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People lie for many reasons: to save themselves, to get out of trouble, to avoid hurting someone’s feelings.
And those who love us most lie to us most of all, because life is a bumpy ride and they want to smooth it out as much as possible.
My mother loves me. She’d do anything for me. But my dad was the one who got me. He understood why I did things. We tried so desperately to keep him alive, but he still died, and our world collapsed.
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“I really would like to know,” he said with genuine curiosity. “The next time I kill someone, I’d like to do it in a way that doesn’t trip you up.”
For a few moments I had Mad Rogan’s undivided attention, and it wasn’t frightening.
As long as I told him things, he would keep looking at me just like that, and that alone was enough incentive to compel most women to tell him anything he wanted.
A man had no right to be this fiercely sexual without even trying.
My brain said, “NO.” My body went, “Wheee!”
“Yes, I’m a hermit. Mostly I brood,” Mad Rogan said. “Also I’m very good at wallowing in self-pity. I spend my days steeped in melancholy, looking out the window. Occasionally a single tear quietly rolls down my cheek.”
I love him
He grinned, coming closer. “The hotter you are, the hotter I am. And you’re on fire.”
“For example, if you’re terrified of snakes, repeated handling of them will cure it.” Aha. “I’m not handling your snake.” He grinned. “Baby, you couldn’t handle my snake.”
If he ever fell in love—which probably wasn’t possible, given that he was likely a psychopath—his would be the kind of devotion people fantasized about.
I poured all of it into that kiss. It was made of carnations and tears, stolen glances and desperate, burning need. I kissed him like I loved him. I kissed him like it was the only kiss that had ever mattered.
