“You already are.” His lips ghost my jaw, breathing filth straight into me. “Look at you. Grinding like a slut in a corner while people drink five feet away. My sister’s perfect little friend, reduced to this. Getting off on my leg in a booth that doesn’t even have a lock.”
Shame punches hot into my chest. My hips roll faster anyway, like I’m not even in charge anymore. My clit drags against the rough fabric of his jeans, every movement sharper, wetter, desperate.
“I hate you,” I whisper, broken.
“Then hate me harder. Feed me that hate.” His hand clamps my hip, dragging me down against him, forcing me to ride him filthier, faster, until the wet heat between my thighs is spreading across his jeans. “Cum on me, Darling.Do it. Show me that you’re exactly the monster I am. Show me how much you want to be fucked.”
My eyes slam shut. My breath stutters. My thighs clamp and quake, grinding against him with humiliating need, and then—I break.
The orgasm tears out of me hard, humiliating, devastating. My body jerks, shudders, clinging to him as I grind down, chasing it, riding his thigh like it’s the only thing keeping me alive. My moan is muffled in my hand, but he hears it. He fucking hears it.
Peter’s laugh is low, rough, triumphant. His hand digs into my hip, holding me down through it, forcing me to keep moving even as my body spasms.
“Good girl,” he breathes, filthy and final. “You’ll never drink without thinking of the way I fucked you in this booth.”
The world comes back in pieces. The music. The voices. The glitter-stained air. But he doesn’t move his leg.
Doesn’t let me escape.
His breath brushes my ear.
“Next time, you’ll cum on my cock. And I won’t let you hide your face when I’m deep inside you.”
Wendy
The second my legs stop shaking, I move.
Not smoothly, not gracefully—like prey trying to flee a trap it already chewed its own leg off to escape. I shove out of the booth, the vinyl screeching against my skin like a dying animal. My elbow nearly knocks the glass off the table, the half-inch of pink sugar rattling against the wood as I scramble for distance.
I nearly trip on the sticky, beer-soaked carpet, my heels catching on the grime of a thousand bad decisions. I don’t care. My skin is burning, a feverish, localised heat that feels like a brand. My thighs are wet, the cooling dampness a humiliating reminder of how easily I broke, and my chest is so tight I can’t get a full breath.
I can still feel him. I can feel the phantom weight of his thigh, the bruising grip of his hand, the smug fucking rasp of his voice telling me to cum like I had a choice. Like I was ever anything more than a toy he decided to wind up.
I stumble through the crowd, the air in the clubtasting of recycled breath and cheap ambition. Heat crawls up my throat. Every laugh I hear sounds like a jagged edge, like they all know what I just did in the dark. Every eye feels like a spotlight on the damp patch on my dress.
I’m humiliated. I’m fucking ruined. I’m not stopping.
The front door looms ahead—the red EXIT sign glowing like a bloody promise I should’ve taken hours ago. I push past some drunk suit who smells like desperation, ignore his indignant shout, and shove the heavy metal door open. I taste the night air like salvation.
It cuts through the sweat on my skin, shocking my lungs back to life. It reminds me I’m still real, still human, still?—
“Running already, Darling?”
The door slams shut behind me with a final, metallic thud that sounds like a cell door locking. His voice slides through the alley like oil on water, dark and iridescent and impossible to wash off.
I freeze. My heart hits my ribs so hard it hurts. Because of course he followed. Because a predator doesn’t let the rabbit go just because she finally found a hole to crawl into.
Peter Hale fills the doorway like a shadow carved from pure, unadulterated violence.
The neon sign overhead flickers, painting his sharp features in a strobing crimson—the colour of sin, of emergency, of every warning light I’ve ever ignored. He doesn’t look out of breath. He doesn’t even look ruffled. He looks like a man who just finished a light meal. Calm. Controlled. Lethal.
Like he planned this. Like he’s been orchestrating my collapse for years.
“Stay the fuck away from me,” I snap, backing up until the grit of the brick wall scrapes my bare shoulder blades.
He smiles, slow and predatory. “That’s not what your body said two minutes ago. Your body was screaming for me to stay.”
Heat scorches my cheeks, a deep, angry flush. “You’re disgusting. You’re a fucking animal.”
