Chapter 20 Bathed in Crimson #2
He pushes his cock in slowly, only the head, but it feels impossibly thick, like he’s splitting me apart. I gasp, hands fisting at my back, arching as my body struggles to adjust. The stretch is unbearable. Hot tears spill down my cheeks, and I sob into the bed, overwhelmed.
“Shhh, darling. You’re doing so good,” he murmurs.
His praise is a balm to the burn, softening the edge of pain. I blink through my tears and notice the runes are gone. The walls no longer thrum with rage. In our little room high above the world, all is still.
I draw in a steady breath, then another, trying to loosen the fear wound tight in my chest. Slowly, inch by inch, I surrender. I let him in.
He groans, low and guttural, as he pushes in another inch. I feel everything. Every ridge, every vein of his cock, dragging against the tight ring of muscle, burning and stretching. My body clenches instinctively, overwhelmed by the sheer fullness, the raw intrusion of him.
He begins to move, slow at first—drawing back, then driving forward again.
Each motion is exquisite torment. Heat blooms along every nerve, fire licking through my spine.
The pressure builds deep in my core, winding tighter with each thrust, sending shockwaves of pleasure-laced pain through my trembling limbs.
I gasp as his hand finds my clit, fingers rubbing fast, cruel little circles that make me see stars.
I press my forehead into the mattress, moaning helplessly, lost in the rhythm of him. The burn morphs into something feral, every nerve ending alight. My toes curl. My thighs shake. I can’t tell where the pain ends, and the pleasure begins.
His fingers are merciless, dragging me higher with every stroke, until my body is one taut wire ready to snap. The thrust of his cock, the relentless swirl of his fingers—it’s too much. It’s perfect. My body tenses, teetering on the precipice, needing only one more push to fall.
“Oh god, Peter,” I moan, voice raw, ragged, torn from deep inside me.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he growls in my ear. “I own you—completely.”
His words send me hurtling over the edge. My muscles clamp down around him as my orgasm crashes through me. It’s violent, all-consuming. I shake, gasping, my body breaking apart beneath the force of it.
“Peter!” I scream, nails digging into my palms, every nerve alight, convulsing with the sheer intensity of release.
Peter groans, hips slamming harder, faster, until he spills inside me with a rough, guttural sound. The sensation is overwhelming. I feel so full, so stretched I might split in two, and yet the ache of it is unbearably, wickedly good.
He stays buried deep, unmoving, both of us frozen in the aftermath. His breath is harsh against my neck. The world feels suspended, holding still for us.
Then, slowly, he pulls out. I whimper at the sudden emptiness and at the dull throb he leaves behind.
His hands are gentle now—so gentle it almost hurts.
He works slowly at the knots around my wrists, fingers brushing lightly over angry flesh.
When the bindings fall away, he presses soft kisses along the tender skin.
I flinch, not from pain but from the shock of it.
The contrast is disorienting. This tenderness feels more intimate, more dangerous than anything else he’s done tonight.
Without a word, Peter gathers me into his arms, cradling me close.
“You shouldn’t have talked to him,” he whispers, voice frayed at the edges. Like the frenzy has burned something out of him. “You can’t do that to me.”
I don’t know how to answer. My throat aches.
My head feels too light and fragile, like one wrong breath might shatter me.
I catch a flash of myself in the mirror across the room, and I freeze.
I barely recognize her. Eyes red and glassy.
Shadows smudged beneath them. Red marks circling my wrists like bracelets.
A woman shaped by him.
He gathers me carefully, almost reverently, pulling the blanket snug around my shoulders before lifting me into his arms. I shouldn’t feel so much from so small a gesture—but I do.
There’s no cruelty in his touch now. Only care.
And for the first time, I let myself believe it might actually be real.
He carries me down the stairs and out into the warm air. The forest path is quiet, washed in pale gold sunlight. Every step jostles me, but he holds me tighter, protectively, like I’m something fragile he’s afraid to drop.
No one crosses our path, and I’m thankful. I’m not sure what I’d do if someone saw me like this—saw us like this.
Halfway to the springs, he presses a kiss to my brow. It’s soft. Painfully sweet. It unspools a tight knot in my chest, and my eyes sting again.
“Don’t make me lose control like that again,” he murmurs. The warning is there, but beneath it is a tremor of fear. As though he’s frightened of himself, or of what he’s become.
I think of the golden runes that flared along the walls, tainted with crimson, pulsing like a warning. I want to ask him what it means, what’s happening to him… to us. But now isn’t the time. I know that.
So I just nod against his chest, small and numb, the memory of shame flickering somewhere deep in my mind—but I can’t seem to feel it anymore.
The shame I should feel has been eclipsed by the ache still echoing through my body. And the truth of what I want is clear as day:
I want him near.
I want him to hold me.
I want him to be gentle.
I want him to be cruel.