No Regrets by Claire Kent Page A

ankles, keeping my legs trapped in place, folded against my chest, with his shoulders. Then he told me to rub my clit. I had to squeeze my hand into place, but I obeyed until I was close to another orgasm.
    When he told me to come, I came—and then came again. Until he finally came too in a series of jerks and grunts.
    I was leveled when he finally collapsed on top of me, and I couldn’t help but clutch at him hungrily. He was breathless and limp, but he rolled off me pretty quickly. Much quicker than I wanted.
    We took several minutes to catch our breath and recover, and by then I was starting to feel discontent. Heavy.
    It took me a minute to realize why.
    He’d used sex as a distraction—as a way to move beyond the emotional vulnerability of our previous conversation. He was committed to keeping things casual, and this was the way he’d brought us back.
    I had nothing to whine about. He’d given me three incredible orgasms, and I’d known what this was from the very beginning.
    I still felt kind of achy, though, and so tired I thought I would drop. So I decided to just head home.
    He didn’t object.
    In the car afterwards, I cried a little. I think it was mostly from the aftermath of the emotion and sex, more than anything else.
    If I couldn’t do this casually, then I couldn’t do it at all. I’d have to really think about it. Be honest with myself.
    Because one thing was absolutely clear.
    Josh wasn’t going to change his mind about what we were and what we could be.

Eight

    I did pretty well for the next few weeks with my resolution to keep things non-intimate.
    Whenever I felt that pull of affection or the desire for emotional closeness, I turned the moment into sex. It seemed to work for Josh, and it worked for me too.
    At least, it usually did.
    We did a lot of power-playing, since that worked best to remind me that there wasn’t anything deeper between us. If he was ordering me around, then I felt less like myself, so I could focus only on the sexual pleasure and not on what else was missing.
    The week before, we’d had dinner in front of the television, and he was telling me funny stories of people who’d brought very spoiled pets into the office for treatment. The evening had felt so domestic—like we were in a real relationship—that I’d had to ask him to tie me up afterwards to get my head on straight again.
    He’d made me come over and over again, bound spread-eagle on his bed, and I’d been screaming myself hoarse at the end of it. I’d felt kind of heavy afterwards and hadn’t spent the night, but at least I’d stopped myself from having soft, fond feelings about him.
    Tonight, I’d had to work late. I’d had a bad day—with a lot of stress from complications with a project at work, one that I was getting unfairly blamed for—and I’d actually been planning to cancel and just go home and get to bed early.
    What I really felt like was eating dinner on the couch and talking the day out with Josh. Maybe cuddling a little and getting some comfort.
    Those desires were very dangerous, though—far more dangerous than any sexual adventurousness I’d indulged in with him over the last two months. Canceling was far wiser.
    I’d called him up to tell him, but he didn’t pick up, so I left him a message, telling him I was heading home and asking him to call me back.
    I was already home, showered, and in my pajamas when he called me back. He’d had some sort of emergency procedure at the vet and was just getting off work. Since he was obviously as tired as I was, I was about to say we’d just call off our plans, but he said he could pick up takeout and bring it over to my place, if I wanted.
    So I found myself saying “Sure,” instead of the cancellation I’d intended.
    He’d never been over to my place before, so I was feeling odd and nervous as I waited for him to arrive. I usually kept my apartment fairly neat, so there wasn’t any cleaning up I needed to do, even for an