Ansel hadn't noticed the dark look that had come over Lucio's face until he tore his attention away from his phone in response to his lover's harsh whispers. Lucio's ire surprised Ansel; he genuinely hadn't expected Lucio to argue with him over something that, to him, seemed so black and white. Being a psychology professor did not mean that Ansel's ability to get inside the minds of others was always “on,” and whenever he was dealing with someone close to him (which was rare), Ansel made a point of not trying to psychoanalyze his companion's words. Johanna especially hated it when Ansel reverted into “psychologist mode” instead of “Ansel mode,” as she often felt as if she were talking to a shrink instead of her brother when Ansel pulled away from himself. Had Ansel not been so personally affected by Lucio's choice of work, the man might have been able to take a step back from himself and analyze the situation properly. He would have realized that Lucio needed understanding, not judgment, and that listening instead of talking was necessary and would result in the best possible conclusion to the conversation. But Ansel's specialty was the study of mental and personality disorders. He was used to talking with people with observable mental illnesses such as schizophrenia, bipolar disorder and severe anxiety. Things like petty anger and anything that could be categorized under “couple's therapy” had never held any interest for Ansel. So when Lucio spoke to him in harsh tones, Ansel dug his heels into himself, not wanting to play the mediator or the doctor, but instead the stubborn boyfriend who just wanted his sweetheart to do what<i>he </i>wanted without argument.<br/><br/>“I never insinuated that what you do is 'merely for fun,'” Ansel replied, his face blank as he quietly responded to Lucio's incensed whispers. “I insinuated that what you do isn't a real job, which it isn't. Real jobs are things we do in order to pay for the lifestyle to which we've grown accostomed. They allow us to buy food, shelter, necessities and luxuries. Real jobs require you to provide a service in return for money. You don't do what you do for money, you do them for grades. Grades are not a necessity for living. I consider a hooker on the street corner to have a real job. You don't have a profession, honey, you have a hustle.”<br/><br/>As Lucio brought up their first time together, uncouthly linking it to the horror that Buckley had imposed upon him, Ansel couldn't help but feel hurt. Although their erotic night together at the Langham had been under the pretense of the night being nothing more than two men trading favors, since then Ansel had seen it as something more. He had seen that night as the night he had fallen for the graceful, lean, exquisite, clever and charming Lucio Bane, he had seen it as the night his life had changed, and here Lucio was, saying it was nothing more than just another job. That<i>he</i>, Ansel, was just another job.<br/><br/>Ansel took a long, slow drink from his mug as he listened to Lucio seethe, watching with narrowed hazel eyes as his darling huffed and crossed his narrow arms over his chest. Had Ansel been less irritated, he would have been more inclined to notice how beautiful Lucio looked with his eyes on fire and his face flush with fury. Lucio reminded Ansel of something chaotic, like a monsoon. A force of nature that destroyed and devastated, but also awed. Something so powerful had to be respected, and feared, and if Ansel were a less proud man, he would have catered to his prince's temper. But Ansel had insecurities, too, and he just couldn't let the thought of him being nothing other than a lowly “client” of Lucio's go.<br/><br/>“Darling,” Ansel said slowly, deliberately, his mouth enunciating each syllable with practiced precision. “If you think all I see you as is a 'filthy whore,' then apparently I have failed miserably in my attempts to show you that you are everything to me. You accuse me of making assumptions about you, and yet here you are, doing the same thing to me.” He paused for a moment, inhaling the fragrant beverage. “That being said, your money doesn't come from your . . . line of work. Mine does. I am forty years old. I graduated from the top institutions in the country and worked my ass off to become one of the foremost experts in my field. Most doctors do not reach my level until they are in their fifties or sixties. So when I say that I have no desire to have our romantic excursions paid for by a man in the U.K. whom I have never had the pleasure of meeting, I mean it.<br/><br/>“I have more than enough money for both of us, Lucio. Allowing me to pay for things doesn't make you less independent, it doesn't make you weak or needy or whatever negative adjective you wish to associate with allowing someone else to actually do something nice for you. If you're concerned about coming across as some kind of trophy boyfriend, rest assured that<i>I </i>do not perceive you that way, and the opinions of anyone else on the matter are moot.<br/><br/>“You're mine, and I . . . care about you immensely. I would appreciate it if you would allow me to express that in whatever manner I see fit.”