Peter caught her wrists mid-motion. Gentle. Inexorable. He guided them back down to the sheets—slowly, so slowly—thumbs stroking endless, burning circles over the frantic flutter of her pulse points until fresh sparks raced straight to her core.
"Stay," he murmured, voice gravel and sin. "Let me see you break for me… inch by inch, Big Sister."
Her lip caught viciously between her teeth. Eyes squeezed shut—then fluttered open again—wide, glassy, drowning. The flush spread in a slow, humiliating tide: throat, chest, the very tops of her breasts turning the same deep, embarrassed crimson as her cheeks.
A tiny, fractured "Please… brother..." leaked out—barely sound, more air than voice, cracked by mortification.
She was shivering violently now realizing how scandalous and taboo this was. Every breath came in shallow, uneven hitches.
Nipples throbbed under the cool air and his gaze.
