Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
The Pleasure of Destruction
Thorne is quiet for the entire trip back, his gaze fixed on the sea. Peter, meanwhile, paces the deck like a caged beast, the last light catching in his hair, turning copper to flame.
I can feel the tension radiating off him, see it in the rigid set of his shoulders, the restless twitch of his hands.
My anger has long since cooled to embers. I know it’s weak of me. I should be furious, demanding the truth from him. And I do want the truth. But looking at him like this—fraying at the edges—I know I won’t get it tonight.
How does one soothe a beast like him?
The answer comes to me at once.
By the time we return to the cove, the sun hangs low in the sky, casting the forest in molten gold and deep shadow.
When The Huntress is finally docked, I catch Peter’s hand.
To my surprise, he lets me. His palm is rough and hot in mine, but he follows without resistance as I lead him down the forest path, through the shadow-streaked clearing, and into the treehouse.
We climb the stairs in silence, his breath a low, simmering sound behind me.
I reach for my worn book of Greek myths on the bookshelf, my fingers instantly finding the dog-eared chapter on Hades and Persephone—dark, romantic, and cruel in all the ways that feel too close.
I settle onto the bed with its familiar weight in my lap, the pages frayed at the edges. When I glance up, his gaze is already on me—almost uncertain.
I pat my lap with a small smile.
His eyes narrow, curiosity overtaking the anger still burning there. Then that rare, boyish grin tugs at his mouth.
“Are you going to read to me, darling?”
“Yes,” I say softly. “Now lie down.”
He prowls toward me and stretches out onto the bed, resting his head in my lap.
For a moment, I forget how to breathe. To see this violent, impossible man lying still and trusting feels like witnessing something miraculous.
I open the book and begin to read aloud.
My fingers slip through his copper hair, untangling it strand by strand as he listens.
His breathing slows. The hard lines of his body begin to ease, tension melting away inch by inch.
It’s the most peace I’ve seen in him since I arrived.
Every so often, he murmurs something dry and teasing about a line or a character, and it makes me smile despite myself.
As I read, I think of Persephone—how she must have felt, speaking softly into the dark, unsure if the god beside her was listening.
And in those fleeting moments, when Peter lets the viciousness slip and simply listens, I almost believe I’ve pulled him back from the edge.
That, just for now, I’ve coaxed the man out of the monster.
The words start to blur, the story fading into the thrum of his heartbeat against my thigh. And when he shifts—turning his face inward, nuzzling between my legs with a lazy sigh—I forget the words entirely.
“Peter,” I gasp, the book slipping closed in my hands.
He doesn’t lift his head. Instead, he inhales deeply, a shudder rippling through him. “You calm me with your voice, sweetheart. Now finish the job with this soft little body of yours.”
My pulse stutters. A thrill blooms low in my belly, stealing my breath.
He rises to his knees before me, his hands sliding slowly up my thighs. He hooks his fingers into my panties and draws them down with a tenderness that only sharpens the tension coiling between us.
“Peter…” My voice quivers, half-warning, half-invitation.
He grips my knees and parts them, spreading me open beneath his gaze. Then he leans down, his nose skimming up the inside of my thigh. His breath brushes my skin, warm and intoxicating, and I can’t help the way my hips shift toward him, my body betraying me as always.
He looks up then, those dark green eyes catching mine, feral and beautiful all at once. The faintest curve of his mouth makes me tremble.
He returns his focus to my exposed flesh, his tongue circling slowly around my entrance before gliding upward through my folds in an unhurried, deliberate stroke.
The teasing is exquisite torture, each languid motion winding me tighter.
I despise—and helplessly love—the way his touch ignites me, every inch a cruel ascent that leaves me burning for more.
When he reaches my clit, I can feel the heat of his breath, the wet flick of his tongue. I’m already so sensitive that his first lick makes me cry out, my hips lifting off the bed to meet his mouth.
“Fuck, you taste good, Wendy,” he groans, voice thick with desire. “So goddamn sweet.”
He settles in deeper, hands anchoring my hips as his mouth claims me. His tongue is relentless—flicking, licking, sucking my clit with a hunger that borders on desperation. Each motion lands like a jolt, almost blinding, pleasure drawn with precision.
My fingers tangle in his hair, searching for balance as the world tilts beneath me.
His mouth worships me with a need that feels both ruinous and divine.
