Chapter 36
ALENA
"You're right," I say into the phone, stirring the sauce that's already looking suspicious. "I should have sex. It's time."
Lucy's squeal nearly ruptures my eardrum. "OH MY GOD! Finally! Yes! With Oliver?"
"With Oliver." I taste the sauce. Add more salt. "I called him. He's coming over for dinner."
"Dinner?!" Another squeal. "Babe, this is huge! Are you okay? Are you freaking out?"
"I'm—" I look down at myself. Bathed, moisturized, smelling like roses and vanilla. Hair done. Makeup subtle but there. "I'm ready. I spent all day writing. Got the words out. Now I need to get him out."
"Him?"
"Drogo. The memory. The ghost." I lower the heat on the stove. "I need to fuck an actual person, Luce. Not a dildo. Not a two-year-old memory. Someone real."
"Even if it's the wrong person?"
I pause. Stir. "Even then."
"That's my girl." Lucy's voice softens. "What are you wearing?"
"Want to see?"
"Obviously!"
I switch to video call. Prop the phone against the fruit bowl. Step back. "Ta-da."
Lucy's face fills the screen—eyes wide, mouth open. "Fuck, babe. Dress."
I spin once. "Yeah. I'm determined. All I need to do is lift it up and sit on his cock!"
We both laugh—loud, genuine, the kind that makes my stomach hurt.
Then the pot explodes. Not literally. But the sauce boils over violently, hissing and spitting, red liquid everywhere. Flames lick up the sides of the pan.
"FUCK!"
The fire alarm screams to life—that piercing shriek that makes your brain want to leak out your ears.
I grab the pot, burn my thumb, curse, yank it off the burner. The alarm keeps going. Of course it does. I grab a chair. Climb up. Punch the alarm button until it finally shuts up. Jump down. Rush to the windows. Throw them open. Cold night air floods in.
Lucy's laughing so hard on the screen she's crying. "Romantic dinner going well?"
"So my romantic dinner," I say, gasping between laughs, "would be with pizza."
"Perfect! Nothing says 'fuck me' like pepperoni!"
We're both losing it now. Bent over. Wheezing.
Then—knock at the door. My heart stops. I check my phone. 9:00 PM exactly.
"Oh shit. He's here."
"Go!" Lucy waves at the screen. "Text me after! With details! Lots of details!"
"Love you—"
"Love you! Now go get laid!"
I blow her a kiss. End the call. Take a breath. Walk to the door. Open it.
Oliver stands there looking like a fucking cologne ad. Dark jeans. Navy button-down. That devastating smile.
"I burned the food," I say immediately.
He laughs. "Of course you did."
Then he steps in, arms sliding around my waist, pulling me close. His mouth finds mine—confident, practiced, the kind of kiss that's probably melted a hundred women. I kiss back. Force myself to think: Yes. This is good. This is okay. I like this kiss.
Close my eyes. And there he is. Drogo. Blue eyes. That mouth. Those hands. I'm wet instantly. Fuck.
I open my eyes. See Oliver. Go dry as the Sahara.
"You okay?" Oliver pulls back slightly, studying my face.
"Yeah. Just—hungry."
He grins. "We could order."
"Please."
· · ·
Forty minutes later, Indian food sits on my dining table. I'd set it earlier—candles, nice plates, cloth napkins, the whole romantic setup.
Oliver keeps kissing me between bites. My neck. My shoulder. My jaw. "You're gorgeous," he murmurs against my skin.
"Thanks."
His hand finds my thigh under the table. Slides higher. "I've been thinking about you all day."
"Yeah?"
"Can't stop." He leans in. Kisses me again. Deeper this time. "Can't stop thinking about touching you."
I kiss back. Think: Come on, body. Cooperate. He's hot. He's here. He wants you. Nothing. Bone dry. Fuck.
Then an idea hits. Step by step. Eyes closed. Imagine Drogo while I move on by fucking Oliver. Perfect.
