Peter #2
I drop my hands.
I actually hold them up in a gesture of mock surrender, my back hitting the cold brass rail of the telescope.
The air nips at my bare chest, but I don’t feel the cold.
I only feel the heat radiating off her. She’s standing there in the centre of the observatory, the starlight washing over the obsidian velvet like liquid mercury.
“Oh,” I rasp, a slow, grin spreading across my face. “It’s like that, is it?”
“Don’t move, Peter,” she commands. Her voice isn’t shaking anymore. It’s low, steady, and dangerous. “You’ve spent so much time watching me. Now you’re going to learn what happens when I decide to be seen.”
She reaches for the back of the dress. The sound of the zipper is a slow, agonising hiss that cuts through the quiet of the room.
It’s the only sound in the world. She doesn’t let the dress fall—not yet.
She keeps her eyes locked on mine, challenging me to breathe, challenging me to break the rules she’s just rewritten.
She hooks her thumbs into the plunging neckline.
Slowly—so fucking slowly it feels like a physical torture—she peels the velvet down.
First her shoulders, pale and perfect, then the swell of her breasts.
She isn’t wearing a bra. The cold air hits her, and I watch her nipples harden into tight, dark peaks under the starlight.
My cock thrums, a heavy, painful pulse against my zipper. I want to lunge. I want to bridge the three feet between us and devour her. But she holds up a single finger, stopping me dead.
“I said don’t touch.”
She shimmies her hips, and the heavy obsidian fabric slides down her torso, catching on the curve of her ass for one agonising second before it pools at her feet in a dark, discarded heap. She’s standing there in nothing but a pair of lace panties so thin they’re practically a suggestion.
She’s a goddess built of moonlight and spite.
She runs her hands up her own body, her fingers tracing the ribs, the waist, the curve of her hip.
She’s showing me exactly what I’ve been craving, teasing the edges of the marks I left on her skin earlier.
She looks at me, a playful, wicked tilt to her head, and for the first time, I see the girl who smiled at the fire.
She’s not afraid of the heat anymore. She is the heat.
“You like the view, Peter?” she whispers, her voice a sweet, mocking purr.
I let out a breath, my knuckles white as I grip the railing behind me. “I’m going to fucking ruin you for this, Wendy. You know that, right?”
“You can try,” she says, stepping over the ruins of the dress and walking towards me with the grace of a panther. “But only when I tell you you’re allowed.”
She stops an inch away. I can smell her—honey, skin, and the scent of a woman who knows she’s just turned her captor into her slave.
I’m a man who has built an empire on control, on being the one who dictates the pace of the kill, but standing here with my back against the cold brass, I am utterly at her mercy.
My breath is coming in short, ragged hitches, and my heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs—a rhythm she’s conducting with every move of her hips.
She doesn’t wait for my response. She steps into the cradle of my thighs, her bare skin meeting my trousers, and the heat is enough to make my vision blur. She reaches up, her hands settling on my shoulders—not to pull me in, but to steady herself as she hikes one leg over me.
She straddles me, her weight settling onto my lap, and I let out a low, tortured groan. She’s so light, so soft, yet she feels like a ton of molten lead. The thin lace of her panties is the only thing between my throbbing ache and her dripping pussy.
“Hands behind your back, Peter,” she whispers, her lips grazing my jawline. “I told you. No touching.”
I let out a breathless, jagged laugh and obey. I lock my fingers behind my back, my knuckles white, my muscles screaming for the release of grabbing her waist and driving her into the railing. “You’re playing a dangerous fucking game, Wendy.”
“I survived a fire,” she murmurs, her eyes dark and dancing with a wicked, viral light that matches my own. “I think I can handle a little heat.”
Then she begins to move.
She grinds against me, a slow, circular motion that is pure agony. She’s mapping the length of me through the denim, finding the exact pressure that makes my head fall back against the telescope. She’s relentless. She’s a slow-motion car crash, and I’m the wreckage.
“Is the King of Chicago uncomfortable?” she teases, her voice a sweet, mocking silk.
She leans in, her breasts brushing against my bare chest—the friction of her nipples against my skin making me see stars that aren’t even in the sky. She grinds harder, a sharp, upward thrust of her hips that forced a guttural, choked sound from my throat.
