And Harlow, who for whatever reason seems to pick up on every little thing I do, notices.

“Hey. Whoa, whoa-whoa. What’s happening here?” She brings a finger up to tap my forehead, hard. “You’re all frowny and scrunched up. Are you making a judgey face at me?”

“What?” I say. “I am not making a face.” I’m actually glad I’m not because the face she’s making is a little terrifying.

“You totally are. Are you trying to slut-shame me, Mr. Good with Rope and Ridiculous Oral Skills?”

“Absolutely not. I would never call anyone—”

“Don’t think that just because I let you put your dick in me, that you get to pass judgment on what I may or may not have done. I like sex, just like you. And I’ll fuck whoever or however many people I want, ten-finger rule be damned. Just because society would prefer that I—”

“Harlow. I wasn’t saying that. Ten fingers. It’s all good.”

“Oh.” She searches my face and seems to realize I’m being sincere. Her forehead relaxes. “Good.”

“Good,” I repeat.

“Then what about you?” she asks.

“What about me?”

“How many fingers do you have left?”

I sit forward and look around, indicating that we are in fact sitting in the middle of a crowded store. “I don’t think this is the best place to have this conversation, Snap.”

“Well, what else are we going to do? I have twenty minutes to kill, and since we’re no longer banging...”

“Yeah,” I say, and lean my head back against the couch. “That plan seemed to make a lot more sense right after we’d actually had sex. I was a little less tense then.”

“Right?” Harlow shifts on the couch, lifting her long bare legs and draping them across my lap. “And speaking of, sorry I sort of melted down on you last night,” she says, and I feel something tighten in my chest.

Harlow might have been tied up in bungee cords last night, but it was like watching her bloom, and I don’t really want to hear her apologize for it. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything so real. In a matter of hours, things went from an easy, uncomplicated way to burn off some steam, to anything but simple. I like Harlow. Deciding we’re not going to sleep together anymore? Fucking sucks.

“You don’t have to apologize,” I say, and without realizing it, I place my hand on her knee, squeezing it. Her skin is warm beneath my palm and my fingers ache to move, to smooth up and over her thigh, distract us both again.

Fuck.

I move to pull away but she reaches out, taking my hand in hers while she casually studies it.

“No,” she murmurs. “Just saying I’m sorry if I made things weird.”

“You didn’t,” I assure her.