Page 46 of Exes and Oh Hell No

In three steps, I’m in front of her, tossing her down on the bed.

I grab her wrists, holding them together while I yank the pieces of rope I’d cut earlier from my hoodie.

I wind them around her wrist and have her tied up in no time, despite her screaming, bucking, and squirming like a fool.

I’m breathing heavily as I glare at her. “You brought this on yourself.”

I get up, then stomp over to the glass.

I finish cleaning it up, then grab her suitcase and a duffle bag. “You’re staying at Gram’s for the foreseeable future.”

“Fuck you,” she snaps.

Ignoring her, I go through her closet, plucking clothes from hangers and shoving them inside.

It’s a good thing I scoured her social media today.

The outfits she wore in the photos are what I’m using as a mental guide as I grab her clothes.

She’s sitting up when I finish with her closet.

I throw a couple pairs of shoes in the bottom of her duffle bag and then move to her dresser.

But I freeze when I see the navy sweatshirt.

My sweatshirt.

I gave it to her in college to wear.

She always liked stealing my t-shirts, sweatshirts, and jerseys to wear, and I sure as hell never minded.

I loved seeing her in my clothing.

I still do.

Squatting down, my hands shake as I gingerly lift it.

My jaw is clenched so tightly, it fucking aches as I stare at it.

My grip tightens on the sweatshirt, the fabric bunching in my hands.

My vision tunnels.

Deep breaths, Ford.

Deep fucking breaths.

I hear her intake of breath behind me as I unfold it, memories crashing through me.

The moment I gave it to her.

Her smile as she put it on.

The way I ripped it and the rest of her clothes off, steering her to my bed.

The way she clung to me as I thrust inside her.

We felt like one.

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