Four Years Later (One Week Girlfriend 4)

Fuck, so do you, I want to scream at her. Too good. Too f**king good. She’s too good for me. She’s definitely worth it, but I’m not worthy. How did I end up with this girl, anyway? One minute I don’t want to be near her because she’s trying to force me to do something I most definitely don’t want to do, and the next I’m chasing after her like a dog in desperate need of attention. I wanted her attention. All of it. All the time.

I still do.

“You close?” I ask, my voice rough, my entire body wanting to be rough. I need to ease her into this so I don’t hurt her, but I’m desperate to unleash everything I have on her. Fuck her hard. Drive her out of her mind. Make her as addicted to me as I am to her.

She offers this tiny little nod and squeezes her eyes shut, as if she’s focusing every bit of concentration within her to make herself come. Her teeth sink into her poor, ravaged lower lip and I bend down, suck her lip between mine and give it a gentle pull. Lick it. Savor her taste, the whisper of breath that gusts across my mouth. I swallow it, wishing I could swallow her.

I’m a man possessed—overwhelmed and confused and full of joy and scared out of my ever-lovin’ mind. What’s happening between us, I’ve never experienced before. I think I know what Chelsea’s feeling and it’s scary as f**k.

But at least we’re doing it together.

Hesitating, I remain still and inhale sharply, goose bumps washing over my skin. A sure sign I’m about ready to blow, though she’s not ready yet. I can tell she’s not. The familiar tingling has formed at the base of my spine, insistent as all f**k, and my balls literally ache.

“Don’t stop,” she urges. The sound of her voice kills me and I drop my forehead to hers once more, trying to gain some control.

“I gotta stop,” I tell her. “If I don’t, I’m going to come. And you’re not ready.”

“I’m ready.” She runs her fingers through my hair, and I really f**king love it when she does that. Her touch feels so good. I want to lean into her hand every time, like I’m a cat or something. “Do what you want, Owen. You won’t hurt me. I’m not made of glass.”

She’s giving me permission to use her. And I don’t really want to, because she’s different. What we share together is so different from what I’ve done with other girls. “But …”

“I already came.” She streaks her fingers down my cheek as shock courses through me over what she said. Look at my tentative Chelsea, saying I made her come.

“I want you to come again,” I tell her just before I crush my mouth to hers. I increase my pace, using her because she gave me permission, but I’m also going to make sure she gets off, too.

Reaching between our bodies, I brush my fingers against her clit. She hisses against my lips and I continue stroking her, keeping time with my thrusts, keeping time with my breaths. With hers. She shudders and moans, licks my lips with her tongue as if she can’t get enough, and then she’s thrusting her head back against the pillow. Her perfect neck is arched, her pink lips parted, but no sound is coming out beyond her sexy little pants of air.

I push harder, wanting her to reach for it. Needing her to reach for it. Because then it’s too late. I’ve found it, my need consumes me as I push inside her once, hard, my orgasm taking over, washing over my skin, my thoughts, my brain, my everything. Fuck, I’m done.

Spent.

She’s shuddering all around me, too, her body clenching around my cock, milking every last drop out of me until I can do nothing but collapse on top of her, exhausted. I think I shouted her name out loud but I can’t be sure. Wade probably heard if I did.

I really don’t f**king care.

Chelsea’s arms are around me, her mouth at my ear. She’s coasting her hands down my back, up and down, scraping her nails on my sensitive skin, and I shiver in her embrace, press my lips against her neck. She tastes amazing. She’s whispering something in my ear that I can’t really hear since my head is still buzzing, my ears ringing.

Fuck. That was intense.

“I’m too heavy,” I tell her, bracing my hands flat on the mattress so I can lift away from her, but her hands press hard on my back, keeping me in place.

“A couple more minutes,” she murmurs, her voice soft, her lids downcast. As if she’s feeling shy again and well … fuck that.

I kiss her. A fierce, possessive kiss that’s full of tongue and heat and demand. I need her to know she doesn’t have to be shy with me any longer. We’ve done everything.

But she doesn’t know everything. Not about Mom. How Des deals in my f**king house. How I’m one of Des’s clients. And I smoked pot and was high as hell when I gave her an orgasm in a no-name hotel in a no-name city.

Shame washes over me and this time I do pull out of her embrace, offering her a brief smile when I find her studying me with concern etched all over her beautiful, flushed face.

“Where are you going?” she asks, sitting up, completely naked and comfortable with it. I stare at her br**sts, those pink ni**les that match her lips that match the rose I gave her, and I want to climb right back into bed. Clutch her close and never let her go, pretend that my problems don’t exist and will never bother me again.

Never bother us again.

But that’s just wishful thinking. I gotta get the hell out of here. At least for five minutes. I need some clarity.

I need a f**king hit.

“I’ll be back. Gotta get rid of this.” I peel the condom off and pinch the top, keeping it in my hand as I make my escape out of the bedroom, still naked, not caring. I dart across the hall into the bathroom and slam the door, flick the lock. Dispose of the condom, then search through the cabinet drawers until I find what I’m looking for.

A joint. We keep them everywhere in this house. I mean, what the hell? Was someone gonna sit on the toilet and pass the time by taking a few hits? I wouldn’t put it past Wade to try something like that.

The idea disgusts me. I should disgust me because here I am, hiding away from Chelsea, contemplating smoking a joint rather than going back inside my room immediately so I can hold her close and show her how much she means to me.

I stare at the joint I hold pinched between my fingers. I can smell it, that strong, skunk-like scent that I love. Used to love.

Fuck it. Still love.

There’s a lighter in the drawer, too. Of course. I pull it out and flick it once. Twice. Five f**king times before it finally catches and I bring the joint to my lips. Light the burned-out tip, hear the subtle crackle of the paper catching fire. Glancing up, I catch myself in the reflection of the mirror. Naked and sweaty and about to suck in a bunch of smoke that’ll burn my lungs and clear my brain.