If unicorns had a flavor, it would taste like kissing Lily.
Her essence is still on the tip of my tongue as I watch the layered response Lily has mastered. Observe her as that beautiful mind works to line all the pieces up and execute the subterfuge, living in two selves, one ever vigilant, one struggling to stay quiet.
For months now, I’ve felt it. Sensed it.
Now I can taste it, too. Lies have a flavor.
And God help me, I want more of the deliciousness of Lily.
But those lies come with an aftertaste, a bitter acrimony that has an overriding power.
My own words ring in the air like a gong as I wait: When were you going to tell me you’ve been faking the amnesia, Lily? Before or after I sleep with you?
“Sleep with me?” she squeaks, the words catching me off guard. I assumed she’d deny the lying.
Not talk about my fantasies.
“You want to talk about that?” I choke out, amused and sickened. “You’ve been lying to me for close to a year and all you want to talk about is sleeping with me?”
“You brought it up!”
She’s got me there.
“How about this fake amnesia bullshit, Lily? How about we talk about that before we discuss getting sweet between the sheets?”
I get hard.
This--this is why I should have recused myself from this damned assignment long ago. I knew this day would come. I knew I’d have to call her on the lying.
Worse than that—I knew I wouldn’t be able to help myself.