"Don't tell me to be nice," he growls.
"Don't you dare," I manage to get out.
Our rhythm turns brutal, but it's honest, built on years of unsaid things and bodies that never forgot how perfectly they fit together.
The headboard hits the wall, banging so hard, it should break the drywall.
My pussy clenches once, then spasms. My nails dig into his shoulders, then score down his back.
He groans, low and feral. "You feel even better than I remember."
"Harder," I gasp.
"Fuck," he mutters, then gives me what I want, pounding into me with a new intensity.
It's rough and dirty. It's everything we were and everything we could have been if he hadn't left or maybe if I had taken his calls.
He braces on one arm. His other hand slides between us, finding my swollen clit with precision.
I cry out, my breasts squishing into his chest as waves of endorphins slam into me. My entire body goes taut, shuddering against his.
A bead of his sweat drips on my cheek. He licks it, watching me unravel, and scolds, "You don't take gifts back, sugar."
Guilt hits me, but it mixes with anger. I stutter, "Y-you l-left."
He grits his teeth, thrusting harder, barely hanging on, and lowers his face an inch from mine. "You didn't take my calls and avoided me every time I came back to town. But that's over now. I'm taking my gift back forever."
I blink hard, trembling with adrenaline.
His jaw clenches. His hips stutter. Then he buries his cock deeper, keeping his stare on mine, and his low, guttural moan shakes along with his hard frame before he collapses over me.
Our ragged breaths compete with the ticking clock and the beating of our hearts. Neither of us moves, tangled in each other, coated in sweat and years of unfinished business.
I clear my throat. "Wyatt?—"
"Don't," he warns, rolling off me and pulling me onto his chest.
I curl into his warmth.
He strokes my ass as the silence stretches.
The little Christmas tree blinks red and green, and reality hits me.
What have we done?
A tidal wave of emotions floods my soul. I stare at the cheap tree, trying to ignore the tear sliding down my cheek.
"Still hate me?" he asks softly, the words coming out rough with a hint of fear.
I take a moment to try to figure out why this is so hard, then finally whisper, "No. That's not the problem."
He runs his hand up my spine as he turns his head and buries his nose in my hair. He inhales deeply, asking, "Then what is?"
I look up to his handsome face.
His dark eyes search mine, his cockiness evaporating. He takes his finger and wipes my wet cheek.
More tears fall. I accuse, "You left me, Wyatt, without even a proper goodbye. You broke something in me I never knew could break."
