Chapter 4
Chapter Four
The Sound of Surrender
Iopen my mouth.
It’s all the invitation he needs. His eyes flash with triumph as he guides his cock forward, pushing past my lips.
He eases in, thick and pulsing, until my mouth is stretched wide around him—until there’s nothing left between us but breath.
My throat tightens on a sound I can’t swallow.
I fight the instinct to gag, as my eyes water.
His hand in my hair holds me there, testing the edges of my surrender, inch by inch, until he hits the back of my throat and stops.
I choke around him. Tears streak down my cheeks. He watches, smiling—a vicious sort of tenderness.
“You’ve never looked more beautiful,” he says softly. “I’ve dreamed of this more times than I can count.”
A whimper catches in my throat. I drag in air through my nose, trying not to gag. He pulls back, giving me a moment to breathe, to center myself.
“Relax your jaw, darling,” he whispers. “Breathe through your nose. And keep those big, beautiful blue eyes on mine. I want to see them water as you take me to the root.”
I nod without really hearing him, just as he thrusts forward again, hitting the back of my throat.
I inhale sharply, focusing on my breath as I watch him—watching himself fuck my mouth.
His gaze doesn’t leave mine. He sets an unrelenting pace, the hand in my hair tightening to tilt my head up, urging me to take him deeper.
My body adapts to his rhythm, each thrust staking a deeper claim. I reach out blindly, nails digging into his thighs, desperate for something solid as the world collapses into heat and breath and the sound of him. His low, guttural groans rattle through me, vibrating in my chest like thunder.
“You’re doing so well,” he growls. “A fucking natural.”
I moan around his cock, helpless—lost in the sensation of him.
In the praise. In the way he’s making me feel claimed, undone, terrifyingly alive.
My core tightens with every thrust, heat slicking down my thighs.
I’m soaked—shamelessly wrecked. I fight the urge to close my eyes and simply feel, forcing my gaze to hold his.
It’s dark, hungry, so full of pleasure it makes something inside me twist.
His hips move faster, his grip in my hair tightening as he fucks my mouth with abandon.
I can feel the heat radiating off his skin, the tension coiling in his muscles as he edges closer to the brink.
It’s intoxicating—this raw, unrestrained power he wields over me, the way he uses my body as if it belongs to him.
The world around me blurs. My vision tunnels as he pushes deeper into my throat, until my tears spill freely, saliva dripping from my chin. I clutch at his thighs harder, burying my gag reflex.
His cock swells in my mouth, and somehow I know it means he’s close. My face is a mess of tears and spit, my throat aching as I gasp around his cock. I can taste the salt of his sweat, breathe in the thick, musky scent of his arousal. It’s heady, consuming. I want to taste him.
I want to be the one to break him.
“I’m so close, sweetheart,” he pants, “Open wider.”
I obey, lips parting wide. His rhythm turns merciless, the air charged with the sound of us—wet, obscene, utterly depraved.
His breath hitches; his voice turns rough, almost frantic. “I’m going to come,” he pants, his eyes locked on mine. “And you’re going to swallow every last drop. Got it, little darling?”
I hum around him, the only answer I can give. He groans, a deep and broken sound. His hips jerk forward, hard, as his cock pulses against the back of my throat as he releases. Hot, salty liquid floods my mouth. I gag, momentarily overwhelmed, but I swallow it down—every last drop.
Because he told me to.
Because I want to.
Because, somehow, those things feel the same.
He pulls his cock from my mouth, a wide, pleased grin curling his lips. “Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice ragged. “You’re a lovely fucking mess.”
He wipes the wetness from my chin with his thumb, smearing it across my cheek like a mark.
Then he smiles, that wicked curve of his lips that sends heat flashing through my core.
Reaching for me, he lifts me gently to my feet, as if I weigh nothing.
One hand cradles the back of my head while the other wipes the tears and saliva from my cheeks with a tenderness that guts me.
My legs tremble, and I collapse into him.
His arms catch me, closing around my waist like a lifeline, like a cage.
The scent of cedar and pine floods my senses.
I feel weak. I don’t know what to say, what to do with myself.
My core is still clenching, wound unbearably tight.
I don’t know what I need, only that I need something.
Peter leans down, his breath a ghost against my ear. “If I slipped my fingers between your thighs right now,” he murmurs, “I’d find you soaked… wouldn’t I?”
A helpless sound escapes me. Shame and want twist together until I can’t tell them apart—because he’s right. Because in this moment, I’d do anything—anything—just to feel his fingers there. Just to ease the pressure building beneath my skin.
A fresh wave of tears slips down my cheeks.
“Shh,” Peter whispers, pulling my head against his chest. “I’ll take care of you when we get back to Neverland, okay? Don’t cry.”
I press my face into his warmth, soaking his shirt with my tears, seeking comfort from the man who’s the source of this chaos inside me.
He presses a kiss to my temple, so impossibly tender after everything he just did to me. A raw, ragged sound escapes as I nod against his chest, overwhelmed by the softness.
I’ve never thought of myself as a particularly strong person. Introverted, a little passive, always too eager to please—as Clara liked to tease. But I never considered myself weak, either. And yet here I am, letting Peter Pan have his way with me. Enjoying it. Falling apart in his arms afterward.
