She clears her throat and says, “What I heard you say was that you think I’m smart and clever. But you know I already know that. What you like are my eyes and the brown ring around the pupil. You can get lost in my eyes for a long time.” She swallows. “Tell me more.”

A wave of goose bumps spreads over her arms as I creep my hands farther up her waist, holding on to her tightly.

“Back to that night in Vegas, when you were in that dress. We were at that strip club, per your choice, but then you wouldn’t let one single woman near me. That night, you gave me my own personal lap dance, right then and there, in front of everyone. It was one of the hottest things I’ve ever experienced. I like that you claimed me as yours.”

She nods and blows out a heavy breath. “What I heard you say was simple…you like it when I claim you as mine.”

“Good, Scottie. Good. Ask him why.” Sanders is leaning toward us, immersed.

“Why do you like it when I claim you as mine?”

“Because it makes me feel needed.”

“Tell me more,” she says, sinking onto my lap, her hands falling to my chest.

“I like knowing I can be of value to you. You’re so independent, so strong, that there are times where I feel like you might not need me.”

She twists her lips to the side. “What I heard you say is that in order to feel love from me, you need to feel like you’re needed.”

“Wonderful, Scottie. That’s great listening,” Sanders interjects.

I nod, feeling this conversation heavier in my heart than other sessions we’ve had with Sanders, because shit…I think what I just said was actually true. I like knowing I can be of value to someone, more than just a bank account. I like knowing that I can offer my humor, my touch, my mind…my soul. I like knowing that I’m helpful, that I can bring joy. That’s very much my love language.

“And do you need him?” Sanders asks.

Scottie’s eyes meet mine as she tilts her head, studying me. “Yeah, I do.”

“And how does that make you feel, Wilder?”

I wet my lips, pride surging through my chest. “Fucking amazing.”

“Good. Now, Scottie, tell him what your love language is.”

She lets out a sigh and plays with the collar of my shirt, the subtle movement of her finger near my neck causing my stomach to dance in playful knots.

Jesus, man, pull it together.

A girl sits on your lap, and all of a sudden, you have butterflies in your stomach?

Tighten up.

“Attention,” she says quietly, and from the droop in her shoulders and the lack of eye contact, I know she’s speaking from experience. She’s speaking her truth.