Page 110 of Bitter Truths

What would happen if I complained to someone? Would they believe me? Would Griffin believe me? My mom? I don’t know because I’m the one who lay practically comatose in my bed for five days, and that makes me crazy, where this, my supposed therapist, is the professional.

“Halsey, how are you today?” he asks in his smooth voice, but it grates on my ears, and I turn to him with narrowed eyes.

He raises his brows and says, “Everything okay? I’m sensing a little tension.”

Yeah, no shit. Screwing my face into a semblance of calm I don’t feel, I say, “I’m fine.”

“Hm, have you thought more about what I said before?”

“Yes, and I disagree. I don’t enjoy sex that way.”

“Is that right? How do you know? Did you try it since we last spoke?” He cocks his head to the side.

“No,” I mutter, shifting uncomfortably under his stare.

“No? You haven’t fucked since last we spoke? Hm?”

“No, I haven’t,” I insist, crossing my arms over my chest defensively.

His eyes drop to my arms before he looks at me with a considering stare.

Shrinking away, I drop my hands to my lap, suddenly afraid for him to see beyond my mask because what if he guesses about Griff? What if he disapproves? What if he fucking calls the dudes with the straitjackets?

I’m fucking fucked, and he knows it as his mouth curls in a smile. “I think you’re afraid to talk about it. That’s okay. But sometimes, we must face painful things, Halsey. And I think this is the best course of action for you.”

“Look, I’m not. I don’t . . . I’m not sexually active right now,” I lie, looking him directly in the eye.

He cocks an amused brow and says softly, “Lying will get you nowhere.”

“I’m not lying,” I mutter, and he leans forward so quickly I flinch as he says roughly, “You will not lie.”

“I-I’m not.” I drop my gaze from his stern stare, my heart beating a rapid tempo in my chest.

“This is how it’s going to go. I ask questions, and you answer. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good. When was the last time you orgasmed?”

“Last year,” I say, staring at my fingers.

“With whom?”

“Just a guy I met at a party,” I say, holding my breath.

“Did he stimulate you with his fingers?”

“No.”

“No? And you orgasmed?”

Fuck.

“Um, yes,” I say through dry lips.

“So, you can come from penetration alone?” he muses, and I dart a glance at his face, disturbed to find his eyes glittering with desire.

“Um.”

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