She cried out, a sharp, shocked sound that was instantly swallowed by a guttural gasp as I buried myself to the hilt, my balls slapping against her skin. She was so tight, so fucking hot and wet andperfect, her body clamping around me like a vise meant to break me. It was heaven and hell. It was everything I remembered and everything I’d tried to drink into oblivion. The fit was obscenely right, a key turning in a lock I’d thought was welded shut.
I didn’t move for a second, letting her feel the full, stretching, claiming weight of me inside her. Letting us both feel it. Letting the reality of it—the heat, the pressure, the utterrightness—sear through the layers of bullshit and hurt. Her chest heaved, her free hand coming up to claw at my forearm, her nails scratching at the wood of the table beneath her pinned hand.
“Still hate me?” I ground out, my face inches from hers, our breath mingling, hot and ragged.
“Yes,” she gasped, the word trembling, but her hips lifted, a subtle, undeniable roll that took me even deeper.
Liar. Beautiful, fucking liar.
I pulled out almost all the way, savoring the tight, wet drag, then slammed back in, setting a punishing, piston-hard rhythm from the very first stroke. No finesse. No tenderness. Just deep, hard, driving thrusts that rocked the table against the floor with a heavy, rhythmicthud-thud-thud. Each impact jolted through her, through me, a physical echo of the collision we’d been hurtling toward for months. The sound of our bodies meeting was raw, animalistic.
“This what you wanted?” I snarled, my hand on her throat applying the faintest, most threatening pressure, just enough to make her swallow hard, to make her eyes widen, to make her feel the absolute control I had in this moment. “You show up, you say your piece, you look at me with that fucking mouth… you knew this was where it was going. Youcamehere for this.”
“Fuck you,” she choked out, her free hand clawing at my bicep, her legs tightening around my waist.
“You are,” I said, my voice brutal with a satisfaction so dark it scared me. I shifted my angle slightly, driving up, and hit the spot that made her eyes roll back in her head, a broken, choked sound ripping from her throat. “Right here. Taking every inch. Just like you used to. Tell me you don’t remember how I fit you. Tell me you’ve forgotten the way your cunt sucks me in like it’s begging for it.”
She shook her head, her braids sliding across the wood, but a broken, sobbing moan tore from her lips, betraying her.
“Tell me,” I demanded, hammering into that same sweet, brutal spot again and again, watching her body tense, her back arch. “Tell me you don’t remember begging for it just like this. On your knees. In my bed.Please, East, please, I need it, I need you.”
“I don’t… I don’t beg,” she panted, but her voice was fraying, unraveling with each driving thrust.
“You do and you will again.” I dropped my head, my mouth near her ear, my thrusts never slowing, the sweat from my brow dripping onto her skin. “You’ll beg before I’m done with you tonight. You’ll scream my name until your throat is raw, and you’ll remember that this… this deep, this hard, this fucking perfect… this is mine. It was always mine. You let other men touch you, but you gave them rules. You gave me this. Your tight, perfect little cunt, dripping for me, coming on my cock because you can’t help it. Because it knows its owner.”
“Shut up,” she sobbed, the tears finally spilling over, tracking through the light sheen of sweat on her temples, but her hips were meeting mine now, stroke for furious stroke, her body bowing off the table to take me deeper, to get more. “Just… hell, justfuck me, you bastard.”
“Make me.” I bit her earlobe, not gently, a sharp, possessive sting. “Use that smart mouth for something useful. Tell me to stop. Go on. Say it.”
She didn’t. She turned her head and caught my lips in a searing, desperate kiss, all teeth and tongue and shared, furious need. I kissed her back just as viciously, my hand leaving her throat to grip her hip, holding her in place for my relentless thrusts. The sounds were obscene—the wet, rhythmic slap of my skin against hers, the creak of the protesting table, her ragged cries and my guttural grunts swallowed by our joined mouths.
I was losing myself in it, in the heat and the friction and the sheer, blinding rightness of being inside her again. The anger was still there, a white-hot core, but it was melting, morphing into something even more dangerous—a raw, possessive need that felt like it would tear me apart from the inside out. My rhythm began to fracture, my control slipping through my fingers like sand.
“You feel that?” I grunted against her lips, my own breath coming in ragged saw-blade pulls. “You feel how deep I am? You think anyone else can get there? You think anyone else knows how to make this pussy clench like it’s trying to milk me fucking dry? To steal my soul through my cock?”
“No,” she gasped, her head thrashing side to side on the wood, her body tightening around me like a fist. “God, Easton, no one…no…”
“Say my name again.”
“Easton!” It was a cry, torn from the depths of her.
“Louder. Let the whole shithole building know who’s ruining you.”
“Easton!” she screamed, and her body suddenly locked around me, went rigid, then shattered. Her inner muscles convulsed, a fierce, fluttering, pulsing rhythm that ripped a guttural, broken roar from my throat. Her orgasm tore through her, violent and consuming, her back bowing off the table, her cry shattering into a thousand helpless, beautiful pieces. She shook with it, her thighs trembling against my sides, her cunt gripping me with a series of relentless, sweet spasms.
The feel of her coming, the hot, fluttering tightness milking me, was my absolute undoing. I drove into her one last, deep, punishing time, burying myself as far as I could go, and let go. My release erupted, hot and endless, spilling into her as I ground my hips against hers, my own shout muffled against the sweat-slick skin of her shoulder. I shuddered through it, a wave of blinding, obliterating pleasure that felt more like pain, my body collapsing over hers for a moment, the table groaning in protest under our combined, spent weight.
For a long minute, there was only the sound. Our harsh, ragged breathing, struggling to find a normal rhythm. The distant, ongoing symphony of the miserable building. The smell—sex and sweat and salt tears and anger, hanging heavy and intimate in the cold air of my apartment.
Slowly, feeling hollowed out and somehow more full than I’d ever been, I pushed myself up on trembling arms. I was still buried inside her, softening now. I looked down at her.
Her eyes were closed. Tears, silent and steady, leaked from the corners, tracking through the light sheen of sweat on her temples, cutting paths through the faint dust from the table. Her lips were swollen, bruised from my kisses and the pressure of her own teeth. She looked utterly wrecked. Devastated. Beautiful.
Mine.
The thought was immediate, vicious, and unshakable. The anger was still there, banked but not gone. It would be back. It always was with us. It was the fuel and the poison.
I pulled out of her slowly, the separation making her flinch, a soft, pained sound escaping her. I straightened up, my movements clumsy, my fingers fumbling as I fastened my jeans. I couldn’t look at her as she lay there, exposed and vulnerable on the table, the evidence of what we’d done as my come sat glistening on her inner thighs.
