For 30+ Advance/Early chapters :p
atreon.com/ScoldeyJod
Dawn in the city was not a gentle affair. It was a slow, inexorable tide of grey light that pushed back the velvet darkness, gradually illuminating the steel and glass canyons below. Peter woke to this quiet, muted world, the frenetic energy of his birthday having dissolved into a deep, humming peace.
He was lying on his side, his arm slung possessively over Diana's waist. The remnants of their celebration were a ghost in the room—the faint, sweet scent of chocolate, a single champagne flute standing sentinel on the nightstand. He looked at Diana's sleeping form, her back to him, the elegant, powerful curve of her spine a landscape he was coming to know better than his own. A dark, smudged fingerprint of chocolate frosting was still visible on her shoulder blade, a beautiful imperfection he had no desire to wipe away.
The sensory memory of the previous day was a vivid tapestry in his mind. The taste of her squirting on his tongue—a shocking, salty-sweet ambrosia. The percussive, primal rhythm of their bodies in the afternoon light. The cool, slick sweetness of frosting melting against the heat of her skin. Each memory was a new color, a new texture in the masterpiece they were creating together.
He shifted, and she stirred, a low, contented sound rumbling in her chest. She rolled over to face him, her eyes still closed, and her body instinctively molded itself to his, a perfect, seamless fit. This was a new phenomenon, this unconscious, magnetic pull they had, their bodies seeking each other even in sleep.
"Good morning, birthday boy," she murmured, her voice a thick, sleepy purr, her eyes still closed.
"Morning," he whispered back, his lips finding her forehead. Her skin was warm, soft, and tasted faintly of salt and sleep. "I think we missed the complimentary breakfast."
"I believe we had our own feast," she replied, a slow, languid smile spreading across her face as she finally opened her eyes. The deep, clear blue of her irises seemed to hold all the light in the room.
They didn't move for a long time, content to simply exist in that space, a tangle of limbs and rumpled sheets. The city below was waking up, the distant, muted roar of traffic a familiar, steady heartbeat. But up here, in their glass tower, time felt suspended.
"I've never done this before," Peter admitted, his voice a low, vulnerable thing in the quiet of the room. "Woken up like this. In a place that isn't mine, with someone who... feels like she is."
Diana's expression softened. She reached up, her hand cupping his cheek, her thumb stroking the faint stubble along his jaw. "I, too, am navigating a new map, Peter."
The word "map" sparked an idea, a need so profound it was a physical ache. The previous day had been a joyous, chaotic exploration. Today, he wanted to be a cartographer. He wanted to learn the topography of her, not in a frantic rush, but with the slow, deliberate reverence of an ancient scholar.
He slid out of bed and walked to the massive floor-to-ceiling window. The city was laid out before them, a breathtaking, intricate grid of life and energy. "Come here," he said, his voice a soft command.
She followed, her naked body a masterpiece of divine art against the stark, modern lines of the hotel room. She came to stand beside him, and he turned her, pressing her back gently against the cool, solid glass. She let out a sharp, surprised gasp, the cold a shocking contrast to the warmth of their bed.
"Peter?" she asked, a question and a thrill in her voice.
"Shhh," he whispered, his hands coming up to rest on her shoulders. "I just want to look at you."
The morning light was perfect, a soft, diffuse glow that illuminated every detail of her. He looked at her not as a lover about to take his pleasure, but as an artist studying his muse. He saw the faint, silvery battle scars that crisscrossed her abdomen, the constellation of tiny freckles on her shoulders, the powerful, defined muscles of her thighs that could launch her into the heavens.
"I want to learn the language of your skin," he breathed, his voice thick with an emotion that went far beyond desire.
He knelt before her. The city of New York was his witness. He began his worship at her feet, his lips and tongue tracing the elegant arch of her instep, the strong column of her ankle. He moved upward, his mouth a slow, meticulous instrument of discovery. He tasted the faint, clean salt on the back of her knee, felt the powerful muscle of her calf tremble under his touch.
This was a different kind of pleasure. It was not a frantic build to a release, but a slow, smoldering burn that was as much emotional as it was physical. He was memorizing her, branding the feel and taste of her onto his soul. When he reached the apex of her thighs, he paused, looking up at her. Her head was thrown back, her hair a wild cascade against the clear glass, her hands flattened against the window, her knuckles white. She was a vision of pure, tortured ecstasy.
He took her into his mouth, and the world dissolved into her. The taste of her was a paradox—the clean, sharp salt of her skin and the deep, honeyed sweetness of her pleasure. He was a cartographer, and this was his terra incognita, the heart of his new world. He felt her climax build, a deep, seismic rumble that started in her core. He felt it in the way her legs trembled, in the low, guttural moans that escaped her lips, in the frantic, unseeing way her hands gripped the glass. He brought her to that peak, and held her there, a willing participant in her beautiful agony.
When her release finally came, it was not a gushing squirt, but a deep, shuddering, internal convulsion that seemed to shake the very foundations of her being. A single, profound cry was torn from her throat, her body going rigid against the glass before collapsing into a boneless, trembling heap.
He moved up her body, his own erection a hard, aching testament to his need. He didn't enter her. Instead, he pressed his body to hers, skin to skin, their chests heaving, their hearts hammering a frantic, perfect rhythm. He wrapped his arms around her, his forehead resting against hers, and they stood there, two naked, vulnerable figures framed against the skyline of a world they were sworn to protect.
The city was their witness. The cold glass was their altar. This was not sex. This was a sacrament, a silent, solemn vow. He was hers, she was his, and their bond, forged in secret battles and sealed in the quiet intimacy of this room, was no longer just strong. It was absolute. Unbreakable.
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