by Roya Carmen
“I really don’t wish to carry on all night,” Weston goes on, trailing a finger along the bottom of his glass, wiping the sweat off. I get aroused at the sight.
Damn. What the hell is wrong with me?
“I just wanted to go over Mirella’s concerns, and any concerns you might have as well, Gabe.”
For some reason, the sound of my husband’s name on his lips sounds completely wrong.
“And Bridget and I also wanted to take this opportunity to apologize for the way we terminated our arrangement,” he adds, his gaze shifting to Bridget. “We took the wrong approach.”
Yes, you did.
He turns to me. “And we’re deeply sorry.”
“Water under the bridge,” Gabe says lightheartedly and shoots me another smile—let’s get past this, it says.
I sit up straighter. “Yes, let’s forget all about that and just get on with this meeting.” Thoughts of that miserable meeting still work me up. It still makes my blood boil.
Weston clears his throat. “Yes, of course.” He wipes his hands with a brown napkin and presses them both against the beautiful wooden table. His wedding ring gleams under the light, and it seems it’s all I can look at. An internal struggle builds. Are we all doing the same mistakes again? Are we all fucking with our lives?
“Monogamy,” he starts, “that one is non-negotiable.” He shoots a look up at Gabe, almost as if he doesn’t quite trust him.
We all nod in agreement, not uttering a single word.
“Discretion,” he goes on, “status quo.” He smiles in my direction—a whisper of a smile—I suspect he knows I haven’t quite followed that rule to a “T.”
“I guess the memoir I was working on is out of the question, then,” Gabe jokes. Weston smiles. He’s warning up to him. I love it.
“Respect,” Weston carries on, “I believe we’ve all adhered to this rule. I suppose Bridget and I have faltered a little in the way we ended things.”
I’m touched by the fact that he seems to be genuinely remorseful about how the “breakup” was handled. And I realize I was guilty too. Throwing a briefcase at someone’s head is not exactly respectful.
“Appropriate contact is what I really wanted to discuss tonight. Basically, communications will no longer go through Kathryn. Mirella and I will communicate with each other,” he says to Gabe. “And you and Bridget as well.”
“Sure,” Gabe says.
Weston shifts in his seat, still staring down at his beer. “But I wanted to add that all communications should be limited to scheduling dates.”
So, no sexting. Pity.
I slouch a little. He’s such a stiff. A little phone sex could have been fun.
“And if you two have any suggestions for outings or restaurants, we’d love to hear them.”
Bridget smiles wide. “Yes, Weston and I both tend to be control freaks, but that doesn’t mean we should make all the decisions.”
I’m not too sure what to say. Yes, they are both control freaks, especially Weston.
Then Weston turns to Bridget and smiles. “And Bridget and I would like us to all be friends. Go out as a group like this occasionally.”
She suddenly perks up. “Perhaps we can even travel together as well,” she suggests. “Weston and I have discussed this thoroughly.”
I think my eyes bulge out of my head for a second. I turn to look at Gabe who seems as taken aback as I am.
“We travel all the time with other couples, acquaintances and friends,” Weston tells us.
“Yes,” Bridget chimes in, still perky. “I completely get bored when it’s just Weston and I and the kids.”
“It seems Bridget always finds willing participants. Thankfully, we have a lot of room for guests.”
“That…uh…sounds great,” I say, wondering how in the hell that would even work.
Weston’s gaze rests on me and I see that familiar longing. When he looks at me like that, I just melt. “You two are very dear to us, and we want to treat you with the utmost respect, and we want to make you happy.”
I mull over his words. “What about our families?” I venture cautiously. This is a very sticky subject.
He breathes in deeply, and I know he’s having a hard time with this one. “Well, I wouldn’t encourage frequent play-dates, but yes, as long as we’re all extremely discreet, our children can meet one day.”
“Our daughters would probably get along well,” Bridget points out. “They’re the same age.”
