Wendy
Idon’t move. Not when the music shifts into a low, predatory thrum that vibrates the ice in my empty glass.
Not when the lights dim until the red glow of the club looks like a fresh wound.
Not even when someone laughs too loud across the room and the sound ricochets inside my skull like a warning shot I’m too stubborn to heed.
The air in the booth is different now. It’s stagnant. Pressurised. It smells of the expensive, charred tobacco he favours and the raw, heavy scent of a man who thrives in the dark—a man who smells like he just got finished breaking someone.
Peter doesn’t move either. He just leans back into the seat like he has all the time in the world, his broad shoulders eating the space, his presence a gravity well I can’t escape. He looks like he can wait me out forever. Maybe he can. Maybe he already has.
“You’re staring again,” he says, his voice a low, tectonic rumble that bypasses my ears and settles straight into my body.
“I’m not—”
“Yes, you are.” His smirk is lazy, cruel—a slow-motion car crash of a smile.
Those blue eyes, the colour of a frozen lake with a body trapped beneath the surface, cut through me like glass.
“You always do, right before you lie. Your pupils blow wide and your throat hitches. You’re a transparent little thing, aren’t you? ”
Heat crawls up my throat, a frantic, burning tide. I shift, crossing my arms like I can shield myself from him, from the way his presence devours air, reason, choice.
From the way he makes me feel like I’m already naked and bleeding.
“You can’t keep doing this,” I whisper.
His laugh is soft, humourless—the sound of a blade being drawn over a whetstone. “Darling, I’ve barely started. I haven’t even scratched the surface of how I’m going to fuck your life up.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” He leans forward, his movement fluid and terrifying, elbows hitting the table. He clasps his hands, knuckles scarred and white, like he’s praying to something ugly and ancient.
“You think you can keep running, hiding, pretending? You’re here. In the dark. With me. Again. That’s not an accident. That’s instinct. You’re a dog returning to the only hand that knows how to hurt you right.”
My chest tightens until my ribs feel like they’re going to snap. “I’m not yours.”
“Then leave.”
The words snap sharp between us, a guillotine blade dropping. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t look away. He just sits there, an immovable mountain of muscle and malice, daring me to stand up. Daring me to prove him wrong.
My hand grips the edge of the table, my nails digging into the scarred, sticky wood until they ache. I want to shove back. I want to rise, storm out, and never look over my shoulder again. But my legs don’t move. My throat locks.
My heart betrays me, pounding against my chest so violently I swear the vibration is traveling through the leather and into his skin.
“See?” His smile is sharp, triumphant, a predator watching the life drain out of his prey. “You can’t even make it to the door. You’re already paralysed.”
“I don’t owe you shit,” I snap.
“You owe me everything.” His tone dips darker, silk laced with a violence that makes my skin shiver. “Every fucking time you come back to find me, you owe me more. Every time you look at me and don’t scream, the debt grows.”
The words steal my breath. My nails bite into my palm, drawing a tiny, sharp sting of reality.
“Why me?” I whisper, hating how small it sounds.
Peter tilts his head, studies me like he’s peeling back layers only he has the right to touch.
“Because you look at me like no one else does. Because you don’t see a saviour, or a saint, or her perfect, golden-boy brother.
You see the monster. And you don’t look away.
You crave the teeth, don’t you? You want to be bitten. ”
My pulse skips. My mouth goes dry as ash.
He leans in, close enough that the world is nothing but the smell of smoke, whiskey, and the sharp, clean scent of the rain clinging to his jacket.
His breath ghosts my cheek, and for one suspended second, the universe collapses until it’s just the two of us in a red-lit vacuum.
“You’ll keep coming back,” he murmurs. “Until you stop pretending it’s a choice. Until you admit you’re addicted to the way I fuck with your head.”
My body betrays me, heat sparking low in my belly, a dangerous, hungry flame that blurs my anger into something much darker. I want to slap him. I want to kiss him until we both bleed. I want him gone.
Instead, I whisper, “Fuck you.”
His grin is wicked, feral—the look of a man who has already won the war. “You will.”
I don’t breathe when he says it. You will.
It hangs there, heavy, obscene, like a hand around my throat, tightening with every second of my silence.
I force myself to laugh, a brittle, jagged sound like broken glass against my tongue. “You’re out of your mind.”
Peter doesn’t flinch. He just tips his head like he’s studying a specimen under a microscope, like I’m pinned under glass and twitching while he holds the scalpel, deciding where to make the first cut.
“Maybe.” His voice is low, smooth, too calm. “But tell me, Darling—why does that scare you less than wanting me back? Why is my madness the only thing that makes you feel alive?”
My skin prickles, a thousand needles of shame and need. I grip the table until the wood digs into my palms. If I let go, I’ll reach for him. If I let go, I’ll lose.
“Move,” I whisper, though I don’t make space for him to go.
He doesn’t. He stretches further, his knee brushing mine under the table. Just a touch. Barely there. But my body jolts like he branded me with white-hot iron.
I try to pull away. The booth traps me. His thigh follows, relentless, pressing lightly against mine. It isn’t enough to be obscene—but it’s enough to remind me who owns the air in this room.
“Stop.” My voice cracks. I hate it.
His hand moves. Not fast. Not forceful. It’s a deliberate, predatory slide across the wood until his fingers hook—light, almost casual—around my wrist. He doesn’t squeeze. Doesn’t pin. He just rests there, warm, steady, his thumb dragging once, twice, across the inside of my pulse.
And my pulse betrays me. Slamming. Racing. Screaming in my veins like a choir of the damned.
His mouth curves, slow and cruel. “You always shake right here. Right under my thumb. You’re singing for me, aren’t you?”
I jerk my hand back. He lets me. The cold absence of his touch burns more than the heat of it did.
“Don’t,” I hiss, voice sharper than I feel inside.
“Don’t what?” His smirk deepens. “Don’t touch you? Don’t follow you? Don’t see you?” He leans forward, his breath brushing my cheek, his words silk-wrapped knives. “Darling, I’ve been breaking that rule since the first time you said my name and your voice shook with the weight of it.”
My throat locks. “I never—”
“You did.” His eyes pin me, cold and blue and brutal as a winter sea. “You said it soft. Like a secret. Like you thought no one was listening. And I haven’t stopped hearing it since.”
I can’t look away. I can’t breathe. The space is too small. He’s too much.
“I shouldn’t want this,” I whisper.
His hand moves again. Not to my wrist this time—up, slow, until the backs of his fingers graze along my jaw. Barely there. A whisper of touch. It’s nothing. It’s everything. It’s a declaration of war.
My body goes still, traitor-frozen, my skin begging for the contact even as my mouth prepares to spit venom.
Peter smiles, sharp and wicked, like he just won a game I didn’t know we were playing. “But you do. You want it so bad you can taste the copper in the back of your throat.”
The words burrow into me, heat and shame and hunger all at once.
And I hate him.
And I hate me more.
His fingers graze my jaw once more, and before I can snap at him, he does it again—slower, deliberate, the rough pads of his knuckles tracing down to the hollow of my throat.
I stiffen. “Peter—”
“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, dragging heat 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 me forward, 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.
“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.”