Chapter 6 What Was Promised #2
Peter’s hands ghost over my thighs, the touch slow and unhurried as he drags my nightgown upward, over my hips, along the curve of my waist, grazing the underside of my breasts—before pulling it over my head.
His gaze burns through me, hungry and admiring all at once.
The air leaves my lungs; my pulse falters.
I freeze beneath him as his eyes travel my breasts, my waist, the faint blush of my pink panties, devouring every inch as if I were something sacred and his to ruin.
His hands return to my hips, dragging me further up the bed. They roam upward again, cupping my breasts, his large palms swallowing them whole. His thumbs graze over my taut, sensitive peaks, eliciting a soft, breathy moan from my lips.
Mortified by the sound, I clamp a hand over my mouth.
Peter freezes. “I want to hear your pretty voice, little songbird,” he says, smiling like a wolf. “If you stifle your moans again, I’ll tie your hands to the bed.”
There’s no doubt in my mind that he means it. So I swallow my pride and let my hand fall, clutching the cotton sheets instead.
Peter’s mouth curves into a smirk before he bends low, tongue flicking over my nipple. I gasp—a sharp, startled sound. Then his lips close around it, sucking hard, while his other hand teases the opposite peak with a slow, deliberate tug.
I cry out, my back arching, the sound torn from somewhere I didn’t know existed. Peter’s quiet laugh vibrates against my skin, deep and low, a sound that feels like it belongs inside me now. Heat floods every nerve, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to my core.
Then he switches to the other breast, lavishing it with the same attention—the same wicked, delicious torture.
I writhe beneath him. Every inhale turns ragged. Every brush of his tongue, his fingers, leaves fire in its wake. My thoughts splinter, scattering like ash in the wind. Shame and want twist together until I can’t tell them apart.
I shouldn’t want this. I shouldn’t want him. But my body has already decided otherwise.
His hand trails down my stomach, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of my panties. He looks up at me then—eyes dark, gleaming with intent.
“As pretty as these are, they’re in my way, Wendy,” he murmurs, voice thick with desire. “Lift your hips.”
My breath stutters. For a heartbeat, I hesitate—then obey. My pulse thrums against my ribs as I lift up for him.
He slides the fabric down slowly, peeling it from my legs.
Cool air brushes my bare skin, a stark contrast to the heat burning beneath, and I shiver, utterly exposed, trembling beneath his gaze.
The moment stretches, taut and fragile. My body hums like a bowstring drawn too tight.
There’s a sweetness in the ache, a cruelty in how much I need the next touch.
He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t even blink as he casts the scrap of cotton aside and moves between my legs.
Molten anticipation coils low in my belly as his hands grip my thighs, spreading them with effortless command.
I flinch at the helplessness of it—at the raw, aching vulnerability—and at how much I want this.
He looks up at me, locking eyes. ”You’re so wet,” he says, voice like velvet and gravel, a sinful purr that makes my toes curl. ”I can see your arousal glistening on your thighs.”
Humiliation crashes over me. My cheeks burn. How desperate could I be for him?
But the ache doesn’t relent. My core throbs with need, slick and wanting, betraying me with every pulse.
His fingers trail up my inner thighs, feather-light and maddening. I shiver, hips twitching as he nears my sex. When he finally glides through my soaked folds, a helpless moan escapes me before I can catch it—too soft to stop, too raw to deny.
He circles my clit with his thumb, applying the perfect amount of pressure, and I gasp, head tipping back as sparks ripple through my core.
Then he dips lower. His fingers find my entrance and press in—one, then another. I wince at the sudden stretch, a sharp sting blooming inside me, but it fades almost as quickly as it came. In its place blooms something else. A spark that could ruin me.
“I can’t wait to claim your tight little cunt,” he whispers against my inner thigh.
A moan catches in my throat at his words.
My breathing turns ragged as he begins to move, his fingers sliding in and out, coaxing me open with each slow stroke.
I feel everything: every inch of him, every wet glide, every deliberate thrust. Thought slips away.
All that remains is the way my body arches and trembles at his hands.
His thumb finds my clit, circling in time with his fingers until a strange, blinding pleasure floods through me. I’ve never felt anything like it. I didn’t know it was possible to feel this way.
As if my body no longer belongs to me.
I cling to the sensation, to the tide rising inside me—but just as I reach for it, he pulls away.
The sound that tears from me is raw, helpless. The emptiness is immediate. Unbearable.
Peter chuckles, a dark velvet sound that coils around my spine. ”Sweetheart,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against my thigh. ”So greedy for my touch already?”
I want to deny it, to curse him—but I can’t. I’m trembling, clinging to the sheets, ruined by the aching void he left behind.
