Page 58 of Punishing Penelope
“Not just like that. I’ve missed you. Always.”
Peter turns me until my back is against his chest, then lifts my leg and pushes inside me, sliding in with ease. Then he rolls over, and I end up with my chest pressed against the mattress, his cock buried deep in my pussy, his hands stroking my back to finally end up with one cupping my breast and the other around my throat.
He pulls me up until I arch, his hips slamming against my butt, his cock pistoning into my soaked channel, which tightens with his every instroke, clenching his girth. Pulling out, he repositions his cock and presses against my much tighter entrance. He moves his hand from my breast and finds my clit, circling and rubbing the sensitive nub that’s already a tingling, vibrating bundle of aroused nerve endings. He keeps pushing, slides inside a little. I’m amazed how slick he is from nothing but my juices.
Anal is a first for me, but I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge, and I know to relax and push back. With his relentless rhythmic strokes across my clit and as he pushes his cock deeper, something happens I didn’t expect. That sense of ‘forbidden’—even though it’s not—paired with the unusual feeling of fullness, multiplies the throbbing between my legs.
At first, his thrusts are slow, shallow strokes, then they become deeper, rougher, as my body gives in.
I squeal from the onslaught, then explode in the most profound release I’ve ever had and scream his name. Wrapping his arms around my chest, he growls my name and buries himself in me, swelling, twitching, spurting deep inside.
Unmoving, sweaty, our breaths are heavy as he clutches my body to his.
“Now, you’re fully mine,” he whispers.
“I always was, you bad boy.”
He kisses my neck, pushes up, kissing my back until he’s off the bed.
“I’ll prepare a bath for you, then I’ll feed you. When you can move again, we’re getting all the stuff you need from your place, then we’ll take it from there.”
“I love you,” I mouth and smile.
He mouths the same words back, words that suddenly aren’t just three words, three stupid, pointless syllables, but so much more. They’re the whole world.
I love Peter Hale. He loves me. Our lives will never be the same.
Epilogue
Peter
She sits cross-legged on my couch—no, our couch—one pen in her mouth, another stuck behind her ear. At six in the evening, hair tied up in a messy bun, no makeup on, and wearing her pajama pants and one of my T-shirts. It’s six in the evening. , she looks as if she hasn’t moved from the spot since I left. Before her lie notebooks and a laptop, with several half-empty coffee cups squeezed between the other items.
After we began living together and officially became a couple, Penelope decided to freelance for the L.A. Times, so she could work on her books. She’s much more selective about what she writes these days. She said the conflict of interest between her work and mine fucked her up. She couldn’t get rid of the feeling she had been going at it wrong, and she hates being wrong. So, she’s writing her book, with several more in the pipeline. Judging from what she allows me to read, she’ll be a success once she gets published. Her writing skills are amazing.
Her persuasion skills are also amazing. She reconnected with Sandra Hooper, of all people, and convinced her to throw some glamour over the fundraiser for Giordanna Miller.
Sandra had become quite the name in Hollywood. Giordana found herself on the front page of the L.A. Times, posing in a picture next to half the cast of her favorite TV show. It raised more than enough money for the surgery to get rid of the colostomy and to fund whatever else her family needed. The clout also helped me give her case a nudge, and it’s up in court soon. I expect justice to be served.
Speaking of justice, I'm looking into a career in internal affairs. Her desire to catch the bad good guys has rubbed off on me. I looked away, I admit it. I didn’t want to see that not everyone serves with pride. I still say they’re few and far between, but catching them would feel even more meaningful than running around the streets. Also, my partners can’t seem to stop giving me hell for my choice in women… one particular woman. We’ll see where I land and where life takes us. Suddenly, nothing is written in stone, and I find I like it a lot more than I had imagined.
I move in and kiss the top of her head. “Did you eat anything?”
“Hm?” She looks up and around her, then meets my lips in a brief kiss. “I… No. Maybe. I don’t know.”
I shake my head and pick up one of the notebooks. “Book moving forward?”
“Totally! I’m about to crack this baby wide open. I had a breakthrough today and a long call with Dorian Finkel’s aunt. I’m meeting her next week in Douglas.”
“The place in Wyoming?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“It has like two streets.”
“Yep, and an infamous serial killer who escaped justice for thirty-two years. I’m working through the shady investigation.”
“Congrats on the breakthrough, baby. You know I won’t let you go alone. You’re meeting her when I can come with you.”