Page 104 of Bitter Truths

“Mm, not God, sweet, me,” he rumbles, reaching around and twisting my clit between his fingers. “Come with me, love.”

His voice is gritty with his desire, and I nod senselessly, grinding into him as I go over before collapsing to the blanket with trembling limbs. He follows me down and surges into me, coming in long wet pulls. The sensation is sweet and I smile into the blanket, turning my head when he sighs. And meeting his gaze, I memorize the expression to add to my ever-growing list because I’ll never get tired of looking into his pretty hazel eyes.

∞∞∞

“So, Halsey, how has your week been?” Dr. Marks asks, steepling his fingers before his face.

“Good,” I say with a smile.

His brows raise. “You’re different. Happier. What’s changed?”

Shrugging, I glance away, uneasy in the face of admitting my relationship with Griffin. My counselor disapproved of him before, and if I had to guess, that hasn’t changed. Besides, speaking about Griff here feels like a betrayal to what I feel with him, and I don’t want our feelings to be anything but pure.

“It’s been a good week. I feel centered,” I say lamely.

He cocks his head to the side and asks with shining eyes, “Have you completed your homework?”

“Oh, um,” I stutter. Frankly, I haven’t given it much thought with everything else going on.

“Halsey, do you want to move past this?” he tuts.

Hiding my frown, I raise my chin. “Of course, but I’m not sure I even agree with what you’ve suggested.”

“No? Tell me, have your sexual interactions been slow and gentle or rough and demanding?”

“I don’t—”

“Halsey,” he says more firmly, and I shrink away. “I think you want to get better, but I have concerns about your willingness to be open with me.”

Searching his eyes, I sit back shakily and whisper, “Meaning what?”

“Well, you were in a very bad way when you first came here, and I’d hate to see you regress because the only other option is hospitalization. Neither of us wants that, hm?”

Shaking my head no, because I can’t speak through the lump in my throat, I clench my hands in my lap. I no longer feel the gentle waves of empathy he used to exude, and it’s freaking me the fuck out.

“Good. To move forward, we must speak of things that make you feel uncomfortable, you understand?”

“Yes,” I whisper, caught between the “no” on my lips and the abject fear that his words were more than just a gentle reminder but a threat.

“Okay, tell me. When you last had sex, was it gentle or rough?”

Dropping my gaze to my lap to avoid his greedy stare, I lie because I don’t know what else to do. “Gentle.”

“I see,” he says in a disapproving tone. “Did you come?”

Flushing, I nod, biting my lip to keep from crying because I don’t even know if that’s fucking acceptable.

“Did he finger you?” he asks silkily.

“Wh-what?”

“Did he finger you?” he asks, leaning forward in his chair.

Nodding, I wipe a tear from my eye before it can escape, biting my lip to keep the sob from escaping. I have the visceral urge to run, and I feel trapped.

“Did you like it?”

There’s an extended pause where I fight my inner self until he says more firmly, “Answer me! Did you like it?”

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