I pull back. Touch his thigh. Let my hand slide higher. He sucks in a breath. "Alena—"
"You know what would be fun?" I lean closer, hand moving to his cock.
Hard. Pulsing through his jeans. Smaller than Drogo—significantly—but long.
Decent. Good enough. I stroke him through the fabric, trying to convince myself this will work.
That if I just close my eyes and pretend hard enough, my body will cooperate. "What?" His voice is strained.
"You maybe tying my eyes?" I stroke him through the fabric. "Let me… feel you?"
He shudders under my touch. "Yes—"
Then his mouth is on mine. Hungry. Desperate.
He kisses down my jaw. My throat. Pulls the dress down roughly.
His mouth closes around my nipple. Sucking.
Teeth grazing. I feel… nothing. A bit of irritation mostly.
His tongue is warm, technique perfect, but it's wrong.
Too gentle where Drogo was possessive, too practiced where Drogo was raw need. Still dry. Nausea rising in my stomach.
"Wait," I say. "The blindfold."
He pulls back. Eyes dark. "Seriously?"
"Yes."
He grabs one of the cloth napkins. Ties it around my eyes. Gentle. Careful. Darkness. Better.
His hands slide up my thighs. Lift me onto the table. Back against the surface. Plates pushed aside. He spreads my legs. "Fuck," he breathes. "No panties."
"Wanted to be ready."
"You want me that much?" His fingers slide between my legs.
Finds me dry. He doesn't comment. Just keeps touching.
Rubbing my clit in circles. Gentle. Methodical.
Nothing like Drogo's rough, possessive touch—the way he'd grabbed my hips hard enough to bruise, the way he'd growled "mine" against my skin like a prayer and a threat.
"Yes," I lie.
His mouth follows. Tongue replacing fingers.
Licking. Sucking. I close my eyes behind the blindfold.
Think of Drogo. His mouth. His hands. The way he'd eaten me on the dresser like a starving man, like he'd die if he didn't taste me.
The sounds he'd made—that low growl of satisfaction, the way he'd gripped my thighs and held me open, the way he'd looked up at me with those blue eyes dark with hunger.
Wetness finally comes. Not much. But enough.
Oliver groans against me. "There we go." Fuck, I worked overtime for that and he had to say there we go?
His tongue works faster. Fingers pushing inside—two of them, curling, searching.
I force out a moan. Think: Drogo. Drogo's fingers.
Drogo's rough hands gripping my jaw, making me look at him while he fucked me with his fingers, his voice a possessive rasp: "You're mine.
Say it." But Oliver's touch is too gentle, too careful, his whispered "You taste so good" wrong in every way.
The dryness returns almost immediately, his fingers dragging uncomfortably, friction all wrong.
My muscles tense instead of relax, body rejecting the intrusion even as I try to force myself to respond.
I squeeze my eyes tighter behind the blindfold. His fingers pump. His tongue circles my clit. The mechanics are right—he clearly knows what he's doing. But I feel… distant. Like I'm watching this happen to someone else. Nausea builds in my stomach.
"Oliver—" I gasp out.
"Yeah, baby?"
Wrong. Everything about that is wrong. Not "babe" like Drogo used to say it—rough and possessive and mine. Just… baby. Generic. Practiced.
"I need—" What do I need? "More."
He stands. I hear his belt. His zipper. Then his hands on my thighs, spreading me wider.
I squeeze my eyes shut behind the blindfold. Think of Drogo. Only Drogo. His hands. His mouth. His cock. The way he'd filled me that last night, the way he'd looked at me like I was everything, the way he'd whispered "I love you" in the dark when he thought I couldn't hear.
"Relax," Oliver murmurs.
The nausea intensifies. My body tenses more. I'm not wet enough for this. I know I'm not. But I force myself to breathe, to keep my legs spread, to let this happen.
Because maybe if I just get through it, I can finally move on.
Maybe if another man fills the space Drogo left, I can stop being a ghost haunting my own life.
Maybe.