My gaze settles on her perfectly manicured hands; the tips of her slender fingers a bright pink. I can’t seem to look at her when we speak of our children. Part of me feels we are betraying them all just by having this conversation. “Yes, probably,” I agree in a whisper.
“Think of it this way,” Weston goes on, “there are two facets of our relationship, equally important, and separately contained.” His words are almost lost on me as my attention is pulled by the sight of his beautiful lips. “Our friendship. And our sexual relationship. The two must absolutely be mutually exclusive for this to work.”
“Yes, of course,” I say. “That goes without saying.”
We all remain silent for a beat, lost in the noise of the crowd.
“And how ’bout rule number five?” Gabe asks. “What about that one, sir?”
I’m taken aback. Thus far, Gabe has been on his best behavior, sitting quietly, enjoying his beer. I look up at him, wondering if he knows more than he lets on.
Weston sits up straighter and jerks his head to the side, clearly unsettled. “Y-Yes, that rule sticks too,” he says, all business. “We all keep our emotions in check.”
The master rule maker has definitely broken that one…about a million times.
“This is just sex,” Gabe says. “Plain and simple, right?” he adds with a devilish smirk.
Weston stares down at his beer, not quite looking at him. “Yes, exactly, Gabe,” he says, his voice almost a whisper.
Chapter Eight
I am his play-thing tonight.
OUR FIRST DATE. AGAIN. Our second “first date.” I’m not sure where Weston is taking me. I don’t even care. I’m not even hungry. I just want…
I’m aroused as I slip on the only thong I own—a frilly lacy black affair. I never wear it. I’ve only done so once or twice for Gabe. I’m not sure why I don’t like thongs. I know lots of women wear them. It’s just another one of my many funny quirks, I suppose.
But tonight, I want to arouse him. I want him to want me like he’s never wanted anyone else. The matching bra is pretty too—black lace and sheer fabric. My nipples are already hard just at the thought of being with him.
Gabe has just left, looking dashing. I felt a pang of jealousy, watching him get ready. He asked me what I was going to wear. I told him about the little black silk dress and cherry covered cardigan.
“The cute one I like?” he asked.
“Yes.” And then I stood on the tip of my toes and I kissed him—a soft peck on the cheek.
He smiled. His eyes were beautiful. That’s the last thing I remember. “Be careful,” he said.
I button up my cardigan and pin a silver angel brooch just above my heart, perhaps hoping it will protect it.
I study my reflection one last time as I anticipate the night to come.
We meet at a little French restaurant. It’s very intimate and romantic.
I can’t even seem to eat a thing. I wiggle in my seat all through dinner, not quite used to my new thong. Weston asks me repeatedly if I’m enjoying myself. Am I liking the food? Was the restaurant a good choice? What about the wine?
He’s driving me bonkers.
“Yes, it’s all amazing, Weston,” I finally blurt out. “But to be completely honest with you, I could really do without the opening ceremonies tonight.”
He stares down at his plate and nods. Twice. Very slowly.
Oh damn. I’ve gone and put my foot in my mouth again.
He’s gone through all this troubl
e trying to please me, and here I am, complaining. I desperately need to apologize. But just as I’m about to speak, he slowly lifts his gaze to mine, a perfectly wicked smile stretched across his face. “I understand. Let’s get the bill, shall we?”
We’re moving fast, our boots splashing in the slush puddles as we exit the town car. We zoom past the concierge desk and round the corner to the sleek stainless steel elevators—our reflection blurry—his tall dark frame holding my lollipop pink one.
Weston doesn’t waste any time. He presses me against the elevator wall and trails kisses down my neck. I close my eyes, praying for the ride to his floor to be fast. And it is.
In no time, we’re in his suite.
Our mouths are practically glued together.
“I think we should get out of these clothes,” I manage to say between kisses, breathless.
He trails his teeth softly along the edge of my jaw. “Definitely.”
