Chapter 5: The Final Choice
The air in the room had changed. It was thicker now, charged with something that made the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Peter stood there, water still beading on his skin, the coolness of the marble floor seeping into his bare feet, and he watched her move toward him.
The black robe she wore was so sheer it might as well have been made of smoke. It clung to the curves of her body, the dark outline of her nipples visible through the fabric, the shadow between her thighs a promise he could already feel in his bones. Her silver hair was still damp, slicked back from her face, making her cheekbones look sharper, her green eyes brighter, more predatory.
"This was a mistake," he said, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.
"No." She stopped in front of him, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off her skin. "It wasn't a mistake. It was a choice. You made it the moment you came to my window last night. You made it again when you crawled into my bed. And you made it again just now, when you came inside me in that shower."
He shook his head, but the gesture was weak, unconvincing. The necklace swung from his fingers, the emerald pendant catching the gray dawn light, mocking him.
"I can't do this to MJ," he said, and even to his own ears, the words sounded hollow. "She's my wife. She trusts me. She—"
"She's not here." Felicia reached up, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. Her touch was featherlight, but it burned like a brand. "I am. That's all that matters right now."
He grabbed her wrist, intending to push her away, but his grip was too loose, his resolve already crumbling.
"You're a fucking homewrecker," he said, but there was no venom in it. Just exhaustion. Just surrender.
"I'm honest." She pressed her body against his, and he felt every inch of her through the thin silk of her robe—the soft swell of her breasts, the flat plane of her stomach, the firm pressure of her thighs against his. "That's more than you can say right now, isn't it, Peter?"
She took his hand and pressed it against her breast. Her nipple was hard beneath the fabric, a small, firm point that dug into his palm. She held his hand there, her green eyes locked on his, watching him break.
"Feel that?" Her voice was barely a whisper. "That's real. That's what you want. Not the safe, comfortable life you've built. Not the woman who waits for you to come home with a smile and a kiss and never asks what you've really been doing. You want this. You want me."
His throat was dry. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his teeth.
"Felicia—"
"Shut up."
She released his hand, stepped back, and reached for the zipper of his suit. It was still half-open, hanging loose around his shoulders, and she took hold of the tabs and pulled it all the way down, the sound of it harsh and final in the quiet room.
The suit pooled at his feet. He stood naked before her, his cock half-hard, his body a map of old scars and lingering bruises, his skin still damp from the shower.
She looked at him—really looked at him—her eyes traveling down his chest, over his stomach, settling on his cock with a hunger that made his breath catch.
Then she dropped to her knees.
Her hands found his hips, her thumbs pressing into the sharp jut of his pelvic bone. She leaned forward, her breath warm against his skin, and then her mouth opened and she took him inside her.
He hissed through his teeth, his head falling back, his hands reflexively threading through her silver hair. She was gentle at first, just her tongue tracing the length of him, her lips sliding over the head with a teasing, torturous slowness. Then she took him deeper, her throat relaxing, her hands moving to cup his balls, her fingers rolling them with a practiced, knowing touch.
"Jesus, Felicia," he gasped. "Fuck—"
She hummed around him, the vibration sending a shockwave up his spine. She worked him with a deliberate, filthy precision—her tongue swirling around his shaft as she pulled back, her lips suckling at the crown, her hand stroking the base in a rhythm that had him gripping her hair so hard his knuckles went white.
She looked up at him, her green eyes watering slightly, her lips stretched slick around his flesh, and the sight of it—the sheer, obscene beauty of her kneeling before him—undid something inside him.
He hardened fully in her mouth. She took him deeper, her nose brushing against his pubic bone, and he felt the back of her throat constrict around him, felt her swallow, felt her moan against his cock.
"Fuck—" He was losing himself, his hips starting to move, thrusting into her mouth with a desperate, shallow rhythm. She didn't pull away. She took it, taking him deeper, making sounds that were wet and greedy and filthy.
Then she pulled off with a slick, obscene pop, a strand of saliva connecting her lips to his cock. She rose, her robe falling open to reveal the full, naked length of her body—the pale swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the dark triangle of hair between her thighs, already slick with her own wetness.
She turned around.
She bent over the edge of the bed, her hands gripping the black satin sheets, and she spread her ass cheeks with her fingers, showing him her pussy—pink and swollen and glistening, dripping with arousal.
"Fuck me, Peter," she said, looking back over her shoulder with a wicked grin. "Fuck me and tell me you're mine."
He didn't think. He didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, his hands finding her hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of her ass, and he aligned himself with her entrance and slammed into her with a single, brutal thrust.
She cried out, a sharp, guttural sound that was half-moan, half-scream. Her fingers clawed at the sheets, her back arching, her head thrown back, silver hair cascading down her spine.
"Yes," she hissed. "God, yes, Peter—"
He pulled back and thrust again, harder, deeper, the wet heat of her clutching at him like a fist. The sound of their bodies slapping together echoed off the marble walls, obscene and rhythmic, a counterpoint to her moans and his ragged breathing.
"I'll fucking ruin you," he growled, the words spilling out of him without thought, without filter. "You know that, right? You know what you're doing—"
"I know exactly what I'm doing." She pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts with equal force. "I'm taking what I want. And you're giving it to me."
He slammed into her harder, his balls slapping against her clit with each punishing stroke. Her moans grew louder, more desperate, her walls clenching around him so tightly he could barely move.
"Peter—fuck, Peter, right there—"
He leaned forward, his chest pressing against her back, his mouth finding her ear. "You want to know a secret, Felicia?"
"Yes—fuck, yes—"
"I've thought about this for years." His voice was a raw, ragged whisper. "Every time I saw you. Every time we fought. Every time I went home to her, I thought about what it would feel like to be inside you."
"Show me." She twisted her head, her lips finding his, kissing him with a desperate, biting urgency. "Show me how much you've thought about it."
He straightened and drove into her with renewed force, his hands gripping her hips so hard he knew he'd leave bruises. She cried out into the sheets, her body shaking, her legs trembling, her pussy convulsing around him as she came with a scream that tore through the quiet morning.
But he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. He kept thrusting, kept driving into her, chasing his own release with a single-minded, primal need.
"I'm yours," he panted, the words spilling out of him like a confession. "I'm yours, Felicia. I'm—"
He came with a groan that was almost a sob, his body shuddering, his hips pressing deep as he spilled inside her. She clenched around him, milking him dry, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. The only sound was their ragged breathing, the hiss of the rain against the windows, the distant wail of a siren somewhere in the city below.
Then she turned her head, her lips finding his, kissing him soft and slow.
"Then stay," she whispered against his mouth. "And never go back."
He pulled out of her slowly, his cock slick and spent, and collapsed onto the bed beside her. She rolled over to face him, her green eyes searching his face, her smile soft and almost tender.
He looked at her lying there, her silver hair a tangled halo around her head, her body still flushed and trembling, her breasts rising and falling with each breath.
He didn't answer. He just reached out, pulled her close, and buried his face in her hair.
And for the first time in years, he let himself stop thinking about the cost.