CHAPTER 171: LUNA: EVERY. DAMN. INCH.

I carried her like she was made of air, her mouth a brand against my neck—sucking, biting, marking territory that would bloom purple tomorrow. Her bedroom was her—scrupulously organized, clinical even, with medical journals stacked neatly on the nightstand like silent sentinels of the life she was about to detonate.

"This is happening," she breathed as I set her on the bed, pristine duvet pooling around her. The words weren’t wonder. They were disbelief. "I’m really doing this."

"We can still stop," I offered teasing her, though even to me too, the thought of stopping now felt like amputation.

"Fuck that." She dragged me down, her kiss furious, desperate. "I’ve been responsible my whole fucking life. Tonight, I want to burn." She bit my lower lip, drawing blood. "Tomorrow, I’ll hate myself... but tonight..."

"Tonight, you’re just Valentina," I finished, tasting the coppery tang of the bite.

"Exactly." Her hands slipped under my shirt, nails raking across my now developing abs—sharp points of fire that made me hiss. "Jesus, Peter... when did high school boys get carved from fucking marble?"

"Special supplements," I gritted out as she found a nipple and twisted, pleasure-pain lancing through me. "Lots of... beta-blockers."

She laughed, the sound dissolving into a shattered moan as my mouth found the juncture of her neck and shoulder, sucking hard enough to leave a galaxy of bruises. "Don’t make me laugh," she gasped, hips rocking against mine. "Not when I’m trying to self-destruct with dignity."

"You’re succeeding," I rumbled, dragging my lips up the frantic pulse in her throat. "Without even trying."

"Am I?" Her hands trembled as they went to her sweater hem. "Feels like I’m fumbling this. It’s been..." She yanked the top over her head in one fluid motion, revealing a black lace bra that looked less like underwear and more like engineered sin. "...a while."

"How long?" My voice was a growl. My eyes devoured the swell of her breasts, the delicate lace casting shadows on her skin.

"Since undergrad." The confession was jagged. She reached for my shirt, fingers flying over hem. "Unless you count the Tinder disaster six months ago who called me ’too intense’ about my career goals." My shirt hit the floor.

"His terminal fucking loss," I rasped, drinking in the sight of her—black lace against flushed skin, the rapid rise and fall of her chest. She was a goddess carved from moonlight and shadow.

"Your gain?" Her hands hovered at my belt buckle, uncertainty warring with hunger in her eyes.

I caught her wrists, bringing them to my lips, pressing a kiss to each frantic pulse point. "More than okay, Valentina." My voice dropped, thickening with promise.

"More than fucking okay." The air crackled. The pristine bed wasn’t just furniture anymore. It was an altar. And she was the sacrifice. Tonight, responsibility wasn’t just lost. It was ripped to shreds and thrown to the flames.

I looked at her.

I just looked.

She was on the bed—nervous, flushed, still half-swallowed by that black lace bra like armor she couldn’t quite shed. But Christ, she was devastating. Not magazine-perfect, but alive—flushed skin slick with a sheen of sweat, chest rising and falling too fast like she’d forgotten the rhythm of breathing.

Lips parted around shallow breaths. Thieves pressing together like dam walls holding back a flood I’d already started to unleash.

"Lie back," I murmured, the words stripped bare.

She did. No hesitation. Just trust hanging by a thread.

I crawled over her, slow like gravity itself had redesigned its rules just to pull me toward her. My hands braced beside her head, caging her in without confinement. I lowered myself until our noses brushed—a fraction of space crackling with enough electricity to power the city. Her breath hitched.

Her lips trembled almost imperceptibly, but I felt it in my bones.

"I want you to know something," I whispered, voice low, rough, scraping against the quiet. "You’re not a rush. Not a prize. Not a moment I’ll forget." My eyes held hers—dilated pupils swallowing the warm brown. "You’re this. Right now. My focus. My worship."

Her eyelids fluttered like trapped moths.

I started with a kiss. Not demanding. Not deep. Just a press of lips—soft, questioning. She melted under it, a soft sigh escaping. Her hands slid up my arms, hesitant at first, then clinging like I was the only solid thing in a world tilting off its axis.

When I pulled back, her eyes tracked mine—dark, dazed, pupils blown wide with trust and terror.

