The Ground Rules (26 page)

“When does the crew leave?”

“A little impatient, are we?” he whispers with a wicked smile. “Patience is not a quality you have.”

“That’s funny. Some people think I’m the most patient person in the world.”

“Well, not when it comes to sex apparently.”

“You just enjoy teasing me, don’t you? You’ve barely touched me at all, all night. Maybe you just don’t want me as much as I want you.”

“Trust me, Mirella,” his says, his lids heavy. “I want you.”

And his words almost make me melt.

The young woman appears and serves our main dishes. “Chicken with lemon sauce and capers with angel hair pasta and vegetables,” she tells us in a delicate soft voice. Although it all looks very delicious, I’m not very hungry…for food anyway.

“Thank you, Jessica,” Weston says and she smiles at him. She seems a little flustered, and I’m not sure if it’s because he’s her boss, or if it’s because he’s impossibly gorgeous. I would be willing to bet my next paycheck on the latter.

“What does it feel like to have women everywhere falling under the spell of your charm?”

He laughs. “I’ve never thought of myself as charming,” he tells me, cutting into his chicken. His smile lingers—he seems to find my comment very amusing. “In fact, I’ve always been rather stand-offish. Once initial pleasantries are done, I don’t offer much of myself.”

“Well, it’s a good thing,” I tell him, enjoying a sip of wine, “because you would have a million women falling in love with you.”

He looks up from his plate and contemplates me in silence for the longest time. And I fear I’ve stuck my foot in my mouth. I really shouldn’t have said that—it implies that I, myself, have fallen in love with him.

“Well, they might be a little smitten with me…but I would never return the sentiment,” he deadpans. Just in case I didn’t get that he’s emotionally unavailable, he needs to drill it into me again.

I get it. You’re not mine. You will never be.

And I don’t want him to be. I’m a happily married woman. But sometimes, this pesky jealousy threatens to completely unhinge me.

I’m failing miserably at this casual sex thing.

An uncomfortable silence sets in as we eat our meals. The food goes down, but I don’t quite taste it. Why couldn’t I have kept the conversation light and fun? It
was
light and fun. But somehow, it took a sharp turn.

I really need to constantly remind myself of the fact that this arrangement is just about fun, excitement, and sex.

It’s not about love.

“What’s with the bed?” I ask with a sly smile. That canopy bed has been in my field of vision all through dinner, filling my subconscious with thoughts of sex and Weston…naked.

A slow smile stretches across his face. “That’s where I plan to play with you a little, after dessert.”

Oh my…please let’s skip dessert.

“Who needs dessert really?” I joke. “Just empty calories.”

He laughs. “You really need to work on your lack of patience, Mirella. And besides, those extra calories ensure those curves I love so much.”

“You’re going to force me to have dessert, aren’t you?”

He nods at me, a grin stretched across his face. Jessica clears our plates and asks us if we’re ready for dessert.

“Oh…you have no idea,” I say. “Make it quick please. I just can’t wait.”

Weston and I laugh, and Jessica looks at us with a strange expression, obviously not privy to our inside joke.

“I’m serious, Jessica. Bring it as fast as you can, please,” I call out as she makes her way back to the penthouse.

Weston laughs, clearly amused.

“I love the way you make me laugh.” The motion of his long finger sliding up and down the stem of his wine glass arouses me. Everything about him arouses me.

“I’m glad I can amuse you,” I say, my voice cool, trying to manage my out-of-control libido.

“You don’t even try,” he adds. “It’s just the way you are. Your mannerisms and quirks are quite charming.”

“I’m afraid most people wouldn’t agree,” I argue. “I think most people think I’m just a big spaz.”

He laughs. “I suppose it’s just me then.”

Jessica returns with martini-type glasses filled with chocolate mousse, covered with whipped cream and a myriad of berries—blueberries, raspberries, and blackberries.

“I moved as fast as I could,” she explains.

