Do You Have Any Regrets? Ch. 03

I'm going to take a few liberties with the next few chapters. I really need to drag it out (the good times) to make up for the not-so-great times that followed.

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Looking back, nearly fourteen years ago, I remember that day with stark, breathless clarity. It was the final Wednesday in January, and I woke up even earlier than normal because I knew that Chris and I would be spending most of the day together.

I wore what, to me, was a revealing outfit. The little black skirt hugged my ass and thighs, the shortest thing other than shorts that I owned. To top it off, I wore a thin gauge short-sleeve sweater in a shade of blue just darker than his eyes.

After arriving on campus, I scribbled more about Bitsy and Stuart—at that time intended to be a spicy romance, not BDSM-charged erotica—and waited, my throat dry, parched.

Even the Dr. Pepper I sipped, another thing that we shared in common, did nothing to quench my thirst.

As he sidled up to the table, also sipping a Dr. Pepper, Chris smiled crookedly. "Great minds," he started to say, trailing off.

"And all that," I finished with a chuckle. He slid into the seat across from mine at that little speckled Formica table, and took the opportunity to study me.

Although we had never actually touched, I felt his visual caress, much as a sculptor would give his masterpiece. I gulped and found myself making a lame joke to cover up the awkwardness.

He laughed, more out of politeness probably (yet when had politeness ever stopped him?), more heartily than the quip warranted. Then, he cleared his throat. "So, is Jess going to be able to make it for dinner this afternoon?" he asked, all the while staring enigmatically at me.

I shook my head, appearing to be regretful at the "no." My own voice was quiet to cover up the fib. "She has to work in the lab this afternoon."

Nodding automatically, his gaze sharpened again like a hunter in scent range of its prey. Could he see through the lie? My heart pounded, and I decided he must be able to see its racing thump in the flutter of my sweater. He let the moment hold a bit too long—long enough to make me squirm, before responding, "That's a shame."

I nodded, as if in a trance. He knows, I castigated myself; he knows, and he's just toying with you. He knows you're lying, and he gets off on watching you like this, this uncomfortable, wiggling, naughty puppy.

And, deep within my mind, a quiet voice spoke up, the devil's advocate: and you get off on what he's doing to you.

Unable to give that thought any credence, I squelched it back down, but not before the images of dreams, hot and erotic, raced through my mind. I felt my panties grow wet. I prayed desperately that he couldn't smell the scent of my arousal.

He was still staring, waiting for a response, pat though it might be. What had he said? My mind raced until I remembered his last sentence. "Yes," I rushed out, "a shame."

Shortly after that, we went our separate ways for our morning classes. I impatiently stared at the clock, for decades, it seemed, until the morning routine of classes was over.

Not wanting to wait for the mass of people at the elevator to travel before I could go, I raced down the stairs from the fourth floor to the first, almost tripping over my own feet in my haste. His classes had been long over. Coming to a dead stop inside the doorway, I peeked inside.

He was sitting in his seat, bent over a book. I tried to see the cover binding from where I stood, but the casualness of his pose hid it from me.

I walked up to the table, not saying a word and stopped just short of sitting down. Using one long imperious finger to still the page, he said, without looking up, "I saw you there. At the door."

Slinking hopefully just gracefully enough that my skirt did not fly up revealing to Chris the color and style of my undies, I pressed my bottom to the chair across from his.

I decided to play it coy. "Well, if you saw me, why didn't you say anything?"

He arched one eyebrow. "Why didn't you?"

"Maybe because I was being a polite Southern belle," I teased, but inside I was quaking.

He chortled, and I started to pull out my omnipresent writing notebook. Chris snorted. "Are you writing about THEM again?" he asked, referring to Stuart and Bitsy.

"Yes," I said, not seeing what the problem was.

"You're writing him wrong, you know," he sighed, a sigh of frustration with me. This was not the first time I had heard such a sigh.

I was outraged—and hurt. Chris had offered—okay, I begged and wheedled with him to—to read the story as I had written it. "What do you mean?" my voice quavered. I would not cry.

"He needs to be stronger. More dominant. And he wouldn't kiss her hand and stuff. He'd spank her bottom when she was too much of a brat." He smirked, that same smirk that curled his lips on his birthday when he issued the challenge.

