"Fuck!"
The moan rips out of me—raw, guttural, real. Not the performed gasps I gave him on the couch. Not the fake breathy sounds I forced out when his mouth was between my legs.
This is real.
He pushes deeper. Pulls back. Slams in again. The drag of his cock against my walls sends electricity shooting up my spine. The pressure building low in my belly. The obscene fullness. The wet, filthy sound of it.
I forget how to breathe.
Even Drogo's face—always there, always haunting the backs of my eyelids—starts to blur. Fades. Disappears. All I feel is this. This cock. This stretch. This impossible fullness.
Then he hits something deep inside me. Something that makes my entire body lock up. "Oh—oh fuck—"
The orgasm detonates.
Violent. Devastating. Every muscle clenching as pleasure rips through me like lightning. My pussy clamps down on his cock so hard I feel him groan—low, possessive, satisfied. I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't do anything except shake and gasp and ride the waves crashing through me.
"Fuck! Fuck! Oh my god—"
Real. Not fake. Not performed. The first real orgasm from another person in two years.
When it finally subsides, I'm gasping. Trembling. Oversensitive. But he's still hard inside me. Still thick. Still stretching me.
I need more.
My hand shoots out blindly, searching. Finds his forearm. Grabs it to pull him deeper, to anchor myself against the table, to demand he doesn't stop—
I freeze.
The forearm under my fingers is massive. Not just toned. Not gym-fit. This is hard muscle wrapped in skin. Thick. Corded. Veins raised and pulsing under my palm like steel cables. The kind of forearm that comes from years of violence, not pilates.
That's not—
Oliver doesn't—
That feels like—
Drogo.
My heart stops.
My hand flies to the blindfold. Fingers scrambling, yanking the fabric away, desperate and terrified in equal measure.
The shock hits like ice water dumped over my head.
Drogo. Between my legs. Buried balls-deep inside me. Blue eyes locked on my face with an intensity that makes my lungs forget how to work.
Real. Here. Inside me.
My heart stutters. Stops completely. Then kicks back so violently my chest aches.
Tears flood my eyes before I can stop them.
"Miss me?"
I gasp. Sharp. Shocked. The sound tearing out of me before I can stop it.
His voice. That voice I haven't heard in two years except in dreams and drunken hallucinations. Low. Rough. Amused. Amused. Like this is funny.
