Page 8 of Balance

“It’s not nothing.” I closed my laptop and set it aside. “Do you know how much I pay people to storyboard and consult? Do you know how hard it is to find someone who can communicate an idea in a way that not only makes sense, but that translates well to a game?”

“Anyone could do it.”

“If anyone could do it, everyone would do it.” When Troye didn’t say anything, I realized it might be because I was full-on scowling at him. “Are you always this difficult to compliment?”

He shrugged again, and anger fizzled deep in my core, igniting something in me that I hadn’t let come out to play in a long time. God. He was so infuriating. Addicting. The best kind of brat. The kind that was a brat not because they thought it was fun, but because it’s who they were. The kind of brat that was forged by building shields around the wounds inflicted on them by other people. The kind of brat you didn’t tame. You healed.

And then they were still a brat because it’s who they were at the center of their being. But they were something more too. Something bolder and steadier. Something less likely to crack under all the pressure they put on themselves.

The kind of brat that you spanked so they could cry and release all that pent-up hurt and anger and release all those bad feelings. The kind of brat that would melt into a puddle of soup after, and they’d need you to comfort them. To hold them while they pieced themselves back together.

“I might take the compliment if it was worth getting complimented for.”

When Troye looked away, I saw the dark circles under his eyes. They looked like twin bruises, and they made his eyes seem sad and haunted. That didn’t stop me from what I said next. I tried—okay, I didn’t try that hard—to keep myself in check.

“Don’t talk down about yourself.”

His eyes flashed, suddenly angry at me. I watched the way they narrowed and his jaw flexed as he clenched it. “Or what?”

I let his words settle between us, and then I let the silence fill the room. It crawled up from the corners and wrapped itself around us, creating a bubble where nothing else existed. Just him and me, and my irresistible urge to turn him over my knee.

“I’m not sure you want to find out.”

Troye tipped his chin up. “Try me,” he said, challenging me.

There’d been a specific kind of tension brewing between us ever since we got to the room. Maybe it was the intimacy of a small space. Maybe it was coming down off a bad first impression. I was only certain of two things. The first one being me acknowledging that if he sat in my lap again, I wouldn’t have the strength to push him away. And the second one was that if he did end up in my lap, it would be so I could spank his bratty ass until he promised to behave.

Troye scoffed. “That’s what I thought.”

He looked me up and down, his face trying to show indifference or maybe disdain. But all I could see was a man who needed something he might not be sure how to ask for. Or aware that he could.

“Or I’ll put you over my knee and paddle your ass.” I kept my voice even, calm. But firm.

He swallowed audibly. Then swallowed again before trying to speak. His voice shook, and he had to pause to clear his throat. His second attempt came out but sounded unsteady.

“You—you can’t do that.” Troye folded his arms over his chest like he was trying to protect himself. Or maybe hold himself together.

“You’re right. I can’t.”

Troye’s expression fell. There was no triumph in him learning he was right. Only something that looked like despair.

“Not unless you ask me.”

His mouth opened and closed again, and that pretty pink hue never faded from his cheeks.

“Who would ask to be spanked?” He was practically sulking now.

“People who like it,” I supplied simply. “People who need it.”

He tried to scoff again, but there wasn’t any effort in it so it sounded more like a rough exhale.

“I don’t want one, nor do I need one.”

Methinks thy doth protest too much, I thought.

“Suit yourself.”

Troye glared at me. “You think I need one, don’t you?”