6. Sinners and Sirens #2
“Right here,” Nibbs offered, rushing forward with a wooden salt cellar. He leaned over the large pot and breathed in the steam. “That smells divine.”
Cass crowded her back and looked over her shoulder at the raw contents. “How do you turn that into a stew?” She could smell the earthiness of his clothes and something undeniably tempting on his skin.
She stirred the ingredients with a long wooden spoon. “With a little heat and the right ingredients, you can make just about anything.” She handed off the wooden spoon and directed Cass to keep stirring so she could get some space from all that potent male energy.
Moving to the island, she measured out some dry ingredients.
“What’s that?” the twins asked as she dumped flour into a deep bowl.
“This will be the dumplings.”
Peter watched but didn’t share the Lost Boys’ curiosity. They were very helpful and responded well when she acknowledged their efforts with gratitude. “Who wants to set the table?”
“I will!” Cass, Tate, and the twins all volunteered at once.
Wendy handed off plates, spoons, napkins, and glasses so they could all contribute.
Peter wore an expression of boredom as he waited for the soup to finish cooking, and Bayne kept to the shadows, always watching with that calculating stare from the outside looking in.
There was something unnatural about him as if his upbringing embedded a sense of distrust, and he didn’t know how to form relationships. Yet somehow, he stuck by Peter all these years.
“How did you all meet?” she asked, casually disguising her interest as she kneaded the dumplings.
“We were prisoners,” Peter said as he chomped on the scraps left on the cutting board.
“Prisoners? Of what?”
“A wretched beast who locked us in frigid cells where we had no choice but to serve the evil that trapped us.”
Was he joking? She thought he was, but the others lowered their gazes. She couldn’t tell if they did so to hide smirks or out of some form of respect.
“I escaped first.” Peter proclaimed, slamming down the cleaver to cut off the green leaves of a carrot. “Then Bayne. Then the others.”
She frowned. He spoke as if telling a bedtime story, but there was a solemness in the air that hinted at the truth.
Peter hopped off the stool and came to stand behind her, holding the carrot to her throat like a blade. “We were never captured again. From then on, we made the rules.”
“We take the prisoners,” Tate said, nodding in agreement.
“Like pirates,” Nibbs nodded.
Wendy cleared her throat and gently pushed away Peter’s hand. “Pirates?”
“Aye,” one of the twins said. “We take what we want and want for nothing.”
“You could be a pirate, too,” Peter told her. “We could call you something wicked, like Red-Handed Wendy—the innocent bird who escaped her cage and never got caught.”
She gave him an unimpressed side glance. “For a bird, I’m not the best when it comes to flying.”
“You’ll learn.”
Nibbs perked up. “We can teach you to swim, too! We can teach you anything you want to know. There are no rules here, except for one.”
“And what is that?”
“Peter’s in charge,” they all said at once.
She looked at each face, noting the resolute loyalty in their eyes. How did Peter become such a high-ranking leader among a group of seemingly equal friends? And how much of what they said was actually true?
“It’s time to clean the chicken from the bone,” she said, putting the crew to work.
Peter might be their leader, but they followed her orders easily, coming to work around the island and helping in any way they could. All but two.
Peter observed the Lost Boys, and Bayne observed Peter. Always on the outside. Always apart from the rest.
Of all the boys, Cass and Tate were her favorites.
They were sweet, helpful, and eager to please.
She was learning their personalities quickly.
She bet Cass was a cuddler because he liked to touch everything and often put his hands on her shoulders in an open show of affection. She liked how he made her feel at ease.
Tate was the ultimate people-pleaser. The mere thought of disappointing others made him anxious, so he always asked what he could do next.
Nibbs was also helpful but in a much more flirtatious way. He’d reach for a spoon and casually touch her hip or playfully dot flour on her nose. The more she permitted, the further he pressed his luck, once even whipping a tea towel at her behind, but Peter stopped that with a quick reprimand.
“Enough,” Peter said, snatching the towel from Nibbs and tossing it aside.
He stepped behind Wendy, sheltering her body with his. Possessive arms slid beneath hers as he rested his chin on her shoulder in an unmistakable claim. The others instantly backed off.
She could have shouldered him away. She could have purposely given the other men more to do.
But there was something pleasant about his territorial claim.
No one had ever touched her so possessively, and while she wasn’t sure about her feelings for Peter, she was becoming more certain she wanted a man who would unflinchingly claim her as his own.
Preparing dinner was a bit like playing house. A hierarchy naturally formed, one where Peter played the role of father and Wendy was the mother. The Lost Boys deferred to Peter’s authority as much as they craved her nurturing praise.
That fantasy shattered, however, the moment Peter swept a hand under her shirt to grab a handful of flesh.
