When I Let You Go by Lily Foster

Author:Lily Foster [Foster, Lily]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Romance
Publisher: Lily Foster
Published: 2018-02-07T18:30:00+00:00

We danced around each other for another two weeks before I wound up straddling him in his office chair and unbuttoning my blouse as he struggled to explain regression models. Once he saw me topless he was done for, and we’ve been fucking like bunnies ever since. Lately he’s been saying weird things that make me think he’s getting too attached. I don’t have serious feelings for French, but there are things he gives me that I need. He tells me I’m beautiful and he seems genuinely impressed with my intellect—French lets me know in so many ways that I’m special. I realize that needing that kind of affirmation on a regular basis is pathetic and unhealthy, but I don’t care. Every time he gazes at me as we lie in bed naked together, it’s like he’s giving water and sunshine to a seedling.

And I’ve come to understand something about myself: I enjoy sex and I need it. With Larson we were both so inexperienced it was comical, but I knew I liked it even then, the feeling of his hand caressing my body, the surprise of being filled by him, watching in wonder as he moved in and out of me. And with French it’s entirely different, better. He’s older, knows what he’s doing and seems to enjoy getting me off more than he needs his own release. I thank the stars above that I’m naturally good at math, because as I sat across from him in class every Tuesday and Thursday evening, I could concentrate on nothing besides my overwhelming desire to crawl across the classroom floor on my hands and knees to suck French’s dick while every other student watched—that was a recurring fantasy.

Growing up in a home like mine was soul and libido crushing. Especially for a girl like me, one who sprouted full breasts by the age of thirteen. I garnered unwanted attention on the street, hiding myself under baggy sweatshirts when grown men began to whistle and leer at me on a regular basis, and I scored looks of derision in my own home, the place that was supposed to be my safe haven.

Once when I was fifteen, I remember being at a holiday party thrown by one of my father’s business associates. I knew when I was getting dressed that the hem on my dress was short, but I just chalked it up to a growth spurt, making a mental note to tell my mother I needed to go shopping. He didn’t see what I was wearing under my wool coat until we got to the party, and then it was too late. We all knew on the car ride home that something was not right. My father gripped the steering wheel tight and muttered to himself the entire way. No one dared to ask him what was wrong because for one, he had a violent temper, and two, he was driving drunk—you didn’t want to rock the boat under those circumstances.

He waited

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