Chapter 7: The Ultimatum
The weeks blurred into a fever dream of stolen hours and whispered lies. Peter stopped counting the nights he told MJ he was working late, stopped flinching when she looked at him with that question in her eyes that she never quite asked. He told himself he could manage it, could compartmentalize, could keep the two halves of his life separate. But the seams were fraying, and he could feel the unraveling in his bones.
He'd started sleeping less. Not because of patrol—though that still consumed its share of his nights—but because every time he closed his eyes, he saw Felicia's smile, felt her nails raking down his back, heard the filthy, wonderful things she whispered against his ear. And every time he opened them, he saw MJ's trusting face across the breakfast table, and the guilt ate him alive.
Tonight, he didn't fight it.
He'd left the apartment at midnight, mumbling something about a disturbance in Queens, and MJ had nodded with the kind of weary acceptance that made him want to tear himself apart. But the moment he hit the roof, the moment the city wind hit his face, the guilt evaporated like mist. What was left was hunger.
He swung across the skyline, the lights of Manhattan streaking past him in smears of gold and neon, and landed on the balcony of Felicia's penthouse without hesitation. The doors were open, the white curtains billowing into the night like ghosts, and he slipped through them like he belonged there.
She was waiting on the bed.
Silk sheets the color of midnight pooled around her hips, her bare legs stretched out before her, and she was wearing nothing but a thin strap of black lace around her throat and a smile that promised ruin. Her silver hair spilled over her shoulders, catching the moonlight from the floor-to-ceiling windows, and her green eyes glittered with something that looked like victory.
"You took your time," she said, her voice a velvet purr.
"Traffic was hell."
She laughed, a low, throaty sound that vibrated along his spine. "Always the joker." She crooked a finger. "Come here."
He crossed the room, his footsteps silenced by the thick carpet, and stopped at the edge of the bed. She looked up at him, her gaze traveling the length of his body, and there was nothing gentle in her expression. Only want.
"You've been thinking about me," she said. It wasn't a question.
"Every second."
"Good." She reached for his belt, her fingers deft and practiced. "Because I've been thinking about you too. About what I'm going to do to you tonight."
He caught her wrist, stopping her. "Felicia—"
She tilted her head, that sharp smile still in place. "Are you going to give me another excuse? Another reason why you can't stay? Another promise that you're going to tell MJ the truth?" She pulled her wrist free and reached up to cup his jaw, her thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone. "It's been two months, Peter. Two months of sneaking around, two months of lying to her, two months of telling yourself you're going to end it and coming back to me instead."
He closed his eyes. "I know."
"Then stop pretending." Her voice dropped, losing its teasing edge and becoming something harder, more real. "I'm done sharing, Peter. I'm done being your dirty little secret. It's time to choose. Her or me."
The words hung between them, heavy as lead. He opened his eyes and looked at her—really looked at her—and saw the raw vulnerability flickering beneath the mask of confidence. Felicia Hardy, who never let anyone see her beg, was asking him to choose her.
"I don't know if I can—"
"Can't or won't?" She rose to her knees on the bed, bringing her face level with his. "She doesn't know you, Peter. Not like I do. She knows the man who comes home tired and distant, who falls asleep beside her without seeing her. She doesn't know the man who screams my name when he comes, who can't spend a single night without my taste on his tongue." Her lips brushed his ear, her breath hot. "She doesn't know what I know. That you're mine."
He should have pushed her away. He should have left, gone home, held his wife and begged forgiveness. But he didn't. He stood there, frozen, while Felicia's hands worked his belt open, while her fingers found the zipper of his pants and pulled it down.
She released his wrists—when had she pinned them above his head?—and slid down his body, her lips pressing a trail of kisses down his chest, over his stomach, lower. He watched her through half-lidded eyes, saw her silver hair fan across his thighs, and then she took him into her mouth.
The sound that escaped him was raw, broken, a noise of pure animal surrender. She worked him with practiced precision, her tongue swirling around the head before she swallowed him to the root, deep and wet, the suction almost painful. Her hand pumped the base of his shaft, her other hand cupped his balls, teasing, rolling them gently while her throat opened around him.
"Fuck," he groaned, his head falling back. "Felicia, I—"
She pulled off just long enough to whisper, "Not yet," and then she was on him again, her head bobbing, her mouth so fucking perfect he could feel the edge approaching, the familiar rush of heat building low in his belly.
But she stopped. Just when he was about to tip over, she pulled away, leaving him aching and swollen, a string of saliva connecting her lips to the tip of his cock.
"Look at me," she demanded.
He forced his eyes open.
"I want to hear you say it. Say you're mine."
"I'm yours."
"Say you're leaving her."
