Chapter 7: The Honeymoon Fuck
The suite swallowed them whole the moment the door clicked shut behind them. The Strip blazed beyond the glass, a river of neon and chrome that painted the room in shifting hues of crimson and electric blue. Peter barely had time to register the towering windows, the mirrored ceiling above the bed, the half-empty bottle of whiskey sweating on the bar—before Betsy's hands were on him.
She pushed him hard. Not playfully. Not gently. Her palms slammed against his chest, sending him stumbling backward until his knees hit the edge of the mattress and he toppled onto the silk-covered bed. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, and before he could recover, she was on him, straddling his hips, pinning him down with a strength that made his spider-sense tingle.
"You have no idea," she breathed, her voice low and ragged, "how long I've been waiting to have you like this."
Peter's hands found her thighs, the skin hot and smooth beneath his palms. His heart hammered. "We just got married. Shouldn't we, I don't know, order room service first? Maybe watch some shitty pay-per-view?"
She silenced him with a look—a predatory, hungry look that made his cock twitch inside his pants. "I'm not hungry for food, Parker."
Her fingers found the zipper of her white lace dress, the one she'd worn for their absurd neon-lit ceremony. She dragged it down slowly, deliberately, her eyes never leaving his. The sound was obscene in the quiet room, a long, teasing hiss that seemed to stretch into eternity.
The dress pooled at her waist, then slid off her shoulders. She shrugged it down her arms, and the lace fell away, revealing her breasts—full, firm, tipped with dusky pink nipples that hardened in the cool air. She let the dress drop to the floor, stepping out of it with a casual kick.
Peter's breath caught in his throat.
She was naked. Completely, utterly naked. The neon glow from the window traced the curves of her body, painting her in shifting shadows and light. Her skin was flawless, smooth as marble, with the kind of athletic definition that came from years of combat training. Every muscle was visible, every plane and hollow a study in lethal grace.
"Fuck," he whispered.
Betsy smirked, the expression sharp and knowing. She crawled up the bed toward him, her movements fluid, predatory, her hips swaying with each sinuous step of her knees. She stopped when her face was inches from his, her breath warm and minty against his lips.
"I've been dreaming about this," she murmured. "About the sounds you'd make when I finally got you alone."
Peter's mouth went dry. "Betsy—"
"Shut up, Peter." She pressed a finger to his lips. "Just feel."
Her hand slid down his chest, nails raking lightly over the fabric of his shirt. She found the buttons and undid them one by one, her fingers nimble and sure, until his chest was bare. She traced the contours of his pectorals, the ridges of his abs, her touch feather-light and electric.
"You're so beautiful," she breathed, the words almost accusing. "Do you know that? Do you have any idea what you do to me?"
Before he could answer, her hand moved lower. She unbuckled his belt with a practiced flick, then undid his pants, pulling them down along with his boxers. His cock sprang free, already hard, already leaking.
"Jesus," she muttered. "You're perfect."
She wrapped her hand around him, her fingers cool and firm, and Peter gasped at the contact. She stroked him slowly, deliberately, her thumb circling the head, spreading the moisture there. His hips bucked involuntarily, but she held him down with a palm pressed flat against his stomach.
"Not yet," she said, her voice a low growl. "I'm in control tonight."
Peter whimpered. It was a pathetic sound, a desperate sound, but he couldn't help it. Her grip was perfect, her rhythm maddening. She worked him with the same precision she used in combat—calculating, relentless, devastating.
Then she lowered her head.
The first touch of her tongue made him arch off the bed. She licked him from base to tip, a long, slow stroke that left a trail of fire in its wake. She circled the head, teasing, tasting, before taking him into her mouth.
Peter's hands fisted in the sheets. "Oh, fuck—"
Betsy hummed around him, the vibration sending shockwaves through his entire body. She took him deeper, her throat relaxing as she swallowed him whole, her nose brushing against his pubic bone. She held him there for a moment, her eyes watering slightly, her throat working around his length.
Then she pulled back, gasping, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his cock.
"Taste good," she said, licking her lips. "Better than I imagined."
She went down again, bobbing her head rhythmically, each descent deeper than the last. She hollowed her cheeks, creating a suction that made his vision blur. Her hand wrapped around the base, stroking what her mouth couldn't reach, and the combination was overwhelming.
"Betsy—fuck—I'm close—"
She didn't stop. If anything, she increased her pace, her head bobbing faster, her hand twisting in sync. Peter's hips began to buck, pushing deeper into her throat, and she took it all, gagging slightly, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Betsy, please—"
She pulled off with a wet pop, her lips swollen, her eyes bright with lust. "Not yet," she said. "I'm not done with you."
She climbed up his body, her knees bracketing his hips, her wet cunt brushing against his straining cock. She reached down, positioned him at her entrance, and held still.
"Look at me," she commanded.
Peter's eyes met hers. They were glowing, literally glowing—violet light swirling in her irises like captured nebulae.
"You're mine now," she whispered. "Forever."
She sank down onto him.
The sensation was indescribable. She was tight, so tight, her inner walls clamping around him like a velvet fist. She took him inch by agonizing inch, her eyes never leaving his, her expression a mix of ecstasy and dominion. When she was fully seated, she paused, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
"God, Peter," she moaned. "You fill me so good."
Then she began to ride him.