Pathetic.
Peter lifts me into his arms, the sudden motion stealing a gasp from my throat. I clutch at his shoulders.
“What are you doing?”
His green eyes find mine, gleaming with something untamed. Then he smiles, boyish and mischievous, and the darkness slips from his face—no more than a memory.
My heart kicks hard in my chest.
There he is.
My Peter Pan.
“Are you ready to fly with me again?” he asks.
My breath catches. Hope swells like it always has with him—a reckless, impossible thing I can’t suppress. This is the moment I’ve wished for since he vanished from my windowsill six years ago.
“You’ll really take me back to Neverland?” I whisper, barely daring to believe it.
He tips his head, nuzzling my cheek with the bridge of his nose, breathing me in as though he’s been starved for the scent of me.
“I told you,” he murmurs. “It’s time to come home.”
Joy rises so acutely in me that I almost laugh. Then I think of my family, my friends—everything I’m leaving behind—and tug at Peter’s arms around me.
“Wait,” I whisper. “I need to write a note for my family.”
He studies me for a long moment, eyes unreadable, before nodding and loosening his hold.
My legs tremble as I cross to the nightstand. I pull open the drawer, rummaging for a notepad and pen. The paper quivers slightly in my hands, not from fear, but from the weight of what I’m about to do. I can feel Peter’s gaze on me, the air itself charged with him. A shiver skates down my spine.
I try not to think too hard about what I’m doing. About who I’m leaving behind. About how worried they’ll be. Who knows when I’ll be back, or if I’ll ever be back, so it’s kinder not to make promises I might not keep.
I think of Mum and Dad. Of John and Michael. Of Hannah and Clara. And still, I write the note.
Mum, Dad, John, Michael—
Don’t worry for me. I’m safe, and I’m happy.
I need to see the world beyond my window, to find something I can’t explain.
Tell Hannah and Clara I love them.
Please don’t wait up.
All my love,
Wendy
I leave the note on my nightstand, tracing the words safe and happy with my fingertip. I glance back at the tall, imposing man behind me, the one who just had me on my knees. I’m not certain how safe I’ll be with him.
But maybe I could be happy again.
Truly happy.
I turn to him, and Peter sweeps me into his arms—one beneath my knees, the other braced against my back. My arms loop around his neck of their own accord.
He faces the open window, the same one he left me in. The same one I called out to him through, again and again, even after I stopped believing he’d ever return.
He steps onto the sill, night air brushing cool across our skin. With that same wicked grin, he says, “Second star to the right, we’ll be home by morning.”
I cling to him like my life depends on it. I can barely remember how to fly. What it feels like. It seems impossible now. A part of me doesn’t believe we’ll soar. It believes we’ll fall.
“Peter—” I gasp, panic rising in my throat. But he doesn’t wait.
He leaps.
I cry out, arms tightening around his neck, burying my face in his shoulder as the wind rushes past. But we don’t fall.
I lift my head, eyes wide as the streets blur beneath us. We rise higher and higher, soaring above rooftops and glowing windows, past the sleeping world I thought I’d never escape.
The wind tears through my hair, tangling it around my face as we fly higher. And for the first time in years, I feel light, completely unburdened. The ache in my chest, the tight knot of melancholy, unravels thread by thread until there’s nothing left but a starry sky.
“Oh, Peter—we’re really flying!” I laugh, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep inside me. The world feels alive again.
Peter holds me tighter, pressing me close to his chest. “Did you miss this, Wendy?” he asks, voice low, almost careful.
Our eyes meet—his gaze searching, almost vulnerable. He asked if I missed this, but I know what he meant: Did you miss me?
I study him closely. The darkness from earlier has receded, replaced by the familiar boy who once stole me away in the night. We soared through the skies, fought pirates, and danced with faeries. He had an infectious laugh and a grin that made me blush from head to toe.
He’s clearly grown up. He’s wilder now, dangerous in a way that curls down my spine and leaves me aching.
But he’s still Peter Pan.
And I had missed him terribly.
Missed him at first with the gentle fondness of a girl yearning for her childhood love—a soft ache, a longing for laughter.
But as time passed, it twisted into something deeper.
Not nostalgia, but hunger. The hollow ache of something long-starved.
I missed him like the dark misses the warmth of a flame.
Like a name, left unspoken too long, aches to be heard.
I hesitate for only a moment before nodding. “Yes, Peter,” I whisper. “Very much.”
His green eyes spark with pleasure. He cups the back of my head, guiding my face into the crook of his neck, his grip firm and possessive.
His mouth grazes my ear as he murmurs, “And I missed you, my darling. You’ll never escape me again.
” His voice dips lower, darker—almost a growl.
“You said you wanted to grow up… but you only did because I allowed it. And now, you’ll repay my kindness with your eternity. ”
A shiver ripples down my spine. This Peter shifts from charming to terrifying in the space between one breath and the next. One moment, he’s the boy with a grin that made me blush, all mischief and stardust in his veins. The next, he’s something else entirely.
Something unknowable.
Something I’m not sure I can understand.
I need to remember—must remember—that this isn’t the boy who once taught me to fly.
This is the man who came back to devour me.
Is this how Persephone felt when Hades dragged her down into his depths?