Chapter 4: The Morning Reckoning
The first thing he registered was the smell of jasmine.
It clung to the sheets, to the pillows, to the air itself—cloying and sweet, threading through his nostrils like a hook. The second thing he registered was the weight on his chest, the warmth of bare skin against his, the slow, rhythmic press of a body straddling his ribs.
Peter's eyes snapped open.
The ceiling above him was dark glass, rain-streaked and streaked with the first gray light of dawn. Candles had burned down to stubs, their flames guttering in pools of melted wax. And Felicia was staring down at him, her green eyes bright with amusement, her silver hair falling in tangled curtains around her face.
"Morning, tiger," she purred. "You sleep like the dead."
He opened his mouth to respond, but the words died in his throat as she shifted, sliding up his chest, her slick thighs parting around his head. Her scent hit him full-force—salt and musk and the lingering proof of everything they'd done last night—and his cock, already half-hard, surged to full attention.
"Felicia, what are you—"
"Shh." She pressed a finger to his lips, then shifted again, positioning herself over his face. Her wet heat hovered inches from his mouth, close enough for him to feel the warmth radiating off her. "We don't have much time. You need to get home to your wife before she wakes up and wonders where her darling husband disappeared to."
She reached down and took his cock in her hand, stroking him slowly, deliberately, her gaze never leaving his.
"But first," she murmured, "I want one more taste."
She lowered herself onto his mouth.
Her taste hit him like a wave—salt and honey and something darker, muskier, unmistakably her. He gripped her thighs, his instinct overriding his guilt, his tongue flattening against her clit before he even knew what he was doing. She gasped, her hips grinding against his face, and she took him into her mouth with a hunger that matched his own.
They moved together in a desperate, uncoordinated rhythm, 69 in the gray light of dawn. She sucked him deep, her throat opening to take him to the root, her fingers stroking his balls as she swallowed around him. He ate her with a ravenous fervor, his tongue plunging inside her, lapping up every drop of her slickness, his stubble rasping against her inner thighs.
"Fuck," she breathed against his shaft, her voice muffled. "God, you're good at that."
He didn't answer. He couldn't. His mouth was otherwise occupied, his tongue circling her clit, his teeth grazing her gently until she cried out, her thighs clamping around his head.
She took him deeper, her hand wrapped around the base of his cock, her mouth working him with a desperate, sloppy urgency. Spit dripped down his shaft, slick and obscene, and she moaned around him, the vibration traveling through his entire body.
He could feel himself approaching the edge, his hips bucking up as she sucked him harder, faster, her nails digging into his thighs.
"Don't hold back," she gasped, pulling off just long enough to speak. "Cum in my mouth, Peter. I want to taste you again."
He came with a raw, guttural groan, his back arching off the bed, his hands gripping her hips so hard he knew he'd leave bruises. She swallowed around him, her throat working as she took every drop, and then she crawled up his body, her lips meeting his in a kiss that tasted of her and him, mingled and heady.
"Mm." She smiled against his lips. "Addictive, isn't it?"
He didn't answer. He lay there, chest heaving, staring up at her, his mind a storm of shame and satisfaction and something dangerous that he refused to name.
"Come on." She slid off him, rising from the bed with a lithe, fluid grace that made his mouth go dry. "Shower. I'm not letting you leave with my smell all over you. That would be cruel."
The bathroom was a cathedral of black marble and steam, the shower head hissing like a snake as she turned it on. The water was hot, almost scalding, and it poured over his shoulders as he stepped under it, washing away the evidence of his betrayal.
But he could still smell her on his skin.
She stepped in behind him, her hands sliding around his waist, her breasts pressing against his back.
"One more," she whispered against his shoulder. "Please. I can't let you go yet."
He turned to face her, water streaming down his face, and he looked at her—at the woman who had haunted him for years, who had always been there in the shadows, tempting him, taunting him, never quite letting him go.
"You're going to destroy me," he said, his voice barely audible over the hiss of the water.
She smiled, slow and wicked. "That's the plan, tiger."
She pressed him back against the cold marble wall, the shock of it stealing his breath. Then she lifted one leg, wrapping it around his waist, and reached down to guide him to her entrance.
He slid inside her with a groan that was almost a sob.
"Fuck," he breathed, his forehead dropping to hers. "Fuck, Felicia—"
"Shh." She kissed him, soft and deep, swallowing his protests. "Just feel. Don't think."
He didn't think. He thrust into her with a desperate, punishing rhythm, his hips slamming against hers, the water cascading over them in a steaming curtain. She clung to him, her nails raking down his back, her mouth open against his shoulder, her moans muffled by the sound of the water.
"Harder," she gasped. "God, yes, harder—"
He gave her what she asked for. He drove into her with a violence that bordered on cruelty, his hands gripping her ass as he lifted her, pressing her full against the wet marble. She wrapped both legs around his waist, her heels digging into his lower back, her hips meeting his thrust for thrust.
She came with a scream that was swallowed by the spray, her inner walls convulsing around him, dragging him over the edge with her. He buried his face in her neck, his body shuddering as he came inside her, his release lost in the torrent of water.
They stayed there, tangled together, for a long moment. The water ran cold.
Finally, she pushed him gently away, stepping out of the shower and grabbing a plush towel from the rack. She wrapped it around herself, her silver hair slicked against her skull, and looked at him with a soft, oddly tender expression.
"You should go," she said. "You have a life to get back to."
He stepped out of the shower, water dripping onto the marble floor. He didn't have a towel. He didn't want one.
"Give me the necklace," he said, his voice flat.
She raised an eyebrow, then reached into a drawer and pulled out the silver chain with its glittering emerald pendant. She tossed it to him, and he caught it without thinking.
"Goodbye, Peter," she said softly.
He dressed in silence, pulling on his suit, zipping it up, feeling the fabric settle against his skin like a second shroud. He looked at her one last time—standing there in her towel, a soft smile playing on her lips, her eyes holding a glint that was almost sad.
Then he climbed out the window and swung into the gray morning.
The apartment was quiet when he slipped in through the fire escape, the window sliding soundlessly shut behind him. The bedroom door was still closed, the lights off, the faint sound of Mary Jane's breathing a steady, rhythmic comfort from the other side.
He stood in the kitchen, the necklace in his hand, and stared at the closed door.
The guilt was already settling into his bones, heavy and cold as the morning dew on his suit. He could still taste Felicia on his tongue. Could still feel the ghost of her nails on his back. Could still hear her voice in his head, low and mocking.
I know exactly what you feel. I'm the only one you've never had to pretend with.
He closed his eyes.
And for the first time, he wondered if she was right.