He takes a few more shaky breaths, then asserts, "No."
"So squirting is good?" I sink farther into the pillow, dragging a finger over his lips in the photo.
"Yes. I imagine."
Imagine?
I question, "Does every woman squirt for you?"
A moment passes, then he admits, "No one's ever squirted for me."
I gasp. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
"Fuck, Blue," he repeats.
Don't let him pull away.
I blurt out, "But you wanted them to squirt?"
His voice turns hoarser. "Yes."
"So I obeyed you well?" I ask.
It's the wrong question. He turns. "This is wrong. We shouldn't have crossed this boundary."
"It's okay," I assure him.
"It's not."
I counter, "You called me. You're the one who couldn't stay away."
A quiet groan escapes him, muffled like he's pressing his hand to his forehead. "You don't understand how serious this is."
I try to return to where we were and, in a teasing tone, point out, "I understand one thing. You didn't hang up."
More charged silence. It's thick enough to slide under my skin. My pulse turns from excitement to panic.
His voice finally returns, lower and rawer, "We can't have conversations like this."
"But we are." I let a tiny tremor slip into my voice. "And you're still here."
"Because I'm worried about you," he snaps.
I whisper. "Are you? Or are you worried about what you felt tonight?"
His breathing turns controlled, but I know he's not. "Blue, I'm trying?—"
"I know." My voice softens, turning almost tender. "I know you're trying so hard to be good. To be ethical. To be exactly who you think you're supposed to be. But you're also human. And you want me."
His inhale rakes down the line.
I beg, "Say it, Dr. Mercer. Just once."
"No." But the word trembles, and it's as good as a confession for me.
I let the silence linger long enough for him to drown in it before I murmur, "I don't want anything from you tonight except your voice."
He swallows audibly. "Blue…"
