“I don’t know how to answer that.”
“Pretend I’m a therapist.”
“You’redefinitelynot my therapist.”
She smirks. “Wouldn’t be very professional of me if I were.”
She taps the answer box and glances at me from under her lashes. “So that’s a yes?”
“Sure.”
“‘Sure’ doesn’t sound like a man who’s been called agood boybefore.”
My throat catches. “That’s—”
Her grin sharpens. “Gotcha.”
I scrub a hand through my hair. “You’re insufferable.”
“You’rered,” she sing-songs.
“Next question,” I groan.
She obliges, barely holding back a laugh. “Do you like being degraded?”
“…Definedegraded.”
She tilts her head. “Like, called names. Talked down to. A little mean, if you’re into that sort of thing.”
I stare at her. “You say that way too casually.”
“Scientific tone,” she says with mock seriousness. “It’s part of the quiz.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So… yes or no?”
I swallow. “I don’t think so?”
She hums, clicking something. “Soft no. Got it.”
“Soft no?”
“Yeah, like under the right circumstances, maybe.”
“I never said that.”
She grins. “You didn’t have to.”
I groan. “You’re literally evil.”
“Evil but thorough.”
Her knees bump mine as she scrolls. The laptop shifts and lands half across both our thighs. I can feel the warmth of her leg against mine, her skin brushing my jeans.
“Next one,” she says. “Do you like giving up control?”
I open my mouth then close it. The silence stretches just long enough for her to notice.
