I sat back, my hand drifting to my lower left leg and ankle, fingers pressing into the soft flesh, rubbing the bone as I considered my next move. The boundaries were being pushed, both physically and emotionally. Would I proceed to the meeting, to the application of the leg cast? Or would I call him, demand another conversation, and re-establish the rules of our sexual game?

My fingers trailed higher, brushing against the hem of my skirt, the fabric soft against my skin. The thrill of danger, of surrender, was intoxicating. But so was the power of refusal. I leaned back, my legs crossed, one hand resting lightly on my knee, the other reaching for my phone. The screen lit up with his name, and I hesitated, my breath shallow, my pulse quickening.