Page 38 of The Carnage We Keep

I smirk. “You mean do I sleep with people just to get laid?”

Dr. Fallon smiles. “There’s no judgment here, Britney. Sometimes people want physical intimacy without wanting a relationship. As long as everyone involved understands that and feels respected, there’s nothing inherently wrong with it.”

I’ve never had a real “relationship” before.

Shocking, I know.

But every now and then, I’ll do something casual. No strings, no expectations, no pretending it means more than it does.

It’s just a means to an end. Not a particularly satisfying one, mainly because even using a fake name and doing it with someone I’ll probably never see again, I’ve never once been comfortable enough to ask for what I actually need.

Because the things I need live in a part of me I’ve never believed anyone could see without deciding there was something deeply wrong with me. And that’s even before they know how fucked-up my past is.

Still, even if it’s unsatisfying, sometimes scratching an itch is easier than ignoring it.

Then I go back to my life.

So, yes. I think I know exactly what she means.

“Have you considered telling him that you want him?”

My eyes fly to Dr. Fallon’s smiling ones.

“Who?” I blurt.

“Blandrew,” she says with a touch of amusement. “You mentioned finding him attractive, if even only on a sexual level.”

I groan. “I don’t know.”

Except, annoyingly, I do.

At least my subconscious does, because the bastard has been living there rent-free for weeks now.

I think about his hands.

His mouth.

The way he looks at me, like he’s either already figured out every horrible little thing rattling around inside my head or is about to. And instead of running screaming for the nearest holy water and priest, he almost looks…interested.

That's probably the part I don’t want to examine too closely.

Because yes, Damiano is obscenely attractive. That much is easy. Physical attraction is simple. Bodies are bodies. Chemicals are chemicals. Sometimes your vagina makes regrettable executive decisions that the rest of you just has to figure out how to deal with.

But it’s not just that.

He makes me laugh. Mostly when I want to stab him, but still.

Annoyingly, I think I like fighting with him. I like watching that controlled expression crack when I get under his skin. And I really like that he never seems that shocked or put off by me, not really.

He’s seen the blood on my hands and never once asked me to wash them clean, because his are just as dirty, maybe even dirtier.

But also, God help me, there’s something intoxicating about facing another person and realizing you don’t have to hide the darkest thing about yourself because they’re cut from the same fucking cloth.

That still doesn’t mean I like him.

Obviously.

But it does mean I think about him far too often, masturbate to him WAY too frequently, trust him more than I probably should, and, weirdly, feel less alone when he’s there.