Chapter 11 #2
He strokes himself while he watches me through hooded eyes. “I told you to be prepared, Wendy. I’m not going to be gentle. I’m going to break you. You can beg me to stop, but your body already knows the truth—it belongs to me, and it wants to submit.”
The terrible, intoxicating blend of fear and arousal floods me. I want this. God, I want this.
What does that make me?
Peter grabs my hips, lifting them with rough hands until I’m aligned with the thick, hard length of him. The vines at my wrists ease their grip slightly, as if yielding to him.
Our eyes lock, and I see the madness in him. Wild. Consuming. Utterly feral.
He cocks his head, voice a low, dangerous murmur. “Tell me, my darling… You want this, don’t you?”
He slides the thick head of his cock through my slick folds, circling my clit until I moan.
I want to tell him no. I want to resist. To fight.
But I’m already shifting my hips, desperate for more, chasing the pressure like it’s oxygen.
I want him. Heaven help me, I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anything.
“Yes,” I cry in defeat, the words torn from some desperate, aching place inside me.
A feral sound rips from his throat as he thrusts forward, burying himself deep in one powerful stroke.
I scream, as pure, shattering pleasure splits through me.
My body goes rigid, every nerve ending igniting as Peter thrusts into me.
He fills me, stretches me, so deep I can feel every ridge, every pulse.
It’s too much… and still not enough. He drives me into the mossy ground with a force that leaves me gasping.
“Fuck,” he groans, muscles straining above me. “You’re so goddamn tight, Wendy. Made for me.”
His pace is merciless, hips slamming into mine with primal, unrelenting need. The sound of our bodies meeting echoes through the forest, filthy and raw. His grip on my hips is bruising.
“Look at you,” he growls, green eyes locked to mine. “Taking my cock like you were built for this.”
His vulgar praise only makes the heat inside me spike. My walls clench around him in response, and he groans, thrusts deep, faster.
Then I see them, the golden runes glimmering beneath his skin, alive. They crawl along his arms, his throat, his jaw, thrumming with power that hums against my bones. The sight is terrible and beautiful all at once. My heart stutters. He doesn’t look human.
“Look at me, Wendy,” he demands, voice rough and ragged. “Watch me fuck you.”
I obey, my gaze meeting his. His eyes burn with a fierce green fire. His jaw is tight, every muscle pulled taut, his entire body a weapon of want and ruin. He holds nothing back.
Every thrust punches a breath from my lungs, each one a jolt of pleasure that shoots through me like lightning.
He’s so big, so impossibly hard, and the way he moves inside me—brutally—undoes me.
He hits that spot deep inside, again and again, until my toes curl and my vision blurs.
He's not just fucking me. He's claiming me.
He looms over me and captures my mouth in a searing kiss. His tongue pushes past my lips, conquering my mouth, and I meet him with equal fervor, kissing him back like I need him to breathe. With every bruising press of his mouth, he devours what little sanity I have left.
My body arches into his, hips rising to meet his punishing thrusts. I tug against the vines restraining me, desperate to wrap my limbs around him, to drag him closer, to tear the clothes from his body and feel him skin to skin.
But I can’t.
I’m bound, utterly at his mercy.
And I revel in it.
His lips trail down my neck—sucking, biting, marking me. Each graze of his teeth sends sparks down my spine, heat building fast in my core.
Peter must feel it too, because his hand slips between us, fingers finding my clit and circling in tight, quick strokes.
“Come for me,” he growls, voice ragged. “Squeeze me with that tight little cunt.”
He slams into me harder, deeper, his cock finding a devastating angle that makes my vision blur and my toes curl. His fingers dig into my hips, holding me in place as he fucks me like he’s trying to carve himself into my soul.
I shatter, screaming as the orgasm tears through me. My body convulses around him, muscles locking tight as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over me.
But Peter doesn’t stop. His cock and fingers move in perfect sync, dragging every last ounce of pleasure from my trembling body, wringing me out until I’m gasping, undone, and wrecked beneath him.