It was wild, abandoned, primal. She impaled herself on him over and over, her hips slamming down with a force that shook the bed. Her breasts bounced with each thrust, her head thrown back, her throat exposed. She was a goddess, a predator, a force of nature—and she was taking everything he had.
Peter's hands found her hips, gripping her hard enough to bruise. He tried to match her rhythm, thrusting up into her, but she was too fast, too powerful. She rode him with a fury that left him breathless, his mind a blur of sensation and need.
"Look at you," she growled, her voice strained with effort. "So helpless. So beautiful. You were made for this—made for me."
She leaned forward, her breasts brushing against his chest, her nipples hard against his skin. Her lips found his ear, her breath hot and wet.
"I'm going to make you feel things you've never felt before," she whispered. "I'm going to take you apart, piece by piece, and put you back together the way I want."
Peter felt it before he understood it—a warmth spreading through his mind, a psychic caress that made his thoughts go fuzzy. Betsy's power enveloped him, wrapped around his consciousness like a silken web.
"What—" he gasped. "What are you—"
"Trust me," she purred. "Just feel."
She accelerated the rhythm, and suddenly every nerve in his body was on fire. Every thrust, every shift of her inner walls, every brush of her skin against his sent waves of pleasure cascading through him. It was too much, too intense, and yet he couldn't get enough.
"Oh, God—Betsy—"
"Say my name," she demanded. "Say it like you mean it."
"Betsy!" he cried, his voice cracking. "Fuck—Betsy!"
She smiled, savage and triumphant, and rode him harder. Her psychic influence intensified, amplifying every sensation, turning pleasure into something transcendent. Peter was drowning in it, lost in it, his entire being focused on the feeling of her around him, on the weight of her body, on the sound of her moans.
"Look at me," she commanded again.
He obeyed. And in her eyes, he saw himself—spread beneath her, helpless, utterly hers. The sight should have frightened him. It didn't.
"You're mine," she repeated. "Say it."
"I'm yours," he gasped. "I'm yours—I'm yours—"
She leaned down and kissed him, swallowing his words. Her tongue tangled with his, her hips never stopping, her power still flooding his senses. He couldn't think anymore. He could only feel.
She rolled them over, so suddenly that his head spun. Now she was beneath him, her legs wrapped around his waist, her heels digging into his back.
"Fuck me," she demanded. "Fuck me like you mean it."
Peter needed no further instruction. He pulled out almost completely, then slammed back in, burying himself to the hilt. She cried out, arching against him, her nails raking down his back.
"Yes—fuck—right there—"
He thrust harder, faster, losing himself in the rhythm. Her psychic power still sang through his veins, making every movement feel like a revelation. He drove into her with abandon, his hips slapping against hers, the sound wet and obscene.
"Harder," she demanded. "Don't you dare go easy on me."
He gave her everything. He fucked her like she was the only thing in the universe that mattered, because she was. He pounded into her, each stroke deeper than the last, and she took it all, meeting him thrust for thrust, her moans rising into a keening wail.
"I'm close," she gasped. "Don't stop—please don't stop—"
Her psychic power tightened around him, squeezing his mind even as her cunt squeezed his cock. He felt her orgasm building, felt it in his own body, a shared sensation that made his vision white out.
"Come with me," she breathed. "Come inside me—fill me up—"
The words shattered him. He thrust one final time, burying himself as deep as he could go, and came. His cock pulsed inside her, spilling his seed, and she followed moments later, her walls clenching around him in violent, ecstatic waves. The psychic feedback loop between them surged, and for a moment, Peter understood the stars.
They collapsed together, a tangle of sweat and trembling limbs. Betsy's power receded slowly, like a tide going out, leaving him feeling wrung out and utterly satisfied.
"Holy shit," he whispered.
Betsy laughed, a breathless, broken sound. "Holy shit indeed."
They lay there for a moment, bodies still entwined, hearts pounding in sync. Peter could feel the subtle glow of the ring on his finger, a gentle warmth that matched the warmth spreading through his chest.
"I meant what I said," Betsy murmured, her lips brushing against his shoulder. "You're mine. Forever."
Peter turned his head, pressing a kiss to her temple. "I know. And I wouldn't have it any other way."
She lifted her head, meeting his eyes. There was something vulnerable in her gaze, something raw and unguarded. "I love you, Peter."
"I love you too, Betsy." He paused. "Mrs. Braddock-Parker."
She rolled her eyes. "We still haven't decided on the last name."
"We have time."
"Forever."
"Mmm." He pulled her closer, letting her head rest on his chest. "Forever sounds good."
The neon glow of the Strip painted the room in shifting colors as they drifted together. The whiskey bottle on the bar caught the light, glinting like a captured star. Outside, the city never stopped its endless hum, the bass from the club below a constant heartbeat reminding them the world was still alive.
But in here, wrapped in each other, the world didn't exist. There was only this—skin against skin, breath mingling, the soft glow of the ring on Peter's finger, and the knowledge that this moment was theirs alone.
"Betsy?"
"Hmm?"
"What happens next?"
She was quiet for a moment. Then she propped herself up on her elbow, looking down at him with a smile that held secrets. "We see what the world throws at us. We face it together." She leaned down, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "But first, I'm going to fuck you again. I'm not nearly done with you yet."
Peter's heart surged. "We have all night."
"We have all forever."
And somewhere in the heart of Vegas, beneath a ceiling of mirrors and a sky full of neon, husband and wife began again, the future unfolding ahead of them like a promise waiting to be kept.