Page 112 of Key of Kink

“So, are you going to tell me what was so important that you had to research it before you went to work?”

I handed him a mug.

Sam sighed. “What did you google, Quinn?”

I exhaled. “How often is too often to text someone.” He burst out laughing, and I stared at him. “It was a legitimate question!”

He wiped his eyes. “You’re twenty, not fourteen.”

“I am aware of that.”

“And?”

“And… I don’t want to mess this up.”

That quieted him.

I took my mug and went into the conservatory, Sam behind me. I sat at the table and wrapped my hands around its warmth. Outside, the sky wasn’t dark, a combination of moonlight and the faint orange glow of streetlights. Thank you, light pollution. I could make out the long white fences on either side of the garden, the rear hidden by trees.

Sam didn’t say a word, but that was what he did—he waited for others to fill the silence.

“I stayed over,” I said at last. “At Max’s place.”

“Well, we knew you’d stayed somewhere. Then it’s not just a club thing now?”

“Nope. Although I think it’ll probably go back to being a club thing.” I sipped my milk. “And it isn’t what you think.”

His eyebrows went up. “You didn’t go back there for a night of torrid passion?”

I laughed. “Okay, maybe that part is valid, but… I slept on the floor.”

Sam blinked. “You what?”

“It was his idea.”

His lips twitched. “Of course it was.” He stared at me. “So… you had sex.”

“Yes. Then I cooked us dinner.”

“And then you slept on the floor. Where, exactly? Under the stairs? In the kitchen? Because my mind is busy exploring all the alternatives right now.”

“Next to his bed. And before you say another word, that isn’t unusual in BDSM. A lot of subs sleep on the floor.”

“Did Grant ever make you do that?”

I looked down at my hands. “It wasn’t like with Grant,” I said quickly. “With him it was always intense, as if everything had to mean something huge. Or hurt. Or prove something.”

“And with Max it doesn’t?”

“No.” I shook my head. “That’s the weird part. If anything, it felt… intimate.” I leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admitted.

“You like him.”

“That’s not the problem.”

“Then what is?”

“I’m twenty.”