her weight settling onto my lap, and I let out a low, tortured groan. She’s so light, so soft, yet she feels like a ton of molten lead. The thin lace of her panties is the only thing between my throbbing ache and her dripping pussy.
“Hands behind your back, Peter,” she whispers, her lips grazing my jawline. “I told you. No touching.”
I let out a breathless, jagged laugh and obey.I lock my fingers behind my back, my knuckles white, my muscles screaming for the release of grabbing her waist and driving her into the railing. “You’re playing a dangerous fucking game, Wendy.”
“I survived a fire,” she murmurs, her eyes dark and dancing with a wicked, viral light that matches my own. “I think I can handle a little heat.”
Then she begins to move.
She grinds against me, a slow, circular motion that is pure agony. She’s mapping the length of me through the denim, finding the exact pressure that makes my head fall back against the telescope. She’s relentless. She’s a slow-motion car crash, and I’m the wreckage.
“Is the King of Chicago uncomfortable?” she teases, her voice a sweet, mocking silk.
She leans in, her breasts brushing against my bare chest—the friction of her nipples against my skin making me see stars that aren’t even in the sky. She grinds harder, a sharp, upward thrust of her hips that forced a guttural, choked sound from my throat.
“Wendy,” I warn, my voice a broken rasp. “I’m about two seconds from breaking every rule in this house.”
“Not yet,” she says, a small, triumphant smile playing on her lips. She leans back, watching the way I’m struggling to breathe, watching the way my jaw is clamped shut so hard it might shatter.
She’s putting on a show, arching her back, her hands sliding down her own stomach, her fingers disappearing briefly beneath the waistband of that scrap of lace. She grinds again, faster now, a rhythmic, punishing friction that has me seeing white. I can feel the dampness of herthrough my clothes, a hot, sticky promise of what I’m not allowed to have yet.
She’s claiming me. She’s taking every ounce of my power and turning it into a leash, and the worst part—the most beautiful, soul-destroying part—is that I’d let her do it forever.
“Look at me, Peter,” she commands, her voice dropping to a low, sultry growl as she keeps up the relentless, grinding pace. “I want to see exactly how much you want me.”
I open my eyes, my gaze locking onto hers, and for the first time in my life, I’m not the one in charge. I’m just a man, drowning in the starlight and the woman I was born to burn for.
The friction stops.
The sudden absence of her heat is like a physical blow, a vacuum that leaves me gasping for air. I’m leaning against the telescope, my chest heaving, my cock straining so hard against my fly it feels like it’s going to bruise. I look up, my vision swimming, expecting her to laugh or to finally collapse into me.
Instead, she just… steps back.
She looks down at me with a cool, devastating composure that makes my blood boil. She doesn’t put the dress back on. She stays as she is—moonlight andlace—and walks with a slow, swaying grace toward the small marble table where the decanter sits.
I’m paralysed for a second, my hands still locked behind my back, my body trembling with a need that has mutated into something feral. I slide down the brass railing until I’m on the floor, my knees hitting the stone, watching her. I feel like a goddamn dog watching its master hold a piece of meat just out of reach.
She picks up her crystal glass, her movements fluid and agonisingly slow. She pours the vintage, the liquid a dark, viscous crimson under the stars. She takes a long, slow sip, her throat moving as she swallows, her eyes never leaving mine.
