Peter #2
“You don’t have a soul!” she screams, her voice cracking with a devastating, final honesty.
“You have a collection! You have a shrine! You have rules! But you don’t have a soul, and you don’t have me.
You just have a prisoner who’s too afraid to leave because you’ve made the outside world look like a graveyard. ”
She looks at the blood on her hands—my blood—and lets out a low, animalistic wail of pure grief.
“I hate that I care if you bleed,” she whispers, her eyes dropping to the floor. “I hate that I’m standing here instead of running. But don’t you ever lie to me and say this is love. It’s just… it’s just your way of not being alone when you finally go to hell.”
I stand there, paralysed. I’ve survived hits from the North End, I’ve survived betrayals from my own blood, but watching her fall apart because she thinks I’m just waiting for the right moment to kill her… it destroys me. It hollows me out until I’m nothing but a suit filled with ash.
“I will never get bored of you,” I say, and for the first time in my life, there is no mockery in my tone. There is only a raw, bleeding truth. “I will never kill you. I would sooner kill myself than see you stop breathing.”
“Then do it,” she gasps, her eyes meeting mine with a terrifying, hollow light. “If you love me so much, Peter… then kill the monster. Kill yourself and let me go.”
The silence that follows is a tomb. I look at her—broken, bloody, and beautiful—and I realise that the girl I trapped in this house has finally found a way to win. She’s found the one part of me that isn’t made of stone, and she’s twisting the knife.
I don’t answer her with words. I can’t. My throat is too tight, the skin still weeping red onto my collar, the air in the room suddenly too thin to support the weight of her demand.
I step forward, and this time, she doesn’t flinch.
She’s too exhausted, too shattered by the force of her own honesty.
I reach out and slide my hands beneath the heavy silk of her robe, my palms finding the bare, trembling skin of her waist. I pull her into me, not with the predatory force of the bath, but with a slow, devastating reverence that feels like a confession.
I sink to my knees before her.
The King of the North End, covered in soot and the blood of better men, kneeling in the dirt of his own obsession.
I press my face against her stomach, breathing in the scent of her—the honey, the salt, and the raw, electric smell of her fear.
My hands slide down, cupping the backs of her thighs, pulling her closer until there is no space left for the lies to breathe.
“You want me to die for you?” I whisper against her skin, my voice a broken, rasp.
I reach up, my fingers ghosting over the heat of her pussy, not to take, but to worship.
I find the damp, swollen centre of her and press my thumb there, a slow, rhythmic pressure that makes her let out a sharp, involuntary gasp.
Her hands fly to my hair, her fingers tangling in the mess of it, her knees buckling as I hold her upright.
“I would,” I murmur, looking up at her, my eyes dark with a terrifying, unhinged devotion. “I would let you slide the blade in right now. I would bleed out on this floor just to see you have the life you want. But Wendy…”
I lean in, my breath hot against her inner thigh, my hand sliding deeper, my fingers slick with the proof that her body is still a traitor to her mind.
“I would rather fucking drown in you,” I growl, the words tearing out of my chest. “I would rather spend eternity in this dark room, suffocating on your hate and your heat, than spend a single second in a world where I can’t feel your heart beating.
You aren’t a collection. You’re the air in my fucking lungs. ”
She lets out a low, shattered sob, her head falling back as I move my mouth to the sensitive skin of her hip.
I’m being tender, but it’s a feral tenderness—the kind that leaves bruises on the soul.
I’m kissing her as if I can swallow her grief, as if I can lick away the fear that I’ll ever get bored of the way she breaks for me.
“Don’t,” she whimpers, her body arching toward my touch even as she tries to push the words away. “Peter, stop… you’re making me… you’re making me forget…”
“Forget everything,” I command, my hand working her with a slow, agonising intimacy that has her sliding down the front of my body until we’re both on the floor, tangled in the ruins of the afternoon. “Forget the rules. Forget the blood. Just feel me, Wendy. Feel how much I fucking need you.”
I pull her robe open, exposing her to the shrine of herself on the wall. I want her to see what I see—not a prisoner, but a goddess built of rage and lace. I lean over her, my bloody shirt staining her skin, and I kiss her with a desperation that tastes of salt and surrender.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper against her lips. “And neither are you. We’re going to rot in this beautiful grave together.”
I don’t stand up. I don’t let her breathe.
I haul her up from the floor, my muscles screaming with a feral strength, and slam her back against the edge of the mahogany desk.
The maps and photos of her life scatter like autumn leaves, sliding off the polished wood as I force her down into the centre of my obsession.
I grab her ankles and shove them upward, draping her slender, trembling legs over my shoulders.
The position is total. It’s a complete, undeniable exposure. I pull the black silk of her robe back, pinning it under her weight, until she is laid bare beneath the harsh, unforgiving light of the office.
“Look at you,” I rasp, my voice thick with a dark, hunger. “You’re so fucking beautiful it’s a crime.”
I stare at her, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Her pussy is a masterpiece of soft, pink flesh and damp, golden curls, swollen and weeping from the way I’ve been working her.