Peter groans, voice broken with need. “I’m going to fill you so full of my come that it's dripping down your pretty thighs. Can you handle that, sweetheart?”
I nod, breathless, my body tightening around him at just the thought. I want it. I want all of it.
“Good girl,” he growls, his hips moving faster, his cock slamming into me with a force that leaves me gasping. “You're going to take every fucking drop, aren't you?”
All I can do is whimper in response. My body feels boneless, my mind stripped bare. There are no words left in me, no thoughts that aren’t him. Only the echo of his touch, the rasp of his breath, the unbearable weight of what he’s made me feel.
He leans into me, his lips brushing the shell of my ear, his voice a brand against my skin. “You’re mine, Wendy Darling. Every inch of you. For eternity.”
Then he buries himself to the hilt and comes. His cock pulses inside me, filling me, his release fierce, almost overwhelming. The sensation tips me over the edge, my own climax crashing into me again. I gasp his name, my body trembling, every nerve alight, every part of me answering him.
Peter collapses on top of me, his body heavy and slick with sweat.
His weight pins me to the mossy ground, the scent of earth and sex thick in the air between us.
His breath comes hard and fast, chest heaving against mine.
I feel his heart’s wild pounding, and it matches the frantic rhythm of my own.
The golden glow around us flickers once, then dies, swallowed by the dark, as shadows reclaim the clearing. The vines around my wrists and ankles release me, curling back into the forest.
We stay like this, locked together. Flesh against flesh. Breath tangled. And I wish I felt… something clear. Something clean. But instead, a strange hollowness opens inside me. I feel split open. Laid bare. And beneath the fading flickers of pleasure, a cold, coiling dread begins to stir.
Peter lifts his head slowly, his eyes searching mine.
There’s a softness there I haven’t seen since reuniting, a tremor of something almost sweet.
But it vanishes the instant his gaze drops lower.
He goes rigid. His muscles lock as he pushes up onto his elbows, and the silence that follows is more terrifying than any threat.
His stare fixes just below my neck, and I follow it, breath snagging in my throat.
Faint, glowing marks curl across my skin like living ink—the runes, delicate and alive, the same symbols etched into the forest. The same ones that pulsed along Peter’s skin.
They’re on me now.
My lungs seize, and my stomach lurches.
“What—what is this?” I whisper, my voice trembling. My fingers twitch, desperate to scrub them away, but I can’t bring myself to touch them.
Peter doesn’t answer. His eyes are wide, the blood drained from his face. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet and a bit shaken. “Wendy… you can really see them?”
I nod, a sick shiver sliding down my spine.
“Peter,” I rasp. “What are they?”
His gaze falters, just for a moment, and I see something raw flicker behind his eyes. Fear. Guilt. But it’s gone just as quickly. His face shutters, soft edges hardening into cold control.
No.
I want to scream it, to shake him, to make him speak, but I already know he won’t. His silence is deliberate—a choice, not a hesitation.
He rises without a word, leaving me bare and trembling on the forest floor.
The air rushes in where his body was, cold and hollow, and I blink up at him, stunned.
For a horrible moment, I think he’s going to leave me here alone.
And the thought hits harder than any bruise, any cruel word, any loss of control.
The idea of him walking away now—after everything—feels like a heartbreak I wouldn’t come back from.
Then he extends his hand, just as he had at my window all those years ago, when the night was young and so were we. The gesture is the same, almost tender, as if to ask again: Do you trust me?
Only this time, the question feels heavier. No longer a promise of flight and freedom, but of surrender. Of everything I might lose by saying yes.
I don’t hesitate. I don’t think.
I take his hand. The same hand that dragged me to the ground.
That pinned me down, stripped me bare, and tore the fight from my limbs.
The same hand that coaxed pleasure from pain until I couldn’t tell the difference.
It’s warm against mine, steady, human, when nothing else about him feels that way.
I take it—because even now, I don’t know how not to.