“Thank you. You have no idea how much I appreciate it,” I say, looking over at Weston who wears his devilish smile.

The sight of the dessert makes my mouth water—I truly don’t know what tempts me more—the dessert or Weston.

But lucky me, I get to enjoy both.

…tell me you don’t love him.

W
ESTON
S
LIDES
M
Y
S
WEATER
D
OWN
over my shoulder as he kisses me softly. I can feel the chill of the night and can’t wait to wrap myself in the heat of his body. His kiss is a little different tonight—tender, not hurried. Although I love his hungry, needy kiss, I enjoy this one just as much—somehow it feels more intimate…real. I slide my hands under his plaid shirt, feeling the heat of his skin on my fingers.

His breath hitches. “Your hands are freezing,” he mumbles into my mouth.

“Your body is so warm,” I say, a smile on my lips. I can’t wait to get him naked. I want him just as much as I did the first time we had sex. My body hasn’t tired of his—the desire has yet to dim.

I pull him to the canopy bed. The sheets are crisp and cold. The sensations of the cool sheets under me and his hot body over me are at odds, but the contrast is delicious. I enjoy the weight of him on me as he slides his hand under the skirt of my dress, his fingers toying with the lace of my panties. He pulls them down slowly as he trails kisses down my neck and at the top of my breasts.

“You are so…soft,” he whispers as he undoes the side zipper on my dress. He always seems to know exactly how to undress me. I see him observing me throughout the night, taking in every detail with his keen eye, probably visualizing how he’s going to get me naked at the end of the night. He pulls my dress off hungrily. He wants me—he’s losing his resolve. I’m almost naked, down to my pink cotton lace bra—and I’m freezing.

I rip his shirt open, the snap buttons giving in easily. I pull it off in a rush, aching to feel his warm chest on me. When he finally presses against me, it feels so wonderful—nothing could beat the sensation, short of having him completely buried inside me.

He pulls down the thick duvet and we climb in, taking refuge from the cold under the blankets. I unbuckle him and pull off his pants along with his boxers in one languid motion, slithering like a snake along the bed, under the haven of the fluffy duvet, in our own wonderful cocoon. I trail kisses back up along his leg and hip bone, teasing him.

He laughs.

“I can tease too,” I say with a cocky smile.

“Oh, I know.”

I find myself on top of him, my sex brushing against his erection. My body is so ready for his.

My breath is slightly unhinged when I whisper in his ear, “I want to…try one of those
Kuma Sutra
positions.” I have been thinking about it all night—the thought of it arouses me.

He laughs a little. “Kama
Sutra
,” he corrects me. “You do?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“What position would you like to try?” he asks, his voice eager.

“I’m not sure,” I say and finally confess the truth. “I don’t know anything about the
Kama Sutra
.”

“You want to try the ‘Lotus’?” he asks, his fingers trailing the edge of my jaw. “It’s my favorite.”

“That sounds exotic.”

“It’s very intimate,” he explains as he sits up. The duvet slides off and the cool chill of the night hits us. “Here, wrap your legs around me.” He sets my legs tightly around his hips and crosses his own. He reaches behind his back and hooks my feet behind him. We are sitting, tangled, eye to eye. And despite the cool air, I no longer feel cold, in the comfort of his arms wrapped around me.

Looking into his beautiful eyes, I ease onto him, despite the fact that I know he hasn’t put on a condom. I don’t mention it and neither does he. I don’t want anything separating us. I want to feel him completely.

He trails his finger along my spine, reaching the clasp of my bra and undoing it. My bra falls between us, and he leans his head into me, taking my breast in his mouth. I bury my face into the thick softness of his hair, delighting in the wonderful unique scent that is him.

We move in a slow sensual rhythm, kissing and occasionally pulling away to look at each other. His eyes seem to almost look through me, into my soul. I’m terrified.

That first moment, that spark…everything we’ve shared—every look, every word, every touch, culminates now.