It’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen—vibrant, raw, and glistening with a nectar that smells like honey and heat.
The folds are flushed a deep, sunset red, pulsing with every terrified, expectant breath she takes.
“Peter… please,” she whimpers, her hands frantically searching for purchase on the edge of the desk, her knuckles white.
“Stay still, Wendy,” I growl. I reach up and pin her wrists to the wood above her head, my large hands acting like iron manacles. “You wanted to know if I’d get bored? I could spend a lifetime right here, mapping every inch of this.”
I lean in. I don’t rush. I want her to feel the agonising crawl of my intent.
I press my face into her pussy, breathing in the scent of her surrender.
Then, I flick my tongue out, tasting the very first bead of her desire.
She’s hot—scorching—and the taste of her is a drug that hits my system harder than any whiskey.
I start to lick her, long, slow, agonisingly wet strokes that start at her perineum and drag all the way up to the hooded peak of her clit.
She lets out a sharp, shattered cry, her hips bucking, trying to find the friction she needs. But I hold her down, my shoulders acting as a vice for her legs, my hands keeping her wrists locked against the desk.
“No moving,” I murmur against her wet skin, my voice a muffled vibration that makes her entire body shudder. “You’re going to feel every single second of this.”
I settle in, my tongue becoming a rhythmic, relentless tool of worship. I swirl it around her opening, tasting the champagne and the honey and the pure, concentrated essence of her. Then I focus on her centre, my tongue flattening out, lapping at her with a steady, punishing pressure.
“Oh god, Peter!” she screams, her head thrashing from side to side on the desk. “It’s too much! I can’t… I’m going to… please!”
She’s a wreck beneath me, her pussy clenching and unclenching around the air, the walls of her heat pulsing in a frantic, starving rhythm.
I can feel her climax building, a tidal wave just offshore, and I increase the pace.
I suck her into my mouth, my teeth grazing the sensitive skin, my tongue flicking over her with a feral, obsessed speed.
I want to drown in her. I want to swallow every sob, every moan, every drop of the sweet, sticky ruin she’s becoming.
“You’re mine,” I growl into her heat, the words vibrating through her pelvis. “Every beautiful, broken inch. Mine.”
She hits the ledge and shatters. Her body goes rigid, her back arching so high off the desk I think her spine might snap, a long, high-pitched wail of total, unhinged ecstasy tearing from her throat.
Her internal walls spasm against my tongue, milk-warm and frantic, as she spills over me in a flood of pure, honest surrender.
I don’t stop. I keep licking, keeping her in that agonising, beautiful peak, proving to her that I will never, ever get bored of the taste of her soul.
I don’t just lick her; I devour her. I bury my face into that soft, weeping heat, my nose pressing against her pubic bone, losing myself in the slick, iron-scented scent of her.
I’m filthy with her. My tongue is a broad, relentless muscle, lapping at her opening with a sloppy, desperate hunger that echoes through the quiet office.
I want to taste the very core of her fear and her love. I want to swallow the shame she feels for wanting me.
“Peter… oh god, I’m… I’m going to—”
Her voice breaks into a high, jagged sob as her fingers claw at the wood of my desk, her nails leaving white scores in the expensive finish.
I don’t let up. I suck her clit into my mouth, my lips creating a vacuum of pure, unadulterated sensation, while my tongue flickers like a flame against the most sensitive nerve endings she owns.
I’m drowning in her, my face wet with her nectar and the blood still dripping from my throat. It’s a baptism of sin.
I feel the shift in her—the way her muscles turn from liquid to stone, the way her breath catches in a sharp, panicked wheeze. She’s not just cumming; she’s breaking. Her hips lurch upward, slamming into my face, and then the floodgates burst.
She lets out a raw, lung-tearing scream as she squirts, a hot, frantic deluge of her own sweet ruin drenching my face, my eyes, and the open wound on my neck.
It’s a violent, beautiful release, a physical manifestation of her surrender.
I don’t pull away. I stay buried in her, drinking her in, feeling the rhythmic, crushing spasms of her pussy against my mouth as she floods me.
“That’s it, Darling,” I growl against her soaking skin, my voice a muffled, guttural rasp. “Give it all to me. Give me every fucking drop.”
She’s shaking so hard the desk is rattling, her legs trembling on my shoulders as she continues to pulse, the fluid running down my chin and soaking into the collar of my shirt. I’m a mess—covered in her, in blood, in the filth of my own obsession—and I’ve never felt more like a king.
I pull back slowly, my face glistening in the afternoon light, my eyes dark and blown out with satisfaction. I look at her—spread out, soaking, and utterly ruined on the maps of her old life. She looks like a sacrificial lamb who finally realised she loves the knife.
I reach out, my thumb dragging through the wetness on my cheek, and I bring it to my lips, tasting her one last time.
“You said I’d get bored, Wendy,” I whisper, my hand sliding between her soaking thighs. “But I think we just found a new rule. You belong on this desk. You belong under my mouth. And you sure as fuck belong to me.”