“How many women have you slept with?”
Oliver has no idea how the direction of their conversation has landed here, but he’s not liking it. At all. He casts a wavering glance at Felicity, who’s has her legs pushed up against her chest with her arms wrapped around her knees from the head of the bed. He regards her for a moment. “Is that a rhetorical question?”
She debates to herself aloud with cute frowns and pouts. (“Yes. No— Maybe…” “Just give me an estimate. Okay, forget. I don’t want to know.” “Is it close to three digits?” “Over?” “That’s a lot.” “More than fifty?”)
He allows her to let it out without interruption until she trails off in her own confusion. Only then does he reply with one simple word in a tone that says so much more. “Felicity.” He slides over the few feet and gently guides her to lie flat on her back. “Does it really matter how many?” He slides his hand down her arm as he props his other forearm near her shoulder, and looks searchingly into her eyes. “You are the important one - the only one - for me.”
She lets out a breath, her fingers reaching out and pushing down on his collarbone. She lifts her eyes to meet his, and he thinks she’s seeing sense and agrees to drop it when she blinks and says, “I want to know.”
Groaning, he drops his head into the pillow above her shoulder, wishing it would somehow swallow him whole.