“I don’t want to keep hurting you,” he whispers. “I never wanted to hurt you.” “I know.” I push him back on the bed just enough to crawl onto his lap. My hands frame his face as I make him look at me. “I know, Jonathan. You've always wanted to make me feel good.” “Because I love you,” he says. “More than whiskey?” I ask. “More than whiskey,” he agrees. “More than cocaine.” “More than models-slash-actresses?” “I don’t even like them most days. But I love you. I swear to fuck, I’ve loved you since before my eighteenth birthday when we sat on your father’s couch and watched me play dead on
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