He hesitated. Just a fraction of a second. But she saw it, and her eyes narrowed, and she rose, straddling him in one fluid motion, her slick cunt grinding against his aching cock.
"Say it," she repeated, reaching down to align him with her entrance. "Say it, and I'll give you everything."
He grabbed her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh, and slammed up into her without warning.
She gasped, her eyes rolling back, her inner walls clenching around him like a fist. "Oh, fuck—"
He did it again, and again, each thrust harder than the last, his hands gripping her hips so tight he knew he'd leave bruises. She cried out, her head thrown back, her nails digging into his chest hard enough to draw blood.
"Tell me!" she demanded, her voice ragged. "Tell me you're leaving her!"
"I'm yours!" he shouted, slamming up into her. "I'll leave her tonight!"
She came with a scream, her body convulsing around him, her juices coating his thighs as she bucked and writhed. He followed seconds later, his release pouring into her with a force that shook him to his core.
For a long moment, they lay tangled together, breathless and slick, the only sound their ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city. Felicia curled against him, her cheek on his chest, her fingers tracing lazy circles on his skin.
"Then go," she whispered. "Go home and pack. I'll be waiting."
He didn't move. His heart was still pounding, his body still trembling from the force of his release, and the words settled into him like stones dropped into deep water.
"Now?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
"Now." She kissed his chest, soft and almost tender. "Before you lose your nerve. Before you talk yourself out of it. Go."
He sat up slowly, the sheets falling away from his body. She watched him from the bed, unashamed in her nakedness, a smile playing on her lips.
He dressed in silence, his movements mechanical, his mind a blur of static. When he reached the window, he paused and looked back at her.
"Felicia—"
"Don't," she said softly, but not unkindly. "Just go. We'll have the rest of our lives to talk."
He climbed through the window, the cold night air a shock against his heated skin, and stood on the balcony for a moment, looking out at the city. The lights stared back at him, indifferent.
He thought of MJ. Of her smile, her laugh, the way she said his name like a prayer.
And he thought of Felicia, of her name etched inside the ring hidden in his pocket, of the way she made him feel like he could burn the world down and walk through the ashes.
He swung home.
The apartment was dark when he landed, the silence thick and expectant. He crept inside, his suit silencing his footsteps, and stood in the living room, looking at the life he'd built.
It was ordinary. The couch they'd picked out together, the bookshelf lined with his science textbooks and her scripts, the photos on the mantel—their wedding, their first apartment, the time they'd gone to Coney Island and she'd won him the stuffed animal he still kept on his desk.
He looked at all of it, and he felt... nothing.
No, that wasn't true. He felt the weight of two years of lies pressing down on him; he felt the ghost of Felicia's touch still burning on his skin; he felt the ring in his pocket, cold and insistent.
He pulled out his phone and saw the message notification blinking.
You're still there, aren't you? I can tell. You're looking at your life and feeling the guilt already. Stop thinking. Come back. I'm still wet.
Peter stared at the words, his heart pounding.
Then he turned toward the bedroom.
MJ was asleep, her face peaceful, her hair spread across the pillow. He watched her for a long moment, and something twisted in his chest—something that might have been love, or might have been memory, or might have been the last shred of the man he used to be.
"Goodbye, MJ," he whispered.
And he left.
The night air hit him like a slap, cold and sharp, cutting through the lingering heat of Felicia's body still ghosting his skin. He didn't swing so much as hurl himself across the skyline, the web lines catching him, pulling him forward with a velocity that matched the pounding in his chest. The city blurred past, a smear of anonymous lights, and he didn't look back at the apartment he was leaving behind.
He landed on her balcony with a thud that jarred his knees, and she was there, waiting, leaning against the doorframe with a glass of wine in her hand and a smile that said she'd never doubted he'd come. She was wearing one of his shirts—an old Princeton tee he'd forgotten he'd left here—and nothing else. The hem brushed her thighs, and the sight of her in his clothes did something complicated and dark to his insides.
"Didn't take you long," she said, her voice a low purr. "I figured you'd stand on the roof for an hour, wrestling with your conscience."
"Conscience is off duty tonight." He stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him, and the sound was final, a seal on everything he'd chosen. "I'm here."
She set the glass down, her eyes never leaving his, and crossed the room with that fluid, predatory grace that made his mouth go dry. "You're here," she repeated, reaching up to trace her fingers along his jaw. "And you're mine."
Something inside him snapped. A thread he'd been holding for years, tenuous and frayed, finally letting go. He grabbed her, one hand fisting in the back of the shirt, the other tangling in her silver hair, and kissed her with all the desperation and hunger he'd been choking on for two months. She matched it, biting his lower lip hard enough to taste copper, her nails raking across his scalp.
