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feel like he grew bigger. I feel stretched farther than before.
    He fucks me even faster now, his own grunts overpowering my moans. He says things to me, dirty things, but I only hear the sound his voice makes. I move my fingers quickly over my clitoris. I’m lost in the pure feeling of bliss. If there is a nirvana somewhere out there in the great ether, I’m sure it feels just like this. My toes curl, my abdomen tightens, my limbs shake, and hot, prickling heat shoots out from my base chakra.  
    He slams his hips into me harder, faster, and he holds me so tightly I know I’ll have bruises. As my orgasm subsides, I could completely ignore his need to come, but I’m not a bitch like that, so I turn my efforts to get him off by rocking my hips back and forth to the time of his thrusts. I reach down between my legs again, but this time I use the tips of my fingers to brush the underside of his balls every time they come forward to slap against me.
    “Fuck!” he says and spills into the condom as he comes.  
    My body feels loose and fatigued when he pulls out, and for a moment, I just lie there with my face buried in the soft cushion.  
    Delicious silence. Total stillness. Complete contentment.
    It isn’t until his heavy hand sweeps down over my back when the moment breaks.
    I sit back on my heels.  
    “You okay?” he asks.
    I give him a smile. “Fantastic. What’s your name again?”
    His eyebrows furrow and he chews on his bottom lip. “Vincent.” He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again without a word.  
    I take his hand and lift myself up. It has taken me a long time to realize this, but I’ve found that many men like to be soothed after sex. Little touches reassure them that I’ve had a marvelous time and like what just happened, but since Vincent will never be anything more than some guy I had sex with, I forgo the overly sappy, lovey-dovey bullshit. I decide to be sensual and fun instead.
    I pull away and let just the tips of my fingers trail down his body.  
    His muscles twitch as his flesh rises in response. An involuntary shiver visibly courses its way down him.
    I laugh. “Ticklish?”
    “No,” he denies, but his upturned mouth tells me otherwise.
    Playful now, I reach to tickle the sides of his torso.
    He catches my wrists and keeps me from it. “So, um . . .” he begins, but trails off and darts his eyes to the door.
    “You ready to call it a night?” I twist my hand out of his grasp. I bring it to his softened cock, and it jumps against my palm. I get close to him again and attach my mouth to his nipple as I gently knead his dick back to semi-hardness.  
    When I’m satisfied by his body’s response, I pull away and walk backward a few steps. “I have the most amazing shower in the world. Two overhead spigots, and a line of five jets shooting out from each wall.”
    He takes a step toward me and allows me to take his hand.  
    “Want to go clean up so we can get dirty again?” I tug him toward the bathroom, but his feet stay planted. “What is it?”
    Vincent’s eyes are cast down as he says, “Well, that’s what I want to ask you. What . . . I mean . . .”  
    When he looks up, I look away. This is the part I hate; the part that might destroy the whole evening. Not every guy asks the question, some already know, but then there are the guys like Vincent, a little more sensitive than others, a little too quick to let their dicks trick their minds into believing that sex is the beginning of love or a relationship.
    I give him a little shake of my head and tighten my fingers on his. “I’m sure you’re an awesome guy, worthy of someone’s investment, but I don’t do relationships. When I do, they go to shit.”
    His tongue moves out to run over his bottom lip. After a moment, I tug on him again, and he nods. “I get it.”
    “Get what?”
    “This is just sex.”
    When our eyes connect, I shake my head and smile a bit. “This isn’t just sex; this is the