“Peter.” She caught his wrist and gave him a warning stare. Surely, he didn’t think to touch her with the Lost Boys present.
Peter met her glare with a grin and stepped forward, pressing the hard bulge of his arousal into her stomach. Her breath caught, and she arched back against the counter. He needed to stop.
“What are you doing?”
He leaned closer. “Whatever I want.”
She looked back at the Lost Boys, who watched them with unblinking eyes. Not a single one looked concerned for her safety. Or—if they were concerned—none appeared willing to interfere because that would mean going against Peter.
She could have pushed him away, but she didn’t.
Slow and possessive, he dragged his other hand under her damp hair and caught the back of her neck.
Something inside of her caught fire under his possessive hold.
The alarming thought that liked being a prisoner, liked knowing that someone else was responsible for whatever happened next, caught her off-guard.
“Peter, the boys are watching.” She could feel their hungry stares egging him on.
“So?”
“So—” The moment she opened her mouth, he closed the distance and sealed his lips to hers. Her resistance softened. Soon enough, she seemed to have no willpower at all.
He lifted her to the cool granite countertop, wedging his hips between her knees.
Her legs naturally wrapped around him, her ankles locking at his back as he ground into her.
Deep, slow kisses cast a spell as liquid fire burned low in her belly.
His hands roamed down her back, trailed up her spine, and tangled in her hair.
Only when she felt him loosening his belt did reality set back in.
“Peter.” She nudged him.
The twins were grinning, and Tate was flushed. Cassian’s broad shoulders moved with every heavy breath while Nibbs bit his lip. Bayne was the only one who glared but they all made her uncomfortable.
“Peter, we have to stop.”
“No, we don’t.”
Her face flushed as she clumsily made eye contact with Tate. “Yes, we do.” This time, she shoved him back with more firmness and quickly scooted off the counter, carefully keeping her gaze down until her embarrassment abated. “The soup’s about— Hey!”
The room turned upside down as she was scooped off her feet and thrown over Peter’s shoulder. “The soup can wait.”
He carried her through the house to a room she hadn’t seen yet. A door slammed behind them, and he tossed her onto a plush bed of deep green blankets and soft, velvet pillows. He grabbed her ankle and tugged her to the edge, causing her shirt to rise to her ribs.
“Peter, wait.”
His shirt came off, and he was on top of her once more, kissing her in an attempt to confuse or silence her objections.
“Peter—”
“Shhh.”
She shoved an arm into his neck and turned her face away. “Peter, wait.”
“Why?” He unzipped his pants.
“Hold on!” She scrambled back the moment she felt the heat and weight of his arousal against her bare thigh. “P-put that away.”
He frowned and sat back, stroking himself almost performatively. “Why?”
“Because we’re moving too fast.”
“Who says?”
“I do, for one.”
He rolled his eyes. “I thought you wanted to have fun.”
“I do. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to have sex with you.”
He laughed dryly as if stunned. “Wendy, I thought I made it clear that I intend to fuck you.”
The crude shift in his language diminished her arousal, and she scowled. “Well, you don’t always get what you want.”
He laughed again. “Uh, yeah, I do.”
“Not with me.”
He paused as if this were the first time he heard the word no. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.” She shoved down her shirt. “I’m not sleeping with you.”
She wasn’t sure when her mind had changed, but sometime in the course of the last few hours, it became abundantly clear that Peter was the love ‘em and leave ‘em kind of guy. She didn’t need a betrothal, but she certainly needed to feel like more than an impulse that would likely be forgotten the moment he finished.
He rolled his eyes as if his judgment could further cave her will. That sort of manipulation might work with other women, but for her, it only further detracted from his attractiveness. She crossed her arms over her chest and met his challenging stare with an unbudging one of her own.
He climbed off the bed and put on his shirt. “Whatever.”
Uncertainty nipped at her courage when he opened the door. “Where are you going?”
“Out. If you’re not going to fuck me, I’ll find someone who will.”
Her jaw went slack, and he left her in the empty room. Her shock might have made her cry if she weren’t so furious. He was going out to fuck another woman? While she was still here?
She should be grateful she was learning who he really was before things went too far, but somehow, his rejection still caused an ache in her chest. What if she was making an enemy of an ally she needed? She was still at his mercy and reliant on his cooperation to get home.
She scowled, her inner turmoil jerking her thoughts about in an infuriating manner. What sort of gentleman behaved in such a way to his guest? Peter was no gentleman at all. He was a scoundrel and a spoiled whore.
Her resistance hardened like armor as she climbed off the bed. “Think you can bully me?” she grumbled, smoothing out her hair. “Let’s see you find someone else while I’m here. I think you’re all talk, Mr. Pangbourne.”
Straightening her shoulders, she went to find the Lost Boys. Peter had a jealous side, and if he wanted to play games, she could play too.