Chapter 6: The Comparison
The silence after Finn left felt thicker than the silence before. The click of the lock was a full stop, an end to one reality and the start of something else entirely. Rachel stood rooted in the entryway, the ghost of Finn’s kiss still warm on her lips. His suitcase had brushed her leg on the way out.
She heard the soft creak of leather behind her.
Peter didn’t say anything at first. He just let the quiet stretch, let her feel his presence filling the space Finn had vacated. When she finally turned, he was leaning against the archway to the living room, arms crossed. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face.
“Two days,” he said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet apartment. “That’s a long time.”
“Don’t,” Rachel said, but it came out weak, a whisper.
He pushed off the wall and walked toward her, not with a rush, but with an inevitable, predatory grace. He stopped so close she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. The sheer physicality of him, the width of his shoulders blocking the light, made her feel small. Contained.
“Time you learned what a real cock feels like,” he said, his tone conversational, as if commenting on the weather.
A hot flush of anger, or maybe shame, shot through her. “He’s your brother. I love him.”
Peter chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “This isn’t about feelings, Rachel. Feelings are Finn’s department. This is about something else.”
He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb brushing her cheek. The contact was electric, betraying. “It’s not my first time, you know. With one of Finn’s girls.”
Her breath caught. “What?”
“Quinn Fabray,” he said, watching her eyes widen with perverse satisfaction. “Right before you. Pretty little blonde head cheerleader.” He leaned in, his lips almost touching her ear. “I had her in the squad locker room. Bent her over a bench. She still had my cum dripping down her thighs when she met Finn for their date that night.”
Rachel’s mind spun. She knew Quinn. They’d been acquaintances, friendly in that vague way. Quinn had seemed so devoted, so relentlessly perfect. The image was visceral, ugly, and it changed everything. It made her not the first, but part of a pattern. A secret club she never wanted to join.
Peter read the shock on her face. He smiled, then turned and walked to the sofa—Finn’s sofa—and sank into the deepest groove of the leather. He spread his arms along the back, king of the castle. “Come here.”
Her feet moved before her mind could formulate another protest. She stood before him, hands clenched at her sides.
“I can smell it on you,” he said, his gaze dropping to her chest, her hips, everywhere. “You’ve been thinking about it since the pantry. Since the kitchen. You want it. You want this.” He didn’t gesture. He didn’t need to.
“Kneel.”
The word hung in the air. The hum of the refrigerator seemed to get louder. Rachel looked at the door, then back at Peter’s unwavering, expectant face. The memory of his fingers inside her, of her own silent climax while Finn cheered, rose up like a wave, drowning her resistance. Her knees bent. The rough weave of the rug pressed through her jeans as she settled on the floor between his spread legs.
“Take it out.”
Her fingers trembled as she reached for his belt. The buckle was cold, heavy. The click of it unfastening was obscenely loud. The zipper’s rasp seemed to go on forever. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of his jeans and briefs together and pushed them down his hips just enough.
The sight made her stomach tighten. Even soft, he was substantial, a thick weight resting against his thigh, already beginning to stir under her gaze. The fabric of his briefs strained.
“All the way,” he commanded, his voice barely above a whisper.
She swallowed, her mouth dry. She hooked her fingers into the elastic and pulled. His cock sprang free, heavy and full, not fully hard but so obviously, terrifyingly more than anything she’d known. A low, involuntary “fuck” escaped her lips, breathed more than spoken.
It was obscene. It was magnificent. The sheer scale of it, the vascularity, the ruddy hue. It was nothing like Finn’s. The comparison was immediate and brutal, a mental betrayal that felt as physical as touch.
Tentatively, she reached out. Her hand wrapped around the shaft. Her fingers didn’t meet her thumb. She had to use her other hand to fully encompass him, and even then, it was a firm grip, not the casual hold she was used to. She ran one hand from the base to the tip, feeling the silken skin over the iron-hard core beneath, feeling him swell and lengthen further under her exploration.
“Jesus Christ,” she murmured, her eyes fixed on it. “It’s… it’s a monster.” The words tumbled out, shaky and awed. “How does this… I mean, how does anyone…”
Peter stayed silent, just watching her, his breathing a bit deeper.
“Finn’s is nothing like this.” She said it to the room, to the cock in her hand, a confession pulled from her. “He’s… average.Normal. This is… this isn’t normal.” She gave an experimental pump, her hands working in tandem. He grew impossibly harder, thicker, until he was fully erect, jutting up from his groin like a weapon. A vein pulsed along the side. “Look at it. It’s fucking intimidating.”
She glanced up at his face. His expression was one of pure, arrogant gratification. It fueled her somehow, loosened her tongue further.
“I thought about it,” she whispered, her thumbs circling the broad, smooth head. A pearl of pre-cum welled up and she smeared it with her thumb. “After the kitchen. I lay in bed with him next to me and I thought about your hands. And I wondered… I wondered what this would feel like.Inside. I didn’t imagine it like this, though. This is… god.”
She leaned closer, her breath ghosting over the tip. The musk of him was potent, animal. “Quinn really took this? All of it?” The question was laced with a weird, competitive jealousy she didn’t recognize in herself.
“She begged for it,” Peter said, his first words in a while, gravelly. “Just like you will.”
Rachel didn’t deny it. She just stared, mesmerized by the reality of it in her palms, the proof of every covert glance, every heated thought over the past days made flesh. Her future, for the next forty-eight hours, was in her hands. And it was terrifying. And she couldn’t let go.