Three fucking years of wanting her.
Of missing her.
Of convincing myself she betrayed me.
Of hating her—while still loving her.
And now she’s here.
In my bed.
Wearing my ring.
Saying she’s mine.
Yeah, I’m not going slow.
Not tonight.
Not when I’ve already wasted too much time.
My hands move again, more urgent now, mapping every inch of her like I need to relearn her all over again—reaching for the condom I bought from the chapel, I tear the foil.
She reacts instantly, taking over. Her hands feel so good on my dick, rolling that latex over my sensitized skin.
“Fuck,” I grunt as she places my head at her entrance and wraps her legs around my hips, heels pressing against my ass.
“Please, Benji, I need you to fuck me,” she begs.
“Everything we are starts right now, Esme,” I growl, wrapping one hand around her throat while I hold myself up with the other.
Then I drive my hips forward, and I fill her in one, hard, desperate thrust.
And it feels like home.
Just like I remember.
Because her body knows mine.
And nothing’s changed.
Not really.
We were always meant to be together.
“Fuck,” I groan, pressing my forehead to hers for half a second, trying to hold onto something resembling control.
Doesn’t work.
Nothing about this is controlled.
Not anymore.
Not with her.
“Benji,” she breathes again, softer this time, and there’s something in it—something vulnerable—that cuts through the frenzy.
For a second—just one—I slow.
