CHAPTER 198: A VANGUARD OF RUIN (R-18)

The house breathed around us—dust motes dancing in fractured streetlight through familiar windows although we had just moved a few days ago, the faint scent of aged wood and memories clinging to the air.

This was the living room where I’d played video games, argued with Tommy, learned to be Peter Carter. Tonight, it would become an altar.

Sofia stepped forward, her heels silent on the worn carpet, eyes wide as she took in the battered leather sofa, the childhood photos on the walls. She looked like a sacrificial lamb in a den of ghosts.

"Lucky you," I murmured, shutting the door with a soft thud that sealed us in. "First woman. Last woman. Ever." I let the absurdity hang—my sanctuary, defiled for her. I have never even fucked Madison here. But Sofia would bleed her surrender onto these floors. "You get to be the ruin in the temple of Peter Carter."

"Now it’s a testing ground. Strip."

The command was quiet, but it hit like a slap. Her breath hitched. "Here? Now?"

"Did you come here to negotiate terms?" I stepped closer, invading her space, the familiar smell of her expensive perfume mixing sharply with the house’s history. "Or to find out if the rumors Madison’s friend spread and what you saw are true? If I can really make you scream my name where Jack never made you whisper his?"

Her fingers brushed the zipper’s pull tab—a sharp, metallic click in the thick silence. She hesitated, knuckles white, then dragged it down inch by inch. The sound tearing through the quiet was a slow, agonizing shriiick.

The white dress—her armor of simulated purity—split open down her spine, sighing as it slid from her shoulders. It didn’t fall; it surrendered. Fabric whispered over her hips, pooling at her feet like melted snow, revealing her in the firelight.

She stood in black lace—deliberate. Intentional. A halter-style bra cut dangerously low, lifting the heavy swell of her breasts until they spilled over the intricate embroidery, dark nipples visibly hardened against the sheer mesh. Her ribs tapered sharply to a wasp-narrow waist, the boned corset top digging into her flesh, emphasizing the vulnerable hollow beneath her sternum.

Below, matching lace panties rode high on her hips, the band biting into the soft curve just below her navel. But it was what lay beneath that held the candlelight captive.

I was right, she was dressed in matching under wears.

Between her thighs, the silk was already darkened. A damp spot the size of a silver dollar bloomed over the lace, soaked through, glistening like spilled ink. The candle glow caught the wetness, making it shimmer, revealing the desperate pulse beneath—plump folds swollen and straining against the saturated fabric.

A single, clear bead of her arousal trickled down the inner curve of her thigh, catching the light like liquid crystal before disappearing into shadow.

She didn’t move. She didn’t breathe. She just stood there—exposed, chosen for him, hungry, soaked—the evidence of her need stark and undeniable in the flickering light.

"Good girl," I whispered. My fingers traced her collarbone—feather-light—watching goosebumps erupt like fever across her skin as she leaned into my touch as if the idea of them off her skin terrified her. "Jack probably kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll break. Like you’re porcelain." I leaned in, breath ghosting over her ear. "I’m not afraid to break you, Sofia. I’m counting on it. ’Cause I Know what you actually want!"

My mouth crashed onto hers. Not soft. Demanding. Possessive. Tongue swept past her lips—invading, claiming, tasting bourbon and desperation. She whimpered, melting into me, fingers digging crescents into my shoulders.

Jack’s kisses were rehearsed politeness. Mine was demolition.

A vanguard of ruin.

Hands roamed as I deepened the kiss—one sliding up her ribcage to cup her breast through lace. Thumb brushed the straining peak—rough, deliberate. She gasped into my mouth, arching like a bowstring, spine curving off the wall. My other hand slid lower, fingers skimming the silk stocking top on her inner thigh. She trembled violently, muscles jumping beneath my touch.

So untouched. Jack had been fumbling in kindergarten.

"Tell me," I breathed against her swollen lips, thumb rolling her nipple in slow, maddening circles—pressure coaxing it into a rigid, aching point. "Tell me Jack ever made you feel this... alive with just a kiss." My hand on her thigh inched higher, knuckles brushing the soaked lace of her panties.

She bucked involuntarily, a choked moan escaping.

"N-never..." she confessed, voice shredded, ragged. "God... Peter..."

"That’s not my name tonight," I growled. My hand finally cupped her mound through saturated lace. Heat scorched my palm. She was dripping. Sopping. My thumb found her clit—straining, swollen through the silk—and pressed. Hard. Not teasing. Demanding.

"Fuck!" Her head flew back, cracking against the wall. Hips jerked wildly against my hand. "Oh god... oh god... please..."

"Please what?" I demanded. My other hand ripped the lace aside—fabric tearing—exposing her bare, glistening flesh. Her clit was dark pink, pebbled, weeping with need. "Please stop? Or please ruin you?"

"Ruin me!" she sobbed, words torn from her throat. "Please... ruin me! Make me forget him! Make me only remember this!"

No more preamble. My mouth crashed back onto hers again, swallowing her screams as my fingers plunged into her slick heat. Two fingers first, curling instantly upward to find that rough, magic spot inside her—the spot guaranteed to shatter women, mapped by System knowledge the second she walked in.

She was exquisitely tight, fluttering around me, already on the edge.

"Peter!" she wailed into my mouth as my fingers pumped, curled, massaged that spot with relentless precision. My thumb rubbed her exposed clit in tight, slick circles. Sounds became obscene: the wet schlicking of my fingers in her cunt, the desperate smack of our lips, her broken cries.

Her body arched like a bowstring, nails raking welts down my back. "I’m... I’m... *YES! RIGHT THERE! DON’T STOP! OH FUCK, PETER, I’M—"

I swallowed her scream as she exploded. Inner walls clamped down on my fingers like a vise, rippling violently. Her whole body convulsed—a flood of wetness gushing down my hand, soaking her thighs, dripping onto the floor. I didn’t stop. I kept pumping, thumb grinding hard on her oversensitive clit—prolonging it, owning it, making her ride the agony until her screams turned to broken sobs.

She slumped against me, boneless, spent, trembling uncontrollably.

I pulled my fingers out slowly, coated in her release—glistening in the dim light. Her eyes, glazed, dazed, followed the movement. I brought them to my lips, licking them clean while she watched. Her taste—sharp, female, uniquely hers—flooded my senses. Satisfied. Primed.

"Still think three pumps is passion?" I rasped, voice rough from arousal and the echo of her ecstasy.

She just stared, pupils blown wide, lips swollen and parted. No answer needed. Her ruined state, the scent of her climax hanging thick in the air of Jack’s house, was answer enough.

Jack Morrison’s perfect girlfriend had been dismantled with just my hands and my mouth.

The first step toward Perfect Liberation had just started. The ground was salted. Now, the real conquest began.