I’ve always thought Gabe and I were soul mates, but now I don’t know anymore. Can someone have two soul mates? I’ve never been so confused.

“I feel whole with you,” he breathes into my ear.

My heart pounds.

I’ve fallen and have become completely unhinged—completely undone. I want him to know.

I know I shouldn’t, but before I can stop myself, the words are out of my mouth. “I love you,” I whisper, my words barely audible. Three little words. Three very powerful words.

He kisses me. His kiss is wild and frenzied, full of emotion and torment. He pushes into me harder, and I match his intensity, sinking deep into him.

We make love without a word.

I can hear his labored breathing, the climb to his climax. I’ve become familiar with his sounds and breathing patterns, and I hold him tight when he finally comes.

I don’t climax, but I don’t need to—the love making, in and of itself, is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.

We hold each other, and we don’t make a sound. He doesn’t mention the words I’ve said to him.

And he doesn’t repeat them.

My heart sinks.

I know I shouldn’t have said them. And I regret my impulsive behavior, but part of me is glad he knows. Tears falls down my cheek as I realize he doesn’t feel the same way. He’s still holding me, and he can’t see my tears as I wipe them away and will myself to stop crying—I can’t let him see me like this.

I hate myself for loving him.

We retreat to the warm comfort of each other under the covers. Neither of us utters a word. I lay in his arms, looking out at the skyline—glittering dots of light against the darkness. We don’t stay in bed too long before he tells me he’s going to take a shower and asks me if I’d like to join him.

At first, I decline, telling him I want to lie in bed a little longer.

“Are you sure?” he asks me. “Like I said, it’s an extraordinary shower…top of the line.”

Suddenly, as the chill of the night hits my shoulders, the idea of hot water streaming down on me sounds quite tempting.

“You’ve convinced me,” I announce, hopping from the bed. I wrap my arms around my breasts as I follow him to the penthouse—I’m pretty sure no one is looking, but I’m not taking any chances.

Weston fiddles with the digital buttons on the panel outside the shower.

“At my house, all I need to do is turn on the faucet and pull out the shower thingie,” I joke. “Why do you make your life so complicated?”

He laughs. My gaze travels from his smile to his glorious naked body, and despite the fact that we
just
made love, I want him again.

“It should be about right,” he says and urges me to walk into the spacious shower stall. The water feels wonderful and the pressure is just right, delightful in fact. It sure beats that poor-excuse-for-a-shower I have at home. I’m amazed by all the jets, including the large round stream over top. I mentally scold myself for falling victim to the pleasures of luxury. The incredible mosaic artwork draws my attention again, and as I stand admiring it, I feel Weston’s hands wrap around my belly. His touch sends a current through me, and I desperately want him to take me, right here in the shower. I arch my back and rest my head against his chest, enjoying the sensation of the water falling on me.

His hands travel over my hips, my stomach, and my breasts. My nipples are erect against the palm of his hands. I wonder what he has in mind for this shower. Is he planning to make love to me again?

“You didn’t climax earlier, did you?” he asks me, trailing his hand to the wet curls between my legs.

His touch feels so good.

“No,” I confess, my voice raspy. “But I didn’t need to. It was still amazing.”

“But…that’s simply not acceptable,” he whispers in my ear, gently rubbing me. “We’ll have to rectify that.”

Please…yes, rectify that.

I am fully aroused and ready for whatever he has in mind. But then, he pulls away slowly and leaves me hanging.

“Weston…please,” I plead. I can’t believe I’m about to beg again—I’m shameless.

He pulls out the removable shower head and has me lean my back against him. He slides his wet hand under my thigh and props my leg on the shower bench.

“Now this shower head is top of the line…four zone-eight setting massaging feature.” He teases my thighs and stomach with the jet stream. It feels fantastic, and I ache for him to bring it between my legs—my sex is almost begging for it.

But he doesn’t…he teases me.

The stream hits about every part of my body but the one I desperately want it to hit.

“Weston,” I cry out.

