by Ann, Pamela
“Hang on tight.” Drake’s eyes watch me as those fingers of his frenetically, relentlessly capture my G-spot and hold it ransom. “Come for me, Baby. That’s my girl,” he commands. It’s cruel, mind-blowing and fucking beautiful.
Yes, beautiful. The crushing tidal wave of my screams as my cataclysmic orgasm surges forth and ripple all over my limp body. It’s so powerful that I have tears in my eyes.
My body is still riding the aftershocks when Drake pulls me into his arms, stroking my hair, he asks, “How are you feeling? You look traumatized.” He gives a small chuckle.
Traumatized, my ass. I am borderline mental and halfway paralyzed. “What the hell was that?” I wonder out loud.
He kisses my forehead. “That, my dear, is what I call a sublime orgasm.”
Sublime orgasm, seriously? “Is that what you specialize in, or something?”
He might be right about traumatized, though . . . I am when it comes to him. Does he realize how long it took me to get over his rejection? Two whole years. I didn’t date until I was twenty. How many women has he done this to? How can a woman move on after him, after this kind of life-altering, blissful perfection? I know I’m fucked already. Good luck to me, trying to move forward. Sooner or later, I will eventually give Drake up, but it will be done with wrenching difficulty.
“Think of the perks you can get being with me. I’m not a selfish lover. I actually love seeing your entire body blush and sweat profusely from my tongue alone.”
Right . . . why don’t I just lose my head in the process . . . since my heart is already unsalvageable? Why don’t we just add that on top on the shit list?
I keep my mouth shut in case I end up saying something I will regret. Funny . . . eight days . . . It took only eight days for me to realize that I’m still in love with Drake. After eight years of loathing the man, I just succumb and crumble the second he kisses me.
Drake taught me a lot of things. How to be angry, bitter, insecure, ugliness, rejection and I can go on and on . . . I suppose, since I am in the shitter, the only thing I can do is be smart with what I tell him. Confessing my ever-lasting love to him is out of the question. I just have to be guarded is all.
I try to move out of his arms, needing space, but he catches my hand, stopping me.
Drake frowns as he watches my demeanor change. “Where are you going? It’s not five yet?”
“Shower, do you mind?”
Drake tries to look unoffended by my sudden aloofness, but it’s not all that hard to see. “Can I share that with you?” he asks lightly.
“Drake . . . I need space . . . you’re all over the place. I need some space to think.”
He nods. Without saying a word, he lets go of me. I sag in confusion before I let myself into the bathroom and take a lengthy, hot shower.