I kissed her again. Cheek—feeling the frantic pulse beneath the skin. Jaw—scraping lightly with stubble. Down to that hollow below her ear where her breath stuttered and fractured against my skin.

I let my mouth trail across her neck—open-mouthed, slow, deliberate. Not biting. Not yet. Just letting her feel the heat, the scrape of teeth held in check, the promise of pressure. She arched up off the duvet, a silent offering.

My fingers slid under the clasp of her bra—cool metal against flushed skin. Slow. Deliberate. Giving her every second to reconsider.

"Okay?" The question was a bare breath.

She nodded, a jerky movement. "Yeah... just—God, yes."

I undid the clasp. The straps slid down her arms like liquid night. I peeled the lace away—not pulling, but reveling. Unwrapping a gift denied sunlight for too long. Her breasts were soft weight in my palms, flushed deep pink, nipples already taut, pebbled peaks begging for attention. I didn’t grope. I didn’t rush. I pressed my lips to the valley between them first—honoring the space, the sanctuary, before claiming anything more.

Then my mouth found her nipple. Lips first—a soft, closed-mouth caress. She gasped, a sharp intake of air. Her fingers knotted in the sheets. I licked—slow, wet heat—then pulled the tight bud into my mouth, sucking gently, rhythmically.

Her back arched clean off the bed, a bowstring drawn taut.

"Fuck," she breathed, the word ragged. "Peter—"

"That’s it," I murmured, shifting to the other breast, giving it the same reverence, the same slow torment. "Let me hear you."

A whimper escaped her—raw, unfiltered, ripped from somewhere deep and primal. Real.

My hand slid down her side, tracing the curve of her waist, the dip of her hip, then curling under her thigh. I kissed lower. Stomach—feeling muscles jump beneath my lips. Navel—dipping my tongue into the shallow indentation, making her squirm. Every inch got its moment. I made her feel every second of the exposure, the surrender.

When I reached the waistband of her jeans, I paused. Looked up.

Her breath caught audibly the moment my eyes truly saw her. Not with mortal sight. With mine. The kind that saw every hyper-sensitive nerve ending screaming for touch, every капillary flooding her skin with heat. Her body was a road map of need, and I was the only one who could read it.

It showed me more—hips pulsing with a visible, low golden glow beneath the skin, ribs fluttering like trapped birds. My hands slid over her sides, thumbs pressing into slow, maddening circles right on those glowing nerve clusters. Her body answered instantly—back arching, thighs clenching around my hips.

"You were made for this," I rasped, dragging my tongue along the sensitive underside of her breast where the light pulsed brightest. The sensation made her cry out, nails raking down my shoulders.

"Peter—"

"Shhh," I soothed, my mouth tracing the edge of her bra cup, my voice a physical thing brushing against her skin. "Let me learn you."

And I did.

Every. Damn. Inch.

I kissed her like reading sacred scripture. Touched her like a blind man memorizing Braille with reverence and hunger. Every touch, every taste, was a prayer. Her breath hitched—sharp, shuddering—every time I moved. Hips jerked when my fingers slid lower, tracing the waistband of her leggings.

Mouth trembling violently when I brushed the frantic hammering pulse beneath her jaw.

She was shaking violently by the time I reached her inner thighs, glowing so brightly it was almost painful to look at, twitching uncontrollably under my palms.

Her voice cracked, jagged glass. "You’re going to break me."

"No," I whispered, pressing my lips gently, deliberately, just above the waistband of her leggings—right over the soaking-wet heat radiating through the fabric. "I’m going to rebuild you."

"Still with me?"

She nodded again—a choked movement. More breath than sound.

I hooked my fingers into the waistband. Slowly—agonizingly—I peeled the jeans down. Inch by devastating inch. The panties came with them, clinging translucent in the center, dark with her need. I said nothing. Just watched. Watched her legs shift restlessly. Watched her breath shake itself apart. Watched the muscles in her thighs quiver as more skin was exposed, as more vulnerability was laid bare.

When she lay completely bare before me—flushed, open, glowing softly like some divine offering—I sat back on my knees.

For a moment, I didn’t breathe.

I just looked.

Like a man standing before an altar. Like a man staring at a miracle. Like a man about to be ruined.