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“What’s this coming from?” he asked, studiously avoiding my attempts to catch his eye again.

I gave up with a sigh. “Can we sit maybe?”

“Oh, yeah. Sure.”

Cally waved me on ahead of him, and I perched on the edge of the bed, surprised when he moved to the far side of the room and flipped on the lamp in the corner before slowly settling his big body down into the leather club chair next to it.

He winced slightly, then shifted his weight as his hands curled over the edge of the armrests.

“You wanted to talk?” he asked, his tone flat.

I spun to face him, bringing my right leg up onto the mattress, my left foot planted on the carpet. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what we’ve been doing,” I began. “And I realized everything’s always about me, Cal. Every time, you’re focused on making sure I get exactly what I want, and I never really ask what you want.” I drew in a deep breath, and blew it back out, forcing myself to continue. “It made me wonder if … I dunno, you’re getting as much out of this as I am.”

For a split second, Cally looked surprised at my words, then he huffed out a quiet laugh and shook his head slightly. “Can’t really fake my orgasms, Mikey.”

I scooted over to the corner of the bed, and leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “I know, but that’s not what I mean.”

He shifted in the too-small chair, his nails pressing deep into the leather as he pulled in a quick breath. “Okay?”

Cally could be obtuse sometimes. Or rather, not obtuse, but he frequently thought and spoke in an incredibly literal manner. I would have guessed this was one of those moments, except for the vice-like grip he had on the armrests and the wary look on his face. If this was one of his “you’re gonna have to be more specific” moments, he would have come right out and said that.

Busted.

“Look, I’m pretty sure you know exactly what I’m trying to ask here, Cal, but for whatever reason, you’re pretending like you don’t. Maybe you don’t want to have this conversation. Maybe it hits a nerve or something. I really don’t know because we always talk about me. But I won’t feel comfortable until we talk about it.”

Cally’s throat bobbed on a hard swallow, the faux confusion replaced by a startled look that morphed into that flat, neutral stare he employed when he was trying to keep people at a distance.

He hadn’t used that look on me in ages. I fucking hated that look.

“Sure. Let’s talk, M,” he said with a casual shrug.

“I swear to god,” I muttered, clenching my hands into fists. “Just answer me this—are you a top or a bottom?”

Cally’s eyelids fluttered, and a sudden, breathy laugh flew went out of him. His white-knuckled grip on the armrests loosened, and the mask shattered into total, bewildered hilarity.

“What is so goddamn funny?” I bit out.

I was trying to be an adult here and have a serious conversation about our relationship or whatever it was we were calling it, but it was not going how I pictured.

The gleeful look on his face turned soft. “Nothing’s funny, Mikey. That just wasn’t what I thought you were going to say.”

I leaned back, my palms out to my sides. “All right. What did you think I was going to say?”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

I curled my fingers into the blankets. “It does matter. Come on. Don’t do that.”

He blew out a breath, his gaze flicking away, his jaw firming. “Fine. I thought you were going to say you didn’t want to do this anymore.”

That … made zero damn sense. There was a huge fucking gap between “Are your sexual needs being met?” and “I don’t want you anymore,” and I couldn’t figure out how he’d made that leap.

Cally was smart—a genius, even—but that was real fucking dumb.

Though I supposed it did explain his behavior—while I’d been trying to get him to talk about his physical needs, he’d been bracing himself for me to pull the chute.

It was almost enough to make me laugh, except for the sickening twist in my gut at the realization that he could ever think I’d be done with him.

I rolled forward, beckoning him over. “Come here.”