We claw at each other, pulling each other’s coats off. I pull my mouth from his just long enough to tear his soft cashmere sweater off. His skin is smooth and hot against my hands. I kiss his chest, trailing my tongue down. He tastes so sweet I could just devour him. He pulls me back up to him, and kisses me again. He plays with the button of my cherry covered cardigan. “I’ve missed this,” he whispers.
“Me too,” I tell him, breathless. He has no idea just how much.
“That meeting was excruciating,” he says. “I wanted you so badly.”
My core heats at his words. “Me too. You have no idea. I wanted you to drag me to the washroom, rip off my panties and have your wicked way with me.”
His laughter is soft when he says, “Well, I was thinking more along the lines of running my hand through your hair and pressing my mouth against your beautiful neck.”
I laugh. “You’re such a romantic. I’m a little dirtier than you, I guess.”
“Oh, I can be very dirty too if that’s what you want.”
I stare right into his dark stunning eyes. “Yes. That’s what I want.”
Damn, it’s already happening.
I vowed I wouldn’t let Weston get to me anymore. I’m not falling for him again. This is finally about sex for me. Like he said, “This is about sex. Plain and simple.”
I’m so aroused, I can barely think straight. “I want to fuck,” I finally manage, my words barely a whisper, “I want to fuck, hard and long. I want you to make me come.”
His eyes darken at my words. He’s speechless. Although he’s not usually impressed with vulgar language, he certainly has no problems with it tonight. “Uh…” he falters, “perfect. We’re on the same page.”
As he fiddles with the buttons on my cardigan, his fingers are actually shaking. “God, I’m all thumbs. I just can’t wait to get you naked.”
I bite down a laugh as I trace a line down his stomach with the tip of my finger.
He abandons my sweater and trails his hands under the skirt of my black dress. His fingers toy with the soft fabric of my stockings. He reaches up to the waistband and wraps his hands around me so deliciously. He completely floors me when he pulls the stockings down over my rear in a single swift move, his mouth still glued to mine. I stand against the wall, in a compromised position, my stockings bunched up just above the knees.
He strokes the inside of my thigh with a peculiar expression on his face…lust, longing, nostalgia. “I’ve missed touching you there,” he breathes. I’m not sure if he’s teasing again but he’s certainly driving me wild.
“It’s the softest part of you,” he says, his fingers trailing up slowly, so slowly. I close my eyes, delighting in the sensation of his touch. The tip of his finger moves softly back and forth against the sensitive skin. I’m so responsive. His touch is off the charts. He strokes me over my panties and I already feel the pressure building. He owns me again.
He trails his finger along the string of my thong. “God, Mirella. What are you wearing?”
“You like it?”
His finger teases me still. “I love it,” he practically growls as he kisses the hollow of my neck softly. “You’ve never worn one before.”
“I wore it for you. To please you.”
He grabs my face with a soft hand, and his eyes fix on me, unrelenting. “You shouldn’t try to please me, Mirella. You should always please yourself first.”
“But I wanted to please you.”
He smiles, a deliciously wicked grin. “I don’t need you in a thong to be pleased, Mirella. I just need you naked.”
I smile at his words. Such a one-track mind.
“Do you enjoy wearing it?” he asks, curious. “Does it make you feel sexy?”
I bite my lip. “Actually, I hate it. It’s been bugging me all night. I just can’t seem to get used to it.”
He laughs out loud—the sound rarely heard, but so damn amazing. “Well, let’s fix that little problem, shall we,” he says as he pulls my thong down with a quick grasp of his hand.
He stares at me, an impish smile plastered across his beautiful face. “Better?”
I smile. “Much.”
I’m dying.
I want him so badly.
And I’m pretty sure he realizes this, but I can tell he wants to play with me a little. His fingers find their way to my sweet spot again and he teases still.
I open my eyes and catch him watching me. His expression is intense and focused. A hint of a smile plays on his lips. This is a man who loves every second of this, he truly gets off on pleasuring me and watching me react to his touch.
His eyes seem to darken when he slips his fingers through my wet lips and penetrates me.
Oh my.
I can’t believe him.
