Dirk laughs, presses his lips to the sweat-drenched nape of your neck, lets his teeth scrape the skin. "Don't worry, babe, I'm not going to leave you hanging. I've got something special for you. Get up."

You're going to leave the toybox in the closet tonight, because you are fairly certain that you can ruin him six ways to Sunday without even a pair of fuzzy handcuffs to back you up, and you really don't want to give the poor guy an aneurysm or something.

Equius agrees to bet on a robot fight. Dirk is gambling on what happens afterward.

This isn't a thing Equius does; surrendering to impulses is for other people. He has always been one to measure, to strategize, to rein himself in as best he can. It was a necessity. Even his liaisons to satisfy the drones were more matters of negotiation and restraint than unbridled passion, adequate but not exceptional. But as Strider follows him out of the hangar and down the corridor, it's all Equius can do not to turn on him, not to attack him right there, not to pin him to the wall with hands around his throat and knee between his thighs.

You definitely want to encourage Equius, among other verbs. This stupid gift exchange is just forcing your hand, when you wanted more time to get to know him, figure out who he is when he's not being completely suborned by your worst successful project to date. You don't know enough of his buttons yet to be sure you're pushing the right ones.