Everything else fades—the room, the weight of my thoughts—until only our bodies remain: his breath, my sighs, the rhythm of something rising fast and uncontrollable.
I come undone in his hands, trembling, gasping his name into the quiet.
He groans against me, the vibration sparking another shiver of heat that coils deep in my belly, tight and unbearable, begging to snap.
“Peter,” I gasp, my voice ragged. “I’m going to come.”
He lifts his head, eyes dark and gleaming. “Come for me,” he growls.
My body breaks apart, my pussy clenching around nothing as the orgasm tears through me. I scream, my back arching, hips trembling as wave after wave crashes over me.
I’m still panting, still twitching from the aftershocks, when he rises, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
His cock is rock hard, straining against his pants, the thick outline unmistakable.
He pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it aside.
His chest is all lean muscle and smooth skin, a trail of copper hair leading down from his abs to where I want him most.
I reach for him without thinking, tracing the ridges of muscle along his stomach, grounding myself in the warmth of his body, in the unsteady rhythm of our breaths.
He watches me, eyes dark with heat, as if committing every inch of me to memory.
“Take off your dress,” he says softly. “Bra too.”
I hesitate, warmth blooming beneath my skin, a sudden, inexplicable shyness rising in me. But the hunger in his gaze drowns out the doubt. I reach for the hem and pull the dress over my head, then unhook my bra and let it fall, baring myself to him completely.
His eyes drop to my breasts, and he licks his lips. “You have the most perfect tits,” he murmurs, voice thick with want.
He lies back on the bed beside me, dragging me over him until I’m straddling his hips.
His hands find my breasts immediately, his fingers rough and insistent. He cups one, thumb grazing over the nipple until it hardens beneath his touch. I arch into it, my body answering before my mind can.
Smirking, he meets my gaze as he leans forward and closes his mouth around the peak, sucking hard.
A moan escapes me. My fingers slide into his hair, holding him there as his tongue teases and circles, devouring me slowly.
Then he shifts to the other breast, giving it the same attention, but rougher this time.
He sucks harder, teeth grazing over the sensitive skin, and the sharp bite of pain sends a wave of pleasure crashing through me.
Beneath me, his cock is hot and rigid, pressing against my soaked core. I grind down on him instinctively, chasing friction, desperate for more.
He releases my nipple and looks up at me, his gaze molten. “So impatient to ride me, hmm?” he says, voice a low, sinful drawl.
A flutter of nervous energy coils low in my belly. This will be the first time I take the lead. Tentatively, I lift my hips and position myself over his cock, feeling the head of it pressing against my entrance.
I hesitate, glancing down at him. Peter’s eyes are locked on mine, his dark, unwavering gaze steadying my nerves. He doesn’t move, doesn’t rush me. Just waits.
When I don’t move, he reaches up, his palm cradling my cheek, his thumb brushing across my bottom lip before slipping inside, coaxing me to suck.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “Take your time.”
His soothing voice unravels something knotted inside me. I draw a breath, grounding myself in the weight of his gaze, and slowly begin to sink down onto him. The stretch is sharp, almost overwhelming. I can feel every inch of him as he fills me. I gasp, my body clenching around the fullness.
Beneath me, Peter groans, head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut. “Fuck, Wendy,” he growls. “You feel so good.”
His hands find my hips, gripping tight, fingers digging into my skin with a heat that sears straight through me.
I begin to move—tentative at first—lifting and sinking, learning the rhythm of him.
The slide of his cock inside me is dizzying, every thrust dragging a soft moan from my lips.
As my confidence grows, my pace quickens, hips rolling, riding him harder.
My breasts bounce with the motion, the pressure building fast and hot between us.
Peter meets every movement with a low sound of pleasure, his grip guiding me, urging me deeper.
“That’s it, darling,” he murmurs, voice thick and rough. “Take me deeper.”
I do. I drive down harder, chasing the friction, the heat, the ache.
The wet slap of our bodies echoes in the room, a vulgar and raw sound that makes my skin flush and my desire deepen.
I can feel him everywhere, stretching me wide, filling me so completely it borders on painful. But I don’t pull back.
I don’t want it to stop.
I want more.
I want to make him lose control. I want to make him snap. I want to push him past the line and revel in what happens when he takes the power back.
The thought startles me, but it’s true.