“Shh.” The sound isn’t gentle. It’s a command. His thumb rests against my pulse, pressing just hard enough to make me swallow around it. “You’ll make a scene, and you don’t want that. You want this to be our little secret.”
“I’ll scream.” My voice is a rasp. Empty threat.
His grin curves darker. “No one here would stop me. They’d just watch.” His thumb slides lower, draggingheat down the centre of my throat until it skims the neckline of my dress. “And worse—you’d hate yourself for how much you’d like the audience. You’re a little masochist, aren’t you?”
I lurch back, but his knee follows mine under the table, closing the gap, pressing harder. My thighs clench in reflex, stupid, traitorous, and his eyes catch it like he’s been waiting for that exact tell.
“Fuck you,” I hiss.
“You’re halfway there already.” He leans in, his breath hot against my ear, his hand slipping lower—not inside my dress, not even indecent, just skimming the edge of my collarbone like he owns the right to touch me there. His knee presses between mine, just enough pressure to force them apart.
My pulse riots. My breath catches. I grip the seat, nails digging into the velvet, because if I don’t, I’ll grab him instead.
“Move your leg.”
“Why?” His voice is velvet and smoke. “So you can keep pretending you’re not already wet for me? So you can keep lying while your body is begging me to fuck you?”
Heat slams through me, brutal and fast. My cheeks burn. My stomach twists. I try to snap back, but the words tangle, betray me before they leave my throat.
He feels it. He knows. His grin sharpens as he shifts just slightly, grinding his thigh up into the space he just claimed. My breath leaves me in a sharp, broken sound—a whimper I want to swallow back and bury deep in my lungs.
Peter’s lips brush my ear—not kissing, not quite. Just hovering.Just branding me with every filthy syllable. “Say it, Darling. Say you came here hoping I’d finally take what’s mine. Say you want to be fucked until you can’t remember your own name.”
My nails scrape the velvet. My thighs tighten against him, traitorous, desperate, furious.
“I hate you,” I whisper.
His laugh is low. “You say that like hate doesn’t make you wetter. Like you don’t want to feel my teeth in your neck while you say it.”
My whole body flushes hot. He shifts again, just enough to drag the rough press of his jeans against me, and I bite down on a gasp until I taste blood.
It won’t save me. Nothing will.
Because he hears it and his mouth curls in victory. “Good girl. You were always meant to be broken by me.”
His grin cuts sharper when I don’t shove him away.
When I don’t move at all.
Instead, I’m pinned in velvet and smoke and him, my body betraying me with every stutter of breath, every twitch of my thighs against his.
“Peter—” It’s supposed to be a warning. It comes out as a broken plea.
“Don’t stop now,” he murmurs, low and filthy, his thigh pressing harder, sliding up until the friction is unbearable. “Show me how bad you hate me. Show me exactly how much you want to kill me while I make you cum.”
“I don’t?—”
“Liar.” His hand fists in the table edge, his other brushing my knee, pushing it wider until I have no choice but to ride the solid press of his leg. The angle forces meforward, grinding against him through too-thin fabric, and my hips move of their own accord, a rhythmic, desperate roll I can’t stop.
I gasp. Sharp. Loud. Too much.
His grin sharpens. “There she is. There’s the girl who belongs in my bed.”
Heat slams through me like shame and need twisted into one. I shake my head, trying to deny it, trying to close my thighs, but he’s already there—relentless, steady, brutal in the simplicity of it.
“You’re going to cum on me right here, aren’t you?” he says it like a promise, like a prophecy, like I have no say. His voice is so low, so sure, my body obeys before I can protest. “In the dark, while the music plays, and you’ll love every second of the humiliation.”
“Fuck you,” I choke out, nails clawing the velvet seat, back arching helplessly as he drives his thigh harder, deeper into the heat of me.
