“Maybe.” He steps closer, his boots crunching on the gravel and broken glass of the alleyway, measured and rhythmic. “But I’m the only animal that makes you cum so hard you forget your own name. I’m the only one who knows the exact sound you make when you’ve lost your goddamn mind.”
“Fuck you,” I hiss, my voice cracking under the weight of my own pulse.
“You already did.” His smirk sharpens, his eyes glinting like a blade in the red light as he stalks forward, crowding my space until the air is nothing but him. “And you’ll do it again. Next time, you won’t even pretend to fight it.”
I shake my head, my throat tight enough to choke me. “This was a mistake. A momentary lapse in sanity.”
He laughs, a low, cruel sound that vibrates in the narrow space between the buildings. “Sweetheart, the mistake was thinking you could walk into my booth and walk out the same girl. You’re different now. You’re stained. And you love the way it feels.”
My knees nearly buckle. Because he’s right. I can stillfeel the lingering, electric tremor of my orgasm, the shame slicking my skin, the way my body obeyed him like it had been waiting for his command since the day I hit puberty.
I try to find words. Any words that don’t sound like a surrender. All I manage is a whisper: “You can’t keep doing this to me. You’re going to kill me.”
Peter steps so close the brick at my back feels like it disappears into the heat radiating off his chest. His hand comes up—not touching me, just hovering near my jaw, the calloused tip of his thumb almost grazing the swell of my lower lip.
His voice drops to something darker. Something ravenous. “I don’t have to keep doing anything, Darling. You’ll come back. You’ll seek me out in the dark because the light is too boring for a girl like you.”
The air between us goes razor sharp, filled with the scent of rain and his own intoxicating arrogance. His blue eyes catch mine and hold—no escape, no mercy, just a brutal, bottomless depth.
And then—he leans in, close enough that his breath brushes the sensitive skin of my ear, his words sinking straight into my bloodstream like a toxin.
“Next time, I’ll make you beg for it. I’ll make you scream my name until your throat is raw and you’re begging me to never stop.”
His breath ghosts over my ear, hot and smug, but I don’t flinch. I can’t. If I move, I’ll shatter into a thousand pieces of wanting and loathing.
“Step back,” I whisper, even though my voice shakes like a leaf in a gale.
Peter chuckles, a low, sandpaper rasp against my skin. “You really want me to? You want to go back to your lonely bed and pretend you don’t still feel my leg between yours?”
“Yes.” My answer comes too fast, a desperate lie that falls flat between us.
His eyes drag down my face, heavy and intentional, lingering on the curve of my mouth until I want to scream. His hand lifts—not touching—just hovering near my throat, a silent dare for me to lean into the heat of him.
“Then why the fuck are you trembling like you’ll fall apart if I don’t touch you right now?”
Heat pools low in my belly, an ugly, undeniable ache. I grit my teeth, spat the only weapon I have left at his feet. “Because you terrify me. Because you’re a fucking psychopath.”
“Good.” His grin flashes white in the red neon glow, feral and bright. “Fear looks hot on you, Wendy. It makes your skin flush and your eyes go wide. It makes you look like you’re ready to be broken.”
My nails bite into my palms, drawing blood. “You’re sick.”
He leans in even closer, until I can smell the smoke and the expensive whiskey on his breath, a cocktail of ruin. “No, Darling. I’m honest. Every other guy wants to pretend he’s your saviour, that he’ll protect you from the world. I’m the only one who’ll admit I’m the one you need protection from. I’m the one who’s going to ruin you, and we both know you’re going to let me.”
The words punch the air out of me. My knees knock, my chest heaves, andI hate—I fucking hate—that my body arcs forward, seeking the contact my mind is screaming to avoid.
“You can’t do this to me,” I whisper, my voice a broken thing.
His laugh is dark, cruel, and utterly satisfied. “Can’t? Sweetheart, I already did. Back there in the booth—your thighs shaking, your breath breaking, your little cunt soaking through your dress for me? You gave me everything I wanted without me even having to take it.”
Shame spikes hot and bitter in my throat. I turn my face away, trying to find some scrap of dignity in the trash-strewn alley, but his hand snaps up. His fingers catch my jaw, a sharp, bruising grip that forces me back to him. It isn’t gentle. It’s a claim. It’s a master reminding a dog who’s in charge.
“Look at me,” he orders, his voice rough silk and iron.
I do.
The smirk fades for a heartbeat, his eyes sharpening to something hungrier, colder, more obsessive. “You want to hate me. I get it. It’s easier than admitting the truth. But you’ll lie awake tonight with your hand between your thighs, and you’ll hear my voice every time you touch yourself. You’ll hear me telling you what a good girl you are, and you’ll hate yourself more for needing it more than you’ll ever hate me for giving it to you.”
A strangled sound claws out of my chest—half sob, half growl. I shove against his chest, but he’s an oak tree. He doesn’t budge. The wall, his massive frame, his soul-stripping stare—everything cages me in.
