Before I can respond, before I can process, his hands shoot out. Grab my wrists. Pin them to the table above my head—both wrists in one massive hand, fingers clamping down like steel.
He leans over me. Plants his other hand beside my head. Caging me. Trapping me between his arms and the hard wood of my dining table.
Then he pulls back—almost all the way out—and slams in.
Hard. Deep. Devastating.
I cry out. The sound echoing through the house. My pussy clenches around him instinctively, still oversensitive from the orgasm, every nerve screaming.
"Is this what you wanted?" His voice is low. Dangerous. Mad. He pulls back. Slams in again. Slow. Deliberate. Punishing. "Did you forget you belong to me?" Another thrust. Harder. My back arches off the table. "Did you thinkyou could replace me with him?" His grip on my wrists tightens. "Did you think spreading your legs for another man would make you mine any less?"
"Drogo—" I gasp.
"Answer me." Thrust. Hard enough to make the table shake. "Did. You. Forget?"
"No—" Tears streaming down my face now. "I didn't—I couldn't—"
"You couldn't what?" He leans closer. Blue eyes burning into mine. "Couldn't move on? Couldn't let another man touch what's mine?"
I can't answer. Can't think. He's fucking me slow and hard and deliberate, each thrust hitting something deep that makes me see stars. My body responds traitorously—clenching around him, wetness gathering, hips lifting to meet his thrusts even as my mind screams at the wrongness of this.
"You're mine," he growls. "Say it."
"I—"
Thrust. Harder. "Say it."
"Yours—" The word breaks on a sob. "I'm yours—"
He releases my wrists. His body covers mine—broad shoulders blocking out the light, tattooed chest visible through his half-open shirt, that face I've memorized in every midnight spiral, every desperate orgasm, every moment I thought I was finally losing my mind.
He smiles. That frustrated half-smile he used to give when I was being difficult. When I tested his patience. When he wanted to kiss me or kill me and couldn't decide which.
I start trembling. Full-body shakes I can't control. Can't stop. Shock and rage and two years of grief crashing through me like a tidal wave.
Is this real? Am I finally, completely, irreversibly insane? Have the ghosts won? Is this another nightmare I'll wake from sobbing?
I reach up. Slow. Shaking. Touch his cheek. Rough stubble scratches my palm. Warm skin. Solid. Real.
He closes his eyes. Leans into my touch like he's been starving for it. Like he's the one who's been broken.
The tears spill over. Hot. Fast. Unstoppable.
Then the rage hits. Pure. White-hot. Obliterating everything else.
I yank my hand back like I've been burned. Kick his thigh hard. Scramble backward on the table, his cock sliding out of me with an obscene wet sound that makes me want to scream.
He doesn't move. Doesn't flinch. Just watches me with those blue eyes that have haunted every corner of my existence for two years.
I stay there. Naked. Exposed. Staring at him. He stays silent. Still as a predator. Waiting.
"FUCKER!"
I slap him. Hard. As hard as I can. Palm cracking against his cheek with a sound that echoes through the dining room. His head doesn't even turn.
I slap him again. And again. And again. Using all my strength. Every ounce of rage and grief and betrayal I've carried. Palm burning. Fingers going numb. My hand starts to swell but I don't stop. Can't stop.
He takes it. Every. Single. Hit. Doesn't move. Doesn't defend. Doesn't grab my wrists or push me away. Just stands there with his arms still caging me, letting me unleash two years of hell on his face.
