“Did that feel good?” he asks in a tense voice. Which part? And why do I have to ruin everything? I stare pathetically at my hands. “Don’t look at me like that,” I whisper. “You haven’t even looked at me yet,” he murmurs. I inhale a strained breath and finally gain the courage to meet his gaze. No judgment crosses his features. Instead, his amber eyes swim with empathy that I do not deserve. And I see the worry, as though I broke his heart, as though the extremity and horror of my compulsions just fully registered in his head. “I’m sorry,” I choke. I rub my tears before they fall. “You don’t
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