Here there be whump

“Any—any way you want, Your Majesty,” Dick lowers his head a fraction, looking up through his lashes.  He pretends like his heart isn’t pounding in his ears, like his fingers aren’t trembling, like his mouth isn’t dry at the thought of—with Slade—with the father of the boy he killed—

Slade surges out of his chair, and Dick automatically flinches back.

Slade pauses.  “I have never taken anyone to my bed that did not want to be there,” he says levelly, raising an eyebrow.  “And I’m not going to start now.”