That I had chickened out of. Coward.

I looked at him—really looked at him, my eyes bright with unshed tears for a long moment. Then, I began writing, all the while allowing his words to rain down on me.

"She's perfect, though," Chris added, trying to break the silence. I didn't answer; I couldn't. Because he was right. In so many ways, Stuart was him. That's why I wanted him to read the story so badly; it put into words what I couldn't bring myself to say.

His leg began shaking, a sure sign that he was either bored, uncomfortable, or hungry. Possibly, he was a combination of all three.

I wrote a few minutes more, mindless scribbles, until I had endured enough. "Are you ready to go?" I seethed at him.

Taken aback, he nodded. "Are we taking your car, or mine?"

"I'll drive," I chose. We walked to the parking lot, close but not touching. Not for the first time, I wondered how we appeared to other people. Strangers? Acquaintances? Friends? Something more?

Snorting, I almost laughed out loud. How wrong they would be if they thought that. I unlocked my door, crawled in to the tiny Beetle, and pushed down the lock on the passenger's side door.

While Chris entered the car, I buckled my seatbelt. Then, I noticed his gaze on my right leg. I looked down and let out a strangled gasp. My skirt had hiked up to just below the panty line. "Sorry," I muttered, my face flaming scarlet (according to the rearview mirror). I yanked my skirt back down.

I closed my eyes, unable to face looking at him. It may not seem this way now, through my stories, but to all outward appearances I was then (and still largely am, now) a modest person. And Chris seemed to expect, if not demand, that modesty in his friends and acquaintances.

Only when I heard a bit of a strangled sound from him that sounded as if it came from the back of his throat did I open my eyes. My gaze was focused downward. The fingers of his left hand were clenched, making almost claws against his thigh. I glanced up, and his eyes started straight ahead, the lower line of his jaw, dusted with afternoon stubble, jumped reflexively.

My stomach churning with dread—not the best condition for eating Mexican food, I started the car which puttered to life.

The restaurant wasn't very far away, a drive that we undertook in stony silence. Equally voiceless, we exited the car, my car door slamming with a bit more force than necessary, and entered the restaurant.

Or rather, Chris held the door open for me and I felt his hand brush against my hair as I walked in the restaurant.

The sparks of electricity from that on-purpose contact kept me quiet as we entered the restaurant. The waitress, who had served us before and seemed to consider us in the "couples" category as she kept bringing us a single check, seated us at the table I was starting to think of as "our" table.

She gave me a menu, but did not give Chris one. The quesadillas he would order were not on the menu. She knew I ordered something different every time.

In a flash, she was back with Dr. Peppers in plastic cups on ice. We sipped silently as I perused the menu. I memorized the number I wanted off of the lunch menu, just as he called my name.

I looked up and was lost in the sharpness of his blue gaze. Did I imagine the probing, searching, yearning?

I had to break the uncomfortable silence. I asked him more about his ex-girlfriend. His ex-girlfriend had been one of those girls that women who are proud of our gender want to disassociate with. She had cheated on him, gotten pregnant, and came crawling back to him. He had been prepared to take her back, until his father intervened.

The waitress came to take our orders amid the charged discussion concerning his ex. He told her his order (the chicken and mushroom quesadillas), and I offered up mine (the number 2).

When she scuttled off, I took a bite of a salsa covered chip. Chris took a sip of his soda.

And, then, he opened my mouth to say the words I never thought he would say. "So, what about you and me? Do you want to give it a go?"

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To be continued. You didn't really think I was going to let you savor the whole day in one bite, did you? Patience, my lovelies. Again, I'm going to take some liberties with Chapter 4 and a few later chapters. I can't stand to have it end the way it did quite yet.

Thanks, as always, to chixjinxbdsm for being THE rockstar of all Lit writers and pulling me out of my funk and encouraging me to continue. Aiden and Amy are my role models, and yes, that is true. You rock!

Thanks to Kristofe for encouraging me to write...and write...and write. You are an awesome collaborator!

Thanks to all those who have read any of my other works and this one and continue to do so. You warm my heart.