Chapter 90: Hungry Madison

But her eyes... oh, fuck me, her eyes gave everything away. No mask. No restraint. Just raw, needy hunger. Wild and wet and

starved.

She looked like a woman who’d spent hours chained inside her own mind, forced to watch me touch, taste,

own

someone else.

And now? Now she wanted me to ruin her just to balance the scales.

"Get in," she breathed, her voice a wrecked whisper that still somehow carried authority. "Now."

The way she said it—hell, I barely remember opening the door. I slid into the passenger seat, but before the world could even catch up to the movement, she

launched

herself at me. Climbed over the center console like a panther in Louboutins, all legs and wrath and raw femininity.

Her skirt bunched up, lace panties damp and barely hanging on, thighs wrapped around me like she’d decided my lap was now federal property.

"Jesus, Madison—"

"Shut up," she hissed, yanking at my shirt like she wanted to rip her name into the fabric. Then her mouth crashed into mine—hot, wet, desperate. Like she was kissing me back into belonging. Like she was biting a flag into the territory she refused to give up.

I groaned, already hard, already there. Her perfume was soaked in lust and expensive grief. She smelled like war. Like love if it was weaponized. Her hips rolled, grinding against me, and I could feel the heat of her, pulsing through that fragile excuse for underwear like she was on fire from the inside out.

"Someone’s been a naughty girl," I growled against her lips, hands sliding up those thighs that had once sat far, far outside my pay grade. "Watching while I took care of another woman?"

Madison moaned—

moaned,

like the word itself was foreplay—and bucked her hips into me, breathless. "I saw everything," she gasped, voice cracking under the weight of what she’d held in.

"Every time you touched her... every time you made her scream your name with your giant cock fucking her wet pussy harder than you have ever fucked me, Peter... I watched it. I heard it. I felt it like it was happening to me. I could imagine you in my pussy wreaking me. And all I could think—

all

—was how much I needed you to come back. To fuck me so hard I’d forget what it felt like to be second."

And right there, under the heat, under the tension, under all the slick desperation... I heard it.

Fear.

Fear that I’d slipped too far. That I’d tasted someone else and found her sweeter. That I might not come back.

But I always come back.

Because Madison wasn’t just another Chapter. She was a recurring character. A queen with knives under her skin and soft eyes she tried to hide behind designer shades. She was mine before she knew it, and she’d die before letting me go.

And right now? She needed to be reminded why I chose her in the first place.

And I was going to remind her the only way I knew how—loud, rough, and unforgettable.

Her voice cracked like lightning across the raw space between us—no filter, no performance, just

her

. And it hit me. Not like a tap on the shoulder. Like a truck. Like fate reaching down with brass knuckles and punching me square in the chest. This wasn’t just some post-orgasmic emotional high.

This wasn’t even lust on overdrive. This was Madison fucking Torres—our school royalty, jawline sharp enough to cut glass, and bank account fat enough to buy half of downtown—completely losing her mind because I’d been inside another woman for a few hours.

The same girl who used to treat dudes like clutch bags.

Who never let any boy at school too close, never stayed long enough for goodbyes. Now she was breaking. For me.

Goddamn, I own her.

And yeah, maybe that thought should’ve scared me, but instead it just lit me up from the inside.

Madison Torres had the kind of body that made time slow down. Like your brain had to buffer just to process it properly.

Everything about her was engineered for obsession—tight curves in all the right places, like God had used Photoshop with no restraint. Her waist was criminally small, tapering into hips that didn’t walk—they

glided

.

Legs for days, toned from private Pilates sessions and the kind of genetics that made rich girls dangerous.

Her skin? Smooth, honey-toned perfection, with a softness that somehow radiated heat. Like touching her meant signing a contract you didn’t read the fine print on. And her tits—God, her tits—full and high, like they knew exactly the kind of power they carried. Not oversized. Not fake.

Just right. Just real enough to haunt you and perfect enough to worship.

She moved as she rode my cock like she knew what she had. Like every shift of her weight was deliberate—silent warfare with a silk-wrapped edge. And when she straddled me in that car, skirt hitched and panties pushed to the side, my cock ruining her? Yeah. That body wasn’t made for innocence. It was made for

chaos

.

And lucky me?

I got front-row seats.

I activated my ability without even thinking—pure reflex, like flipping off the safety when you already see the shot lining up. The second my hand touched her skin, she

gasped

—that sharp, high sound that wasn’t pain, wasn’t pleasure, but some divine mix of both.

She arched into me like I’d just sent 10,000 volts of worship straight through her nervous system. Her breath caught, her thighs clenched, and that frantic heartbeat of hers became a metronome for the way her body started begging before she even formed words.

I wasn’t just touching her. I was

reprogramming her nervous system

to remember me. Only me.

"I’m here now," I said, voice dropping an octave into that quiet, commanding pitch that always unspooled her. Her pupils blew wide—total dilation. Biology had nothing on what I could do to her. "I’m always coming back to you, Madison.

Always.

"

And just like that, we broke in madness.