It wasn't hard to know that what he'd said wasn't good enough. It was a kinesthetic feeling, on the level of their bodies, a constriction, a weightedness that hadn't been there before. And Foreman could hardly fucking miss the fact that Amber backed away from him as soon as he'd managed, against his own better judgement, to tell her the truth. He'd nearly laughed off her order entirely, certain that she couldn't mean it. He probably would have pissed her off all the more if he had. And that wasn't fair. He'd nearly choked on his own quasi-explanation; he couldn't have managed more than that. But he'd tried. He'd fucking tried. He'd been honest.
Amber's response was quiet, but everything about her body screamed that she was holding back. She was holding his hand, but she'd pulled away from him, marching more than walking to the bedroom, refusing to look him in the eye. Foreman frowned at her back, following her but not because he wanted to lie down with her and go back to playing at being obedient. He wanted to spit out more questions. What would she ask next? It was her turn to be in charge--Foreman snorted mentally at the idea of "her turn", it had never fucking been his turn that he'd noticed--and so she'd tell him to say I love you, as if the empty words would make it true? Nothing ordered meant anything. This wasn't supposed to be another way for Amber to prove that patient of theirs right. Foreman got it, he wasn't the dominant one, message fucking received. That didn't mean he did what she said because he had no choice. He acted that way because it made Amber feel good, because she wanted it, because he wanted to give her what she wanted. He loved making her respond, giving her pleasure, making her come; if it turned her on for him to follow orders, then that turned him on too. It didn't mean he was no better than a dildo, acting only as much as Amber could manipulate it to do. He wasn't a fucking robot. He cared, and he'd tell her he cared, in his own way, in his own time.
He paused in the doorway of her bedroom, all his thoughts keeping him from going any further. He kept his voice as quiet as hers, but it damn well hurt, that she couldn't accept what he'd said. "Did you want me to say it, or did you want me to mean it?"
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Amber's response was quiet, but everything about her body screamed that she was holding back. She was holding his hand, but she'd pulled away from him, marching more than walking to the bedroom, refusing to look him in the eye. Foreman frowned at her back, following her but not because he wanted to lie down with her and go back to playing at being obedient. He wanted to spit out more questions. What would she ask next? It was her turn to be in charge--Foreman snorted mentally at the idea of "her turn", it had never fucking been his turn that he'd noticed--and so she'd tell him to say I love you, as if the empty words would make it true? Nothing ordered meant anything. This wasn't supposed to be another way for Amber to prove that patient of theirs right. Foreman got it, he wasn't the dominant one, message fucking received. That didn't mean he did what she said because he had no choice. He acted that way because it made Amber feel good, because she wanted it, because he wanted to give her what she wanted. He loved making her respond, giving her pleasure, making her come; if it turned her on for him to follow orders, then that turned him on too. It didn't mean he was no better than a dildo, acting only as much as Amber could manipulate it to do. He wasn't a fucking robot. He cared, and he'd tell her he cared, in his own way, in his own time.
He paused in the doorway of her bedroom, all his thoughts keeping him from going any further. He kept his voice as quiet as hers, but it damn well hurt, that she couldn't accept what he'd said. "Did you want me to say it, or did you want me to mean it?"