"You can just say it, you know," he teases, already shoving down that quiet voice that wonders why this is all anyone seems to want from him. It's a ridiculous thought. What guy wouldn't kill for sex on demand, no complications? It's a fantasy straight out of the reader's stories pages of Playboy: maybe those things aren't written by overimaginative loners with their hands down their pants, after all.

A smirk, and he fills in her missing line, "You want me for my body. That's mercenary of you, Cameron. Almost sexist. I should be offended."

The smirk fades, but a gentle smile lingers around the corners of his mouth. Someone needs to give him a guide for situations like the one he's getting himself into, but just for the time being the navigation seems clear. He closes the gap she opened, hooking a finger into a belt loop at the waist on her pants, curled like a question mark. "Do you think you'll be wanting me for my body tonight?"

And that, as far as he's concerned, answers her proposal in the affirmative.