His intense stare doesn’t leave me for a second. He pulls in and out in a fluid motion, his eyes still not leaving me.
He knows he owns me.
I close my eyes, my breathing getting away from me. “God, Weston,” I manage to say between ragged breaths. As I feel myself nearing the edge, I’m resistant. I pull at his arm, not sure I want to come apart this way, in his hand.
“Let go. I want to make you climax. I want to watch you.”
I close my eyes and fall limp. I let out a soft whimper as the sensation overtakes me. “Har-harder,” I plead.
He presses his palm hard against me, his fingers pushing hard and deep into me, his eyes still fixed on my face. “This is the spot,” he breathes. “I can feel it. Right there.”
Right, that is definitely the spot. It feels so good. The man certainly knows what he’s doing. I can feel myself getting closer and closer. I moan as I breathe in his warm skin, my whimpers loud and almost animalistic in the eerily quiet room. I bury my face against his chest, not wanting him to see me come apart.
“Y-Yes…like that…” I breathe, my words buried in his shoulder. I hold on tight to him, my body clinging to his, my hips pressing into his hand, out of control.
He cups my chin with his free hand, and forces me to face him. “I want you to look at me.”
Oh, God.
There’s something very intimate about him staring into my eyes while he’s making me come. We are definitely not starting on the right foot.
I give in and let the waves of pleasure overtake me, my pleasure evident in my anguished moans. He watches me close, delighting in the control he has over me at this very moment. I’m utterly, fully pliable in his hands…literally.
When I’m finally brought back down to earth, he slides his fingers out of me gently. And I find myself completely self-conscious. This isn’t how I had pictured our first sexual encounter, after all these months; leaning uncomfortably against a wall, stockings bunched up above the knees.
I pull at my stockings, not quite able to look at him. “Uh…” I stammer, “thank you.” As soon as I say it, I blush and stare down at my feet, mortified. Did I really just thank him for getting me off?
He smiles at me, obviously charmed by my reaction. “You’re feeling ill at ease?”
“A little,” I confess, still not quite able to look at him.
“Don’t,” he says as he grabs my face, forcing me to look at him again. “You were beautiful. It’s a completely natural thing. There’s absolutely nothing to be ashamed of.”
But unfortunately, that’s not what I was taught in Sunday school.
He’s right. It’s human nature, I remind myself as I grab the waistband of his pants. “Your turn,” I whisper, a sly smile on my lips.
I lead him over to the bedroom, our soggy boots still on. I sit on the edge of the bed and pull him down to me.
We kiss deeply as I free him from his pants. He’s hard…and beautiful. I wrap my hand around him and he closes his eyes, a hint of a smile on his face. I know he wants this just as much as I do. It’s my turn to tease.
We kiss for the longest time. But I want more. I flip over him, and trail my tongue over his chest, licking softly.
He moans and laughs at the same time. “You’re very goal oriented,” he says as he pulls back over me. Frantic, he pulls off my thong and stockings at lightning speed. But he hits a stumbling block when he gets to my boots—the zipper sticks. I bite down a laugh. He’s frazzled. He’s not taking it slow anymore. There’s a great urgency about him.
When the boots, stockings and thong are all finally off, he comes back over me, kisses me deeply, and bites my bottom lip softly.
God, he is such an amazing kisser. I could get lost in this forever.
He pulls off my cardigan and presses his mouth against my shoulder, kisses that small mole he likes. My mouth reaches for his again because I can’t stop kissing him, but I can’t quite get there. He’s too busy undressing me. He pulls my silk dress over my head.
I finally manage to steal a kiss or two. He heads south and kisses my breast just above the lace of my bra. I bury my face in his soft hair and breathe in his familiar earthy scent.
How I’ve missed this.
He unclasps my lace bra, cups my breast in his hand, licks circles around my nipple and finally takes my breast in his mouth. It feels amazing, but I pull him up to me again. God, I just want to kiss him.
His kiss is soft and unhurried. I’m surprised he’s so calm and patient. I’ve yet to make him come.
