She looked away.
His thumb resumed its slow trace along her stomach. His buried fingers moved again—barely, just enough—and she exhaled through her nose and told herself it was irritation.
"Then 'let me go,'" she said.
"No." He said it the way he said everything irreversible. Flat. Already done. "I love you."
She turned her head to look at him. His profile. The clean jaw, the half-lidded eyes aimed at some middle distance. No performance in it—that was the thing that bothered her. He'd said it like 'it's Tuesday.' No drama, no angle, no setup.
"No you don't," she said.
"Mm."
"You don't 'know' me—"
"I know enough."
"'Sex isn't—'" She stopped. His finger moved again—slow, deliberate, that infuriating depth that hit somewhere she couldn't reason around—and her sentence dissolved. She picked it back up with effort. "'Sex isn't love. If it were, every—'" Another press. "'—every sex worker alive would be—ngh—'"
"Would be what?" He sounded genuinely curious.
"'Stop that.'"