“I don’t think we’re fooling anyone though,” he says. “We all know what this is really for.” He aims the stream directly at my sweet spot, and I arch against him.

The sensation is fantastic.

“Please, don’t
ever
stop,” I breathe.

“You like this pressure?”

I nod, not quite able to speak.

“How about this?” he asks, and the pressure increases—the soft stream becomes a pulsating jet, and it feels mind-blowing.

“Oh…sweet heavens.”

“You like that?” he teases. “I thought you might,” he says, pulling the stream away.

Oh no…you don’t.

“Don’t you dare,” I scold, grabbing his wrist.

He stops fooling around.

The pulsating pressure brings me to the edge at record speed. As I near it, I moan loudly, knowing it will be an incredible release.

“I want you to let go,” Weston breathes into my ear. “I want to hear you.”

What Weston wants, Weston gets.

I cry out loudly, like I never have—the sound of the shower muffles my moans.

Spent, I lean against Weston who wraps his arms around me.

“You enjoyed that immensely,” he says softly.

“I did.”

And as he holds me, I tell myself I don’t care if he doesn’t love me, as long as he keeps making me feel this way.

That’s what I tell myself.

The radio is on, the reception scratchy as I mill about in the kitchen working on dinner—nothing special—chicken stir-fry. Gabe is reading the paper in the living room and I’m not sure where the girls are, but as long as I don’t hear them fighting, I’m happy.

It’s an ordinary day at the Keates household, but that’s about to change.

I’m standing over the stove, stirring the vegetables and chicken, and I don’t see Claire sneaking up behind me.

“Mommy, who’s this man?” she asks, her high-pitched six-year old voice carries across the kitchen.

My heart stammers.

I turn around to see her holding a photo of Weston and I—one of the selfies we took at Lincoln Park—the one I printed and kept in my jewelry box, in the bottom slit, along with Weston’s e-mail. I
thought
I had hidden them so well.

“Claire, what were you doing in my jewelry box?” I hiss. “I’ve told you before not to touch my things.”

The pout makes its appearance, along with the teary eyes—she’s about to cry—I feel horrible. Claire has never taken reprimand very well. I rarely yell or scold her.

“I’m sorry, Claire,” I say, my voice soft.

Gabe dashes into the kitchen. “What is she talking about?”

I take a step back, my back pressed against the stove.

He tears the photo from Claire’s pudgy hand. “Can I see that?” His face falls when he sees it—a close-up of Weston and I, huddled together, smiling brightly at the camera, our features soft, Weston’s eyes a brilliant green.

“What?” is all he says—he’s shattered. “When did you take this?”

“On one of our dates.” I try to sound casual—like the photo doesn’t mean anything at all.

But I think he knows better.

“We went to Lincoln Park, and I brought my camera to shoot photos of the park and we just—”

“Why did you print it?”

“Uh…” I’m without words.

He glares at me. “Why do you keep it in your jewelry box?”

I knew I shouldn’t have printed it. I knew I should have just left the photos on my laptop, hidden carefully in a buried folder.

“You two look…” he trails off. “You look like you’re in love.”

I don’t know what to say.

He darts off upstairs.

“Gabe,” I yell after him, trailing him up the stairs. I know where he’s going.

He turns the corner into our bedroom, into our walk-in closet where I keep my jewelry box.

It sits open on the floor, its contents poured out. Just as I feared, Gabe spots the folded up sheet of paper and grabs it before I can stop him.

“Gabe,” I plead as he unfolds it. “It’s not what you think.”

But it is—it’s exactly what he thinks.

He reads the e-mail from Weston—the one where he asks for a photo of me, and tells me I’m beautiful.

He rakes his hand through his hair, his mouth a hard line. I realize why Weston has these rules in place—no communication, no gifts, and no intimacy.

It all makes sense.

I see pain on his face like I have never seen before. Gabe is always so strong and stoic—he doesn’t wear his emotions on his sleeve—but this…this has cut him.