One Week Girlfriend part 1

Excited by his possessive tone, thrilled by his sweet words.
    Drew completely undoes me, with a look, with a word, with a thrust of his body, with a lick of his tongue. Every single thing he does to me devastates. Intoxicates. Renews.
    Every single thing inside of me.
    “I’ll never forget who I’m with,” I whisper against his lips before I kiss him. His hands are gripping my hips, pulling me down and I work with him, eager for the explosion, yet wanting to draw it out just a little bit longer.
    He curves his hand around the back of my head, his fingers knotted in my hair in such a tight grip, it stings. But I relish the pain, how it makes me feel alive. How being in Drew’s arms, having him buried deep inside me makes me feel.
    Alive. Cherished. Loved.
    He breathes my name against my lips and I know he’s close. So am I. I angle myself just so, rubbing against him, rocking into him and I fall apart with a little cry, my entire body shaking. He tumbles right after me, his body quivering as he groans in exquisite agony, his arm clutching me so tight around my waist, I almost can’t breathe.
    We cling to each other for long minutes after, our bodies still shuddering, our breathing slowly evening out. I don’t want to let him go, don’t want to let him out of my body and I know I’m being ridiculous.
    But I can’t help myself. Drew Callahan has forever changed me, and the knowledge both invigorates and terrifies me. There is still so much I don’t know.
    Still so much I need him to reveal to me. Scary parts of his life I’m frightened to learn. But the truth…don’t they say the truth will set you free?
    I want to free Drew from the prison his past has put upon him. And the only way I can do that is if I know what happened.
    And tomorrow, I am determined to find out.
    I have to.

 
     
    Chapter Fourteen
     
     
    Day 7 (Departure), 9:00 a.m .
     
    The course of true love never did run smooth . – William Shakespeare
     
    Drew
     
    We slept in, our naked bodies entwined, my back to her front and my hands cupping her breasts. With her fragrant hair in my face and her legs tangled with mine, I woke up hard as steel and ready to take her again.
    Which I did.
    I’ve had sex with Fable four times since last night. Every single time is better than the last and I am so gone over this girl, it’s pathetic. Amazing.
    She finally urges me out of bed, telling me we need to get a move on and she’s right. Four-hour drive on a busy travel day, I know it’s probably going to take longer than usual.
    Plus, I want to escape so I don’t have to face Adele. Or my father. How awful is that? I love my dad but today…today will be hard for him. And I don’t know if I can deal with it. I actually feel guilty, being so happy on this day—though it’s not the exact day of Vanessa’s death, it’s close enough—yet I want to fight it off.
    I’m tired of the guilt and the exhaustion. The worry and the shame. For once in my life, I just had sex with a beautiful woman all night long and I want to revel in it. I want to be with her, touch her, tell her how much she means to me, instead of running away and hiding from it all.
    Fable is so fucking good for me, I can’t ever let her go.
    We shower together because I’m greedy and so is she. I slip my fingers between her legs and gently bring her to orgasm, my mouth fused with hers the whole time, swallowing her gasps and moans as the warm water beats down on us. And then she drops to her knees and takes me into her mouth, her lips wrapped around the head of my cock, her tongue mapping every bit of me until I come with a shuddering gust of breath.
    That in itself was a major turning point. My past experiences have made me hate blowjobs. Only because they filled me with such revulsion when the memories came. The shame, the horror at how easily I gave in to one woman’s insistence that what we were doing wasn’t wrong. That there was nothing to be ashamed of.
    She was wrong. I knew what we did wasn’t right, yet I couldn’t control myself, my urges, my responses to her. She knew how to arouse me and I hated that.
    I hated what she turned me into. Her sexual toy, a plaything to take out and fuck and jerk off and use until I was spent and sick to my stomach. More than once after she left me, I contemplated suicide. But I couldn’t do it. I was too scared, too afraid what might happen if I lived after all.
    So I turned into a shell. A robot going through the motions,