Page 424 of End Game

In the other… a tiny clicker.

I stare. “Is that a fucking dog-training clicker?”

“No.”

“It absolutely is.”

“It is an adaptive communication clicker.”

“That is the most Ronan sentence—”

“Dex.”

I grin.

“Sorry.”

He holds it up.

“If you want the gag, you need another way to communicate.”

He places the clicker into my right hand, positioned so I can press it despite the cuff.

“One click means green or yes.”

Click.

“Two means yellow. Slow down or check me.”

Click-click.

“Three rapid clicks means red. Everything stops.”

Click-click-click.

“If you drop it and don't immediately pick it back up, I stop.”

My throat goes tight for reasons that have nothing to do with sex.

He has me demonstrate that I know how to use the fucking clicker.

And then he does it again.

Of course.

Finally he asks,

“Do you want the gag?”

I stare at him.

The stupid part of my brain supplies twelve jokes.

I let all of them die.

Click.

One.