Chapter 38
ALENA
Oh my god.
His dick is—
I can't—
How is this even possible?
I felt it through his jeans minutes ago. Wrapped my hand around it. Measured. Memorized. It was good. Decent. Long but not thick. Manageable.
This is not that.
This is huge. Thick enough that the stretch borders on painful. Long enough that he's hitting places Oliver shouldn't be able to reach. Deep. So fucking deep I can feel it in my stomach.
My back arches off the table, body moving without permission, chasing the sensation even as my brain struggles to catch up.
"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.
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 think you 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.
"Where were you?!" Slap. "How dare you?!" Slap. "Fuck you! Fuck you! FUCK YOU!" Slap. Slap. Slap.
Until my hand is raw and shaking and I can't lift it anymore. Until the rage turns to sobs caught in my throat. Until I'm gasping for air and he still hasn't moved.
I shove him. Both hands flat against his chest. Hard. He steps back immediately. Gives me space.
I jump off the table. Legs shaking. Naked. Burning with rage and shock and something else I can't name—something that feels dangerously close to relief.
No. No. The gun. I need the gun.
I rush to the kitchen. To the drawer where I keep it—new addition to the house, Lucy's insistence after the crash. "You live alone now, babe. Just in case." I yank it open. Empty.
"Other drawer, babe."
My eyes snap to him. He's tucking himself back into his jeans. Casual. Unhurried. Like we're discussing the weather. Like he didn't just break into my house and fuck me while I was blindfolded waiting for another man.
"How do you—" My voice cracks. "You messed with my gun?"
"No." He smiles. Runs his fingers through his hair in that gesture I used to love. Fuck I still do. Even more now. "All there. Bullets and all."
And I see him. Really see him for the first time since the shock.
He looks… better. Impossibly, devastatingly, unfairly better.
Black hair longer now, falling occasionally into those sharp blue eyes.
A silver ring on his index finger I don't recognize.
A chain bracelet on his wrist giving him an edge that makes my stomach flip.
His shirt is partially unbuttoned, revealing tattoos beneath—more than before.
New ink I've never seen. Stars on his collarbones that look brutal.
He's massive. Six-five. How did I forget? Broad shoulders. Wall of muscle. Danger wrapped in expensive clothes and that smile that used to make me forget my own name.
Right. Other drawer. I open it with shaking hands. Grab the Glock. Check the magazine—full. Rack the slide. Aim at his chest.
The shooting classes paid off.
He doesn't move. Just that half-smile. Watching me like I'm entertaining him. The fucking audacity.
I adjust my aim. Pull the trigger. The shot cracks through the kitchen. Plaster explodes from the wall right next to his head, so close I see dust settle in his hair.
He doesn't even flinch. Just smiles wider. "You haven't changed."
My hands shake so badly the gun wavers. "Where is Oliver?!"
His eyebrows rise. Head tilts down. Expression darkening into something that makes my blood run cold. "That's not your problem anymore."
"What?"
"You want me to tell you again in a different language?" He steps closer. Steady. Slow. Confident. Like the gun pointed at his chest means nothing. "Pick one."
I keep the Glock trained on him even as he advances. "Drogo, what do you mean?"
"Okay. I'll pick."
He starts speaking in Russian. Fluid. Natural. Words I don't understand but the tone is unmistakable—possessive, final, dangerous. Then he switches to German. Harsh consonants. Same deadly certainty. Then Romanian. That I understand.
"El nu va mai fi niciodat? ?n via?a ta. Nu-l vei mai vedea niciodat?. Ai fost ?i ?nc? e?ti a mea. Pentru totdeauna. Nimeni nu te atinge. Ai ?n?eles?"
He will never be in your life again. You will never see him again. You were and still are mine. Forever. No one touches you. Understood?
He's standing over me now. Right above me. The gun is pressed directly under his chin and he doesn't even seem to notice. He smiles down at me. Slowly, deliberately, covers the gun with his hand. Not taking it. Just… covering it. Claiming it the way he's claiming everything else.
"Go take a shower," he says quietly. "Wash him off. Now."
My heart slams against my ribs. "What did you do? Why are you here?"
"I was always here, babe." His voice drops lower. Softer. More devastating than any scream. "Always looking. I never left you."
The gun slips from my fingers. Clatters to the floor.
Always here. Always watching. All those days. Those nights. Crying until I couldn't breathe. Drinking until I couldn't feel. Crashing my car into a wall at seventy miles an hour. Bleeding on my floor. Breaking apart piece by piece. And he knew? He was watching?
My heart starts skipping beats. The rhythm all wrong. Too fast. Then too slow. Then—
The temperature drops. Fast. Brutal. Ice spreads through my veins like poison. My breath fogs in the air between us.
The lights flicker. Once. Twice. The shadows in the corners thicken, press closer, angry on my behalf— Then darkness. Complete. Total.
My legs give out. I'm falling—
Two strong arms close around me before I hit the floor.
"I've got you," he whispers into the dark. "I've always got you."
His arms tighten around me. Possessive. Unbreakable.
"And I'm never letting go again."
And then nothing. Just black. And the feeling of being carried. Home.