“Yes,” Jeremiah said again. “Cade…”
“Are you sure? Tell me if I do anything you don’t like. If I hurt you. If I ever have. If I’m not doing something you want. I want you to tell me. Please.”
“Cadence?”
Cade froze, fingers encircling Jeremiah’s shaft, afraid to move.
“Um.” Jeremiah was blushing: pink across broad chest and bare skin. “Can you—are you trying to be nice to me? I like it, but—”
“But?” He managed to talk because he had to. He’d gone numb with horror. But he had to make this right. “What did I—”
“No, no, sorry, I didn’t mean that!” Jeremiah sat up, hand landing on his. “No, it’s just—the things we, um, we’ve been doing—when you make it hurt a bit, or when you tell me what to do, or that I can’t, ah, finish unless you let me and I earn it, or—”
“Have you not liked that—”