"Don't think about her," she breathed against his mouth, even as she pulled his suit off him, pieces falling to the floor in a trail toward the bed. "Don't think about anything."
He didn't argue. He couldn't. His hands found the shirt she was wearing, the old cotton tearing under his grip, the sound a snarl in the quiet room. She laughed, low and filthy, as he pushed her onto the bed, following her down, his body covering hers like he was trying to disappear into her skin.
"God, you're eager," she gasped, her legs wrapping around his waist, her heels digging into his ass. "I thought you'd need more convincing."
"I'm done with convincing." He captured her mouth again, swallowing her laugh, and hitched her thighs higher. "I'm done with everything except this."
She reached between them, her fingers wrapping around his cock, guiding him to her entrance. She was soaking, slick and hot, and when he pushed inside her, the feeling was so perfect, so complete, that he saw stars behind his eyes.
"Fuck," he groaned, his forehead dropping to hers. "Fuck, Felicia—"
"Move," she demanded, her voice barely a whisper. "Move, Peter. Show me you're mine."
He did. He pulled out almost all the way and slammed back into her, sheathing himself to the hilt, and she cried out, her nails scoring lines of fire down his back. He set a rhythm, hard and punishing, each thrust driving her up the bed, the headboard knocking against the wall in a steady, frantic beat.
She met him thrust for thrust, her hips rising to meet his, her body a perfect echo of his desperation. Her legs tightened around him, ankles locked, trapping him inside her, and she rolled her hips in a movement that made his vision whiten.
"Say it again," she growled, her voice rough with pleasure. "Say you're mine."
"I'm yours," he choked out, his rhythm faltering as the pleasure built to a sharp, unbearable edge. "I'm so fucking yours, Felicia—"
"Then fill me." She caught his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her, her green eyes blazing in the dim light. "Fill me, Peter, and don't you dare think about anyone else."
He came with a groan that tore from his chest, his hips slamming against hers one final time, his release flooding her in a shuddering, endless wave. She followed him, her body arching off the bed, a raw cry ripping from her throat as she pulsed around him, milking him dry.
For a long moment, they lay tangled together, panting, sweating, the sheets a ruin beneath them. Peter's face was buried in her neck, her pulse thrumming against his lips, and he could feel the aftershocks still rippling through her body.
"MJ," he whispered, the name slipping out before he could stop it.
Felicia went still. Then, with a movement so sudden he barely registered it, she flipped him onto his back, straddling him in one fluid motion. She was still bare, still slick with him, and her eyes were dark with something that was equal parts anger and triumph.
"What did you just say?" Her voice was ice, but her hips were already grinding down on him, her slickness coating his half-hard cock, coaxing it back to life.
"I didn't mean—"
"Wrong answer." She leaned forward, her hands braced on his chest, her mouth brushing his ear. "You're in my bed, in my body, and you're going to get her out of your head." She reached between them, gripping his growing erection, stroking him with a practiced, deliberate rhythm. "I'm going to fuck every single memory of her out of you. Every laugh. Every smile. Every time she touched you. All of it."
She rose, positioned herself above him, and sank down in one slow, excruciating motion. The sound they made together was primal, a shared groan of pure animal need.
"Look at me," she commanded, and he did. "Who am I?"
"Felicia."
"Who are you?"
"Yours."
"And her?" She rose, then slammed down, taking him all the way into her depths. "Who is she?"
The name tried to surface, a reflex, a habit. But Felicia moved again, her hips rolling, her inner walls clenching around him with a precision that stole his breath, and the name dissolved into nothing.
"No one," he gasped. "She's no one."
Felicia smiled, slow and satisfied, and rode him harder, her movements becoming frantic, almost violent, her nails leaving crescents of blood in his chest. She was chasing something, and so was he, both of them chasing the same obliteration.
"Say it again," she demanded, her voice breaking.
"No one," he repeated, grabbing her hips, slamming up into her with a force that made her gasp. "She's no one. You're everything. You're—fuck—you're everything, Felicia—"
She came with a scream, her body convulsing around him, and he followed her over the edge, emptying himself into her in a shuddering, broken flood. He collapsed, spent, and she fell with him, her head on his chest, both of them gasping for air.
After a long moment, she raised her head, her lips curving into that wicked smile. "See?" she murmured, tracing a finger down his sternum. "I told you I'd fuck her out of you."
Peter stared at the ceiling, his heart still pounding, his body still trembling. He thought of the apartment he'd left, the photo on the mantel, the woman sleeping in their bed.
But the thoughts came muted now, distant, like trying to remember a dream. All he could feel was Felicia's weight on his chest, her warmth seeping into him, her name somehow already carved into his skin.
"Welcome home," she whispered.
And he closed his eyes, surrendering to it.