Wendy #2
I can’t look away. My mouth is dry, my pussy throbbing in a rhythmic, wet ache that demands him. I hate that I want the very thing that’s destroying me.
“You make it so fucking hard,” he whispers, his eyes boring into mine as he steps into my space. “I’ve had queens, Wendy. I’ve had women who would burn cities for a glance. But you? You make me want to tear the world apart just to see if you’ll smile at the rubble. You make me feel… feral.”
He reaches down, his large hands fisting in my hair and hauling me up off the bed. I let out a choked gasp as he spins me, my back hitting the mattress, and then he’s lifting me, my legs instinctively locking around his waist.
He sits back on the edge of the bed with me straddling him, his cock a hot, hard iron rod pressed against the entrance of my heat. I’m covered in the sticky remains of the honey and the cold champagne, and as I sink down, the friction is almost too much to bear.
“Take it,” he commands, his hands gripping my hips, his thumbs digging into my pelvic bone. “Show me how much you hate me, Wendy. Grind that hate right into my skin.”
I let out a broken, filthy moan. I start to move, my hips rolling in a slow, agonising circle against him.
The tip of him slides against my clit, sending jolts of white-hot electricity straight to my brain.
I’m panting, my forehead resting against his as I drive my weight down, forcing the blunt head of him to stretch me.
“Oh, fuck,” I sob, my nails clawing at his tattooed shoulders. “Oh, fuck, Peter… you make it so… so fucking hard… to hate you.”
“Don’t stop,” he pants, his head falling back, his throat working as I pick up the pace. “Hate me harder, Darling. Break me.”
I’m wild now. I’m grinding against him with a rhythmic, frantic desperation, the honey making everything slick and messy, the sound of our skin slapping together echoing like a heartbeat. I want to be filled. I want him to ruin the memory of everything else.
I lift myself up and then slam back down, taking an inch, then two, the fullness of him making me see stars. My pussy clenches around him, a tight, weeping vice that has him groaning, his eyes rolling back in his head.
“You’re a fucking drug,” he hisses, his hands moving to my breasts, squeezing them until I cry out. “A beautiful, poisonous drug. And I’m going to overdose on you, Wendy. I’m going to sink so deep inside you that you’ll never find your way back to the surface.”
I’m moving like a dervish, my hair whipping around my face, my moans turning into raw, guttural screams as I feel the pressure building. I’m driving him wild, my internal walls pulsing around him in a frantic, starving rhythm.
“I’ve got you,” he growls, his voice breaking. “I’ve fucking got you.”
He doesn’t just lose control; he incinerates it.
His large, calloused hands slide down from my waist, fisting into the meat of my ass with a bruising, primitive strength.
He hauls me upward and then slams me back down onto his cock, the impact echoing through my very marrow.
The rhythm isn’t a dance anymore; it’s a collision.
It’s a rhythmic, bone-deep stabbing that makes the headboard crack against the wall.
“You think you’re the only one who’s drowning?” he rasps, his face a mask of sweating, beautiful agony.
Suddenly, one hand flies up, his fingers wrapping around my throat. He doesn’t just hold me—he squeezes. Not enough to kill, but enough to turn the world into a red-fringed blur, enough to make my lungs burn and my pussy clench into a desperate, starving knot around him.
I’m gasping, my mouth open in a silent scream, my eyes locked on his as he fucks me with a feral, terrifying speed. I’m a wreck of honey and champagne and his scent, my body arching like a bow about to snap.
“Look at me,” he snarls, his voice a guttural, viral command. “Tell me you’re mine while I take the air out of your lungs. Tell me you want the monster.”
He leans in, his teeth sinking into the juncture of my neck and shoulder. He isn’t nipping; he’s claiming. I feel the sharp, electric sting of his teeth breaking the skin, the copper taste of my own blood filling the air as he bites down hard, his growl vibrating through my collarbone.
“Oh god… Peter… please…” I choke out, my hands flying to his wrist, not to pull him away, but to hold him there. To keep the pressure. To keep the pain.
“I’m going to ruin you,” he pants, his thrusts becoming shallow, violent, and impossibly fast. He’s bottoming out, hitting my cervix with every brutal shove, his cock a hot, pulsing iron that’s stretching me to the point of breaking.
“I’m going to make it so no other man can even look at you without smelling my mark on your soul. ”
The friction is a wildfire. I’m sobbing, my hips jerking in a frantic, uncoordinated rhythm against his lap. I’m so close I can feel the edges of my vision fraying, the pressure in my pelvis building into a tidal wave.
He lets go of my throat only to grab both of my wrists, pinning them behind my back, forcing my chest out, exposing me completely to his hunger. He’s losing it—the witty, calm Peter Hale is dead, replaced by a beast that only knows how to occupy.
“Now, Wendy!” he bellows, his voice cracking as he hits his own ledge. “Now!”
I hit the peak with a jagged, lung-tearing shriek, my internal walls spasming around him in a rhythmic, crushing sequence.
It’s too much. It’s too bright. It’s too violent.
I’m shaking, my forehead hitting his shoulder as I fall apart, my entire world reduced to the feeling of him filling me, claim after claim.
He lets out a low, animalistic roar, his body stiffening as he finally spills into me. He’s bucking under me, his hands shaking as they grip my thighs, his head falling back as he pours everything he is into the ruin he made of me.
We stay like that for an eternity, tangled in the ruins of the bed, the smell of sex, honey, and blood heavy in the air. He’s still inside me, his heart thundering against my ribs, the only sound the jagged, broken rhythm of our breathing.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark, blown out, and utterly, terrifyingly obsessed. He leans in and licks the blood from the bite mark on my shoulder, a slow, filthy gesture of victory.
“Welcome home, Wendy,” he whispers.