Page 40 of The Love You Fight For
I take a cooling sip of my mock mimosa and a few calming breaths, but when I speak, I still feel a blush creep up my neck. It’s unsettling, and I am never unsettled.
“It wassurprising,” I say slowly, filtering through my memory to find the right words to explain it. “Different.”
“Okay...”
Lennon raises her brows in question, and I open and close my mouth twice more before finally continuing.
“I like sex, right? I have a decent amount of it. But it’s always with a certain kind of guy...”
“The kind of guy you hate,” Lennon says, and I shrug in confirmation.
“It’s enjoyable, don’t get me wrong. But it’s...”
“Clinical? Detached? Emotionless?” she supplies, and I snort a laugh.
“Yes. And formulaic. Predictable. I don’t know. Sterile, I guess.”
Lennon laughs.
“And Casper was dirty?” she asks, and I nod.
“Fucking filthy,” I whisper.
I cover my face with my hand because I can feel myself blushing again.
“Lennon, he said things, and he did this thing with his fingers, and the sounds?—”
“The sounds?!”
“The sounds were all squishy and wet anddebauched, but insanely sexy. Oh, and there was bourbon involved. Expensive bourbon.”
“Youdrankbourbon...?” she asks, voice giddy.
“Yes... And he also kind of drank it off of me...”
I gesture to my lap and Lennon lets out another laugh.
“Chris Casper.” She shakes her head in disbelief. “A filthy fuck with a pierced cock. I never would have guessed it.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh, and I ball up my napkin and toss it at her grinning face.
“Anyway...then I fell asleep and didn’t wake back up until I texted you.” I avert my eyes because I know the weight of my statement.
The way Lennon grows quiet tells me she knows, too.
I haven’t been sleeping well since the campaign kicked off. I never sleep well, but it’s been worse than usual. Working with my father is more stressful this time than it’s ever been, and being relegated to Ashton Cartwright’s subservient assistant has only added to my shitty disposition.
At least once a week, I have to call Lennon.
At least once a week, she has to read to me like I’m a child just to get my mind to calm down. We’ve gone through all of Jane Austen’s catalog and are now working our way through the Brontë sisters.
I hate feeling like this, hate depending on someone else, but Lennon and I are well-versed in being each other’s lifeline when shit gets difficult. And shit has gottenreallydifficult for me.
Lennon reaches over the table and takes my hand in hers.
“You know you can talk to me, right? You can tell me what’s going on. It might help if you just let it all out.”
Tears prickle my eyes, and I clamp them shut. I shake my head.