His breath ghosts hot across my skin. A soft kiss lands on the inside of my thigh, and I shudder. Then his tongue flicks out, just once, testing, tasting.
I gasp, my fists tangling in the silk sheets as he settles between my legs like he’s always belonged there. He looks up at me, and our eyes meet, wild green locking with blue, just as his mouth claims me.
His tongue finds my clit and circles, slow and devastating.
He flicks, teases, torments—never rushing, never faltering.
Like every movement is deliberate, every breath drawn from me on purpose.
He licks a long, languid stripe through my folds before returning to the bundle of nerves, wrapping his lips around it and sucking gently, then harder.
My hips jerk, helpless beneath the pressure.
He hums low in his throat, the vibration sending sparks through me, as if he’s pleased with the way I writhe for him.
One hand holds me open while the other presses against my thigh, keeping me still as he devours me like I’m his favorite meal.
Something inside me breaks open. Pleasure tears through me, sweet and ruinous, unmaking everything I thought I could control.
And still, it builds.
”Peter,” I gasp, my fingers tangling in his hair without thinking.
He chuckles, the sound soft against my skin, sending another shiver through me. “Yes, darling?” he murmurs, voice threaded with amusement.
Heat blooms across my cheeks. My throat tightens. I can’t say it. I can’t give shape to the truth of what I want—what I need.
But he already knows.
It’s there in the way my hips shift beneath him, in the wordless plea that trembles behind my eyes.
Peter sits back on his heels, his gaze never leaving mine as his fingers trail up my inner thighs in a slow, feather-light trail, driving me mad. I shiver, aching for him, but he only drags it out, letting the absence of his mouth ache like a wound.
”Tell me what you want, Wendy.”
My lips part. Shame and desire claw at each other inside my chest, a war I’m already losing.
”I… I want to come,” I whisper, barely audible. The words taste foreign, filthy on my tongue.
“Please, Peter,” I add, because some instinct—dark and deeply buried—knows that’s what he wants to hear.
And worse... I want to say it.
His smile unfurls slowly, wickedly. “So desperate,” he murmurs, almost to himself. ”So needy for me.” He leans over me, his breath brushing my ear as he growls, ”Your sweet little cunt knows who owns it.”
I gasp, some faint thread of denial rising, only to break apart on a moan as his fingers slide back inside me.
My body tightens around him, drawing him deeper, betraying me with every pulse.
His other hand skims up my body, calloused fingertips brushing the swell of my breast before pinching my nipple.
I cry out. The pain bites, before it blooms into a dizzying wave of pleasure that makes my hips buck off the bed.
Peter’s low laugh fans against my cheek. “You like that, don't you?” he murmurs. ”You like it when I’m rough with you.”
I can't deny it. But I also can’t give in so easily, so I turn my head, avoiding his gaze.
“Naughty girl,” he murmurs, then pinches my clit.
I cry out again, breath stuttering in short, ragged bursts.
My body twists beneath him, caught between pleasure and pain, the tension winding tighter until it feels like it might split me apart.
His relentless fingers don’t stop, coaxing pleasure from my body.
Each thrust makes me clench harder, heat pooling low and molten in my belly. I’m spiraling too fast, too far.
“Peter,” I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders. “Please. I need more.”
He curls his fingers just so, finding a place that makes my body go rigid and molten all at once.
My toes curl; a strangled cry tears free as my hips lift, seeking more.
Then he shifts, slipping down my body and replacing his fingers with his mouth.
His tongue finds me, flicking firm and sure, unrelenting.
I gasp, shuddering, as the world narrows to sensation—heat, breath, pulse—everything blurring into only him and me.
He looks up, mouth glistening with my arousal. Then he slides his wet fingers between my lips.
“Taste how sweet you are,” he murmurs.
His gaze never wavers as I take them into my mouth and suck him clean. The taste, my taste, burns across my tongue, shame and heat tangling until I can’t tell them apart.
“I’d better hear you scream my name when you come.”
A violent shiver courses through me, every nerve pulled taut, aching for release. He pinches my nipple, hard, then seals his mouth over my clit again. Sucking. Licking. Ruthless.
I break.
His name rips from my throat in a cry as my body convulses beneath him, back arching off the bed. The orgasm crashes through me, fierce and consuming, until I can’t breathe, can’t think—only feel.
But Peter doesn’t stop. He keeps going, dragging it out until I’m a trembling, sobbing mess, thighs shaking around him. Only then does he lift his head, licking his lips like he’s tasted heaven itself.
He moves up my body, eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction as he looms over me. The heat of him surrounds me, his chest pressed to mine, the hard length of his cock against my thigh, his gaze holding me captive.
“Look at you,” he whispers, voice rough with pride. “Ruined already. And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”