Page 173 of Filthy Truth


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As we climbed toward release, the tingles started in my core, spreading out, surging down my legs, through my stomach, and pricking my fingers as they waved along my arms.

When I shouted out my climax, nobody knew.

It was just one of many cries amid the noisy crowd, but to Conor, it was a signal.

He stopped holding back, moving faster, faster, faster until he roared in my ear, hips pumping as he chased every ounce of his release and I milked him dry, knowing from experience that it only enhanced the delirium he alone could make me feel.

The fire stopped licking at my heels and instead surged through my veins, sending flames roaring through my system until I was encompassed in the inferno.

Hearts racing toward one another, I slumped into him, but as he started to relax, he stiffened, jerking me away from the railing as if he only just remembered where I was propped.

When he drew me over to a leather couch, I didn’t argue when he fell back into it with me in his lap.

Nuzzling my face into his throat, I murmured, “Thank you.”

I had no idea how he heard me, but he knew what I was thanking him for. Conor pressed a kiss to the tip of my nose, whispering, “In the future, when you tell me I won’t like something, I want specifics.”

I’d felt his fear as if it were my own so I replied, “Okay.”

“Never again, Star.”

Knowing what he meant, I nodded, content.

That scar had been healed.

I’d never need to do this again.

38

CONOR

TIME IN A BOTTLE - ROB LANE

“Do you want to take the ferry into Jersey, Kat? Do something different for our visit today?”

There was no logical reason for that blank look to make an appearance in Kat’s eyes at Star’s cheerful offer, but it slithered into being like a veil passing over her irises.

It wasn’t Exorcist-esque, but it was creepy nonetheless.

The second it happened, Star dropped Alessa a message in the group chat we shared, explaining why we wouldn’t be coming to West Orange today, then carefully hustled her into the living room, ensconcing her on the couch in a pile of blankets, where she put on a Disney movie.

Over the next couple hours, I worked in there with them both, wondering when my edgy interior design had been replaced with fluffy pink throws and myriad picture frames of a little girl I’d never known I’d be fathering in various stages of maturity—Kat beaming at me with a gap-toothed smile in one, her mid-flight as she practiced a somersault, her scowling at a teacher at an end-of-year recital…

I could say, hand on heart, I never thought I’d have kids. Too many trust issues. Too many issues, period. But watching the slow thaw as Kat returned to her usual bubbly self, the rightness of it all hit me.

Not that she was suffering, not that a simple question could trigger dissociation, but the parts of her adults had broken, maybe they were something I was uniquely placed to fix?

Hadn’t adults broken me?

Who else could understand her better?

“What happened, sweetheart?” Star asked her an hour later when Kat decided to do an impromptu midair somersault during some movie about a frog.

Gymnastics were clearly a coping mechanism, but they were also something Star was using as Kat’s baseline—the more chaos she was wreaking midair, the more Star thought Kat was back to her usual self.

Kat’s beaming grin dampened some. “What happened when, Star?”

“You went away.” She shot her a gentle smile which was bound to freak Kat out because Star wasn’t gentle often. If ever. That wasn’t her parenting style. “Here.” She motioned to her eyes.

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