“Because you weren’t paying attention.” He pulled his feet from the table and sat up, somehow managing to loom over her from six feet away. “You were so focused on the end goal, you missed all the warning signs.”

“Wait a minute.”

“It’s not your turn to talk yet,” he said, and she shut her mouth with a snap.

“Compatibility matters, Olivia, and you and Kyle weren’t compatible.”

“We got along fine,” she began, then bit her lip when he narrowed his eyes. “Still not my turn to talk?”

“No. ‘Get along fine’ works for a pickup scene, but it’s not nearly enough for the kind of play you want to do. CNC is tricky, and it’s scary, and you need so much than ‘get along fine’ to do it well.”

What did he think she’d been trying to do with Kyle for the last year, for heaven’s sake? Building trust had been the whole point of moving in together. “I thought we were compatible.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“I mean, what possible reason would you have to think you were compatible? Aside from he’s a Dom, you’re a submissive, and he told you he was willing to explore consensual non-consent?”

She opened her mouth, then shut it again. “Fooey.”

A glimmer of amusement edged into his unforgiving gaze. “Fooey?”

“That’s what I say when I realize I’ve been an idiot, okay?” She let her head drop back to stare at the ceiling with suddenly watery eyes. “Fooey.”

“Oh, shit. Are you crying?”

“No.” She squeezed her eyes shut so he wouldn’t notice she was lying, which only squeezed the not-tears out faster.

He let out a choked sound, like a muffled laugh, and the chair scraped against the floor when he stood.

She kept her eyes shut and tried to ignore the sounds of him moving closer. She was expecting the touch on her cheek, but still, she jolted a little when his thumb brushed against the wet trail at her temple. “What’s this, then?”

“I’m allergic to cats?”

“You are not allergic to cats,” he said, so close she could feel his breath on her skin. “You spend hours petting Phoebe every time you come over, and you’ve never so much as sneezed.”

“They’re sudden-onset allergies,” she claimed, her eyes still closed, and faked a sneeze.

“Fofa,” he said softly, and the nickname ripped a sob out of her chest.

“I’m fine,” she sobbed, hugging Phoebe so hard the cat began to squirm, clearly uncomfortable with this level of emotional neediness. “I just need a Benadryl.”

“You don’t need a Benadryl.” He pried her hands open so the cat could jump to safety. Then he was lifting her up as easily as he would Phoebe and sitting down with her on his lap. “You’re sad.”