“Why do you keep reducing our relationship to what we do in the bedroom?” he sneers. I flinch at the severity of his voice. “This is the second time you’ve chalked up what we are”—he gestures an imaginary circle between us—“to sex. And while we’re on the topic, don’t ever cheapen what you mean to me by calling yourself a plaything.” He’s angry, and I can’t help but become overly aware of how much bigger and stronger he is.