“Wendy,” I warn, my voice a broken rasp. “I’m about two seconds from breaking every rule in this house.”
“Not yet,” she says, a small, triumphant smile playing on her lips. She leans back, watching the way I’m struggling to breathe, watching the way my jaw is clamped shut so hard it might shatter.
She’s putting on a show, arching her back, her hands sliding down her own stomach, her fingers disappearing briefly beneath the waistband of that scrap of lace.
She grinds again, faster now, a rhythmic, punishing friction that has me seeing white.
I can feel the dampness of her through my clothes, a hot, sticky promise of what I’m not allowed to have yet.
She’s claiming me. She’s taking every ounce of my power and turning it into a leash, and the worst part—the most beautiful, soul-destroying part—is that I’d let her do it forever.
“Look at me, Peter,” she commands, her voice dropping to a low, sultry growl as she keeps up the relentless, grinding pace. “I want to see exactly how much you want me.”
I open my eyes, my gaze locking onto hers, and for the first time in my life, I’m not the one in charge. I’m just a man, drowning in the starlight and the woman I was born to burn for.
The friction stops.
The sudden absence of her heat is like a physical blow, a vacuum that leaves me gasping for air.
I’m leaning against the telescope, my chest heaving, my cock straining so hard against my fly it feels like it’s going to bruise.
I look up, my vision swimming, expecting her to laugh or to finally collapse into me.
Instead, she just… steps back.
She looks down at me with a cool, devastating composure that makes my blood boil. She doesn’t put the dress back on. She stays as she is—moonlight and lace—and walks with a slow, swaying grace toward the small marble table where the decanter sits.
I’m paralysed for a second, my hands still locked behind my back, my body trembling with a need that has mutated into something feral.
I slide down the brass railing until I’m on the floor, my knees hitting the stone, watching her.
I feel like a goddamn dog watching its master hold a piece of meat just out of reach.
She picks up her crystal glass, her movements fluid and agonisingly slow. She pours the vintage, the liquid a dark, viscous crimson under the stars. She takes a long, slow sip, her throat moving as she swallows, her eyes never leaving mine.
I can’t help it. I move.
I crawl—actually fucking crawl—across the floor toward her.
The King of Chicago, the man who carves names into the city’s skin, is dragging himself through the starlight because the gravity of her is too strong to resist. I stop at her feet, my shadow stretching out behind me, my face level with her thighs.
“Wendy,” I rasp, the word a shattered thing. “Enough.”
She doesn’t answer. She just looks down at me, her expression unreadable, and takes another mouthful of the wine. She doesn’t swallow it. She holds it in her mouth, her cheeks slightly flushed, her eyes darkening until they’re almost black.
She reaches down, her fingers tangling in my hair, and pulls my head back. I’m looking straight up at her, my mouth open, a silent plea written in every line of my face.
Then, she leans down.
She doesn’t kiss me—not yet. She hovers her lips over mine, and I can smell the tart, fermented sugar of the grapes. Slowly, with a deliberate, mocking precision, she parts her lips and lets the wine spill out.
The dark, cold liquid hits my tongue, running over my lips and down my chin, staining my skin.
I drink it from her like a beggar, my eyes locked on hers, the intimacy of it so filthy and so pure I feel my heart might actually stop.
Once the glass is empty and the wine has transferred from her mouth to mine, she finally closes the gap.
She kisses me.
It’s a wet, stained, and violent collision.
The taste of the wine is everywhere—metallic and sweet—as she devours me, her tongue sliding against mine, claiming the very breath in my lungs.
I let out a choked, guttural sound into her mouth, my hands finally breaking free from behind my back to seize her hips, my fingers digging into her skin.
“Fuck,” I growl against her lips, the word a curse and a prayer all at once. “God-fucking-damnit, Wendy.”
I’ve never been more humiliated. I’ve never been more obsessed. I pull her down onto the floor with me, the wine staining the white rug, the starlight witness to the moment the master finally realised he’d been leashed.
The sweetness of the stars and the tenderness of the wine shatter into a million jagged pieces.
Something inside me snaps—a clean, violent break that echoes louder than the mechanical hum of the opening roof. The wine is still wet on my chin, staining my lips, but the “dog” is gone. The predator is back, and he’s starving.
I don’t just pull her down; I tackle her.