[Set on the ground, he put his hands behind him, palms down, to support his posture -- Chilton felt too weak to sit straight without a propping, and he feared what it would feel like with his welted, bleeding back against the floor. It was easy access for Raina to sit neatly on his lap.]

Nnn -- Raina, no. [Chilton shook his head for emphasis.] You don't -- you do not have to do this. Please, I said what you wanted!

[His honesty too bold, he confessed: he had said what she wanted to hear. He could apologize with his mouth, if not his heart -- a matter that might still be up for debate. Chilton's tongue was both his savior and his undoing, and this evening hour had wrought him much more of the latter. He eyed her scalpel warily, cautiously. Fearfully.]

Why don't we just go back home? I could give you a massage. I could get on my knees for you, Raina. Hands and knees, for as long as you like.

[Again, relying solely upon the merits of his tongue. But at least he relied on a multi-talented organ. He still had a proposal to make to her.]