You weren't anything more than a fling to Slade.

Someone with no ties to his criminal work, who he'd visit every once in a while and stay long enough to entice you into some bad decisions. It was a break from everything, and a rather satisfying one at that. You didn't complain, you didn't nag, and Slade enjoyed your company. Hell, he spent more time pretending to enjoy the wine you shared and simply talking, rather than jumping into your bed with you. He lent you his shoulder to cry on if needed, he cleaned up after your pesky hangovers, he took care of you when you were sick. So, maybe Slade was being slightly delusional when he convinced himself that you were more than a fling. He'd had flings all through his long life, and this was crossing that line quite simply.

But a night of drunken passion you two were lying in your apartment in your bed. You were laying on your side and he was laying behind you. His hand was resting on your breast and the other on your butt.