Page 7 of Bad Enough

FLAME: But, let’s face it, sex is personal. It feels like I’m writing about you and me, and it feels like an invasion of something private. But it shouldn’t because we’re not really doing anything.

The screen sat blank for a minute. Then two.

“Way to go,” she muttered to herself.

FLAME: I’m sorry.

FLAME: I’ve made this weird now, and I didn’t mean to.

FLAME: You just always tell me to be honest, but maybe there is such a thing as too honest.

FLAME: I should just go.

His answer was immediate.

LOBO: No.

She huffed in exasperation. “‘No,’ what? No, don’t write about what we talk about? No, don’t get personal? No, it’s not personal? No, it’s not an invasion? Give me a clue!”

LOBO: Don’t go.

Huh. Well. That I was not expecting.

LOBO: Maybe it’s time it did get personal.

“Jinkies,” she whispered. “What the bleep does that mean?”

LOBO: You’re not wrong.

LOBO: It stopped being about strictly research a while ago. Now, we’re just using that as an excuse.

LOBO: Are you in bed, princess?

Holy jeepers! Next thing he’ll be asking me what I’m wearing.

LOBO: Princess?

FLAME: Yes.

LOBO: Yes, what?

FLAME: Yes, I’m in bed.

LOBO: Good to know, but not what I meant.

LOBO: Yes…?

“Sweet sassafras!” Sylvan sat straight up in her window bed, her back coming off the propped-up pillows. “Does he want what I think he wants?”

LOBO: Flame, I’m waiting. It’s never good to make your Master wait.

“Double sassafras,” she whispered. “This is either going to be super hot or super embarrassing.” She gulped. “Or both.”

Here goes nothing.

FLAME: Yes, Sir.

LOBO: There’s my good girl.

---