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I admire Troy. I respect him. And I want to roll myself all over him until I smell like him and he smells like me. I want to open his brain and forage through his thoughts because I think he’s kind of amazing, and I’m terrified I might fall in—

No, I won’t let myself do that.

Fucking pheromones (literally) cloud everything.

I turn to look at him again, his hair mussed and his expression soft, then push out a slow breath, not quite believing what I’m about to say to him. I’ve been trying to work out a way that we might conduct ourselves . . . intimately. Chart a course where we might do stuff without the chance of catching feelings. And I might have a plan.

“Troy,” I begin. “We need to talk.”

“Sounds ominous.” He shifts onto his side, his expression guarded as he braces himself on his elbow.

I pause, searching for words that might make this sound less impulsive. Or insane. “I think this is a bad idea.”

His mouth hitches as he reaches out, skimming the backs of his knuckles across my cheek, like he’s humoring me. “Which time? On the couch, or was it the shower?”

“We can’t keep doing this. At least, not like this.”

His gaze sharpens, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“And I don’t think we can pretend this won’t keep happening. We’re playing a couple in front of the world and sharing a space behind closed doors. And then there’s our past. Our history. I don’t know about you, but it’s beginning to feel like an unrealistic goal to assume we can just say no to sex.”

“We can say no.”

“Yet we keep crossing that line.” Enthusiastically.

A flicker of something passes his expression. “And that worries you.”

I nod and swallow a sigh that it doesn’t worry him. Another check mark that I’ll be the only one of us at risk of catching feelings. “The more we do this, the less it feels fake. And I don’t know how to protect myself from that.” The admission makes me feel naked in a way I can’t explain.

“What’s the answer? What do we need to make this okay? I don’t want to stop having sex with you, Clara. Not when you want—”

“I was thinking,” I cut in as my heart begins to trip. “Maybe we could get you one of those chastity cages.” Before the words are fully out, I’m laughing at my own absurdity. I’m not sure where that came from. Neurospicy brain for the win?

“Hard pass on that,” Troy replies with a sly-looking smile. “And while it might be ungentlemanly to say so, I feel I ought to point out that you kissed me first.”

“You put down your laptop.”

“And that turned you on?” No, your sexy wrist did. “If anyone’s wearing a chastity device,” he continues, “I think it should be you.” I’m not sure how he manages to make that sound sexy. Or even fun.

Reaching up, I scratch the base of my neck. “I was thinking more along the lines of us scheduling it. Scheduling sex, I mean.” I’m pretty sure my cheeks are about to explode. The man has had his mouth on more of me than I care to admit, but I can’t say “Let’s have sex in a specific way” to him?

“Schedule sex.” His mouth twitches, but his smile doesn’t give. “So . . . still having sex. But to a timetable?”

“Maybe it’s less about timing and more about parameters.” I sound unsure, like I’m spitballing.

“Boundaries.” He gives a considering nod. “To do what, exactly.”

“To take the romance element out of this.” I sit straighter and swipe my hair from my face, the duvet still pressed between my arms and my body as I give him a moment to respond. Maybe I’m expecting him to deny it—to say it’s only fucking. “Not that I’m saying it should be clinical, just . . .” I rack my brains for the right word.

“Controlled.”

“Yes. If it’s planned, prearranged, then maybe the lines are less likely to blur.” My teeth pluck at the inside of my bottom lip. “It might make things feel less like we’re in an actual relationship.” I hope.

His expression is unreadable, but at least he’s not looking at me like I’ve completely lost it.

“Okay, so tell me what this looks like to you.”

“First, we won’t have sex with other people.”