by Roya Carmen
Following dinner, we walk along the beach, for what seems like hours, into the pitch darkness of the night. Gabe and I are holding hands, under Weston’s scrutiny. He is my husband, I almost want to point out.
Gabe has been very touchy-feely all week, not so much in a sweet “I-love-you-so-much” way, but rather in an infantile “she’s-mine-back-off” way. And from my observations, I can see Weston is not too impressed with this behavior. I don’t particularly enjoy seeing him with Bridget either, but that’s my cross to bear.
We venture into a classy martini lounge. The crowd is full of twenty-somethings mostly. I’m feeling a little old, but not a single one of us four seems out of place. Who knows, the crowd might even think we’re twenty-somethings.
We follow Weston into the crowded lounge. The ambiance is sensual…exciting. And the DJ is awesome, a current hit blasts from the speakers. I get the urge to dance. I’m not sure if Weston and Bridget are dancers, but I know I have a dancing partner in Gabe. The man can move like nobody’s business.
Speaking of business, we get right to it and order colorful martinis. I choose the key lime pie. We sit at the bar and chat for a while. I’m not sure how he manages this, but within minutes, Gabe has two young brunettes draped on either side of him.
Some young gorgeous Brad Pitt look-alike chats up Bridget. She appears unimpressed, but seems to be humoring him.
Weston studies the crowd, all by his lonesome. There are no harpies hanging off him, which is understandable since he always has a standoffish look about him. Don’t even think about it, it says. I’m way too good for you.
Every woman in the room can probably tell he’s wound pretty tight. I almost want to get off my stool and loosen him up a little. Maybe after a few martinis, he’ll relax a smidge. He shoots me a look every now and then. I’m not sure why he’s not speaking to me. He’s barely said three words to me all night. And I’m not sure why I’m not speaking to him. I think I’m afraid if I talk to him, we’ll end up doing naughty things in the club washroom.
But this is utterly ridiculous. I finally summon the courage to reach out to him. I stand and walk over to him. His gaze takes me in from head to toe, all in. I tilt my head and swallow. “Would you like to go dance?” I ask, struggling to say the words, I’m walking out on a limb.
“I don’t dance,” he says, without elaboration, no “I’m sorry,” no explanation.
Well, if he wants to play it that way, fine with me. I set my martini down on the bar. “Well, if you’re just going to sit there like a bozo, watch my clutch and my drink, will ya?”
He glares at me. “Sure.”
I shimmy my way to the dance floor and spot Bridget smiling at me. I wave her over, hoping she likes to dance. She joins me, relief flooding her face.
“Thank you.” She leans in to say in my ear.
“For what?”
“For rescuing me from that guy,” she shouts in my ear as she sways into the crowd. Her body is languid and sexy in her sequined tank and tight white capris.
“Why did you need rescuing?” I ask, screaming back. “He was pretty hot.”
“Yes.” She laughs. “And young. And off-limits. Gabe is the only other man I’m allowed to touch, unfortunately.”
Unfortunately? But, surely, two gorgeous men must be enough, I muse.
And here I thought I was a tramp.
“He didn’t seem to notice your wedding band,” I point out, slightly catty.
“Most men don’t.”
They do with me. Men never hit on me. But then again, I’m not Bridget.
I move to the rhythm, enjoying the music. I close my eyes and feel the beat deep within me. I’m almost in a trance when I spot Weston watching us, focused, a hint of a wicked smile on his face. And he’s not watching my stuff like I asked. Some asshole could be dropping a roofie in my drink or stealing all my cash, and Weston would have no idea.
But I like the way he’s watching me. I like it a lot.
He’s not looking at Bridget. He’s watching me…like he has all night.
I close my eyes and fantasize; he walks over to me, grabs my hand and drags me to a private room, where he proceeds to hike up my dress, peel off my panties and fuck me hard against the wall.
I open my eyes and he’s still watching me. Unfortunately, I’m still dancing on the dance floor and my panties are still on…a little moist, but still there.
Damn you, Weston Hanson, you are such a tease.
I look away. Gabe is dancing with the two brunettes, and he’s being a little too friendly, as usual. What is it with him? Doesn’t he know he can’t play like that? That’s strictly against the rules.
But he loves to play.
He spots me and Bridget and makes his way to us, dragging his girlfriends along. I suppose he doesn’t want to be rude. How very gallant of him.
“You two are looking good. This is Jessica and Kelly,” he tells us, introducing the two brunettes, who both don’t look a day over twenty-three.
“Hi,” they say, moving their bodies in that really hip way only young girls can.
“This is my wife, Mirella, and my girlfriend, Bridget,” Gabe tells them. Both girls look stunned, slack-jawed and wide-eyed.
I can’t believe him, spilling all our secrets.
“You sure have your hands full tonight, juggling the four of us,” I tease him.
He smiles and grabs me by the waist, leaning in to whisper in my ear. “But you’re my favorite, Ella.” My heart skips a beat at his words. Yes, he still makes my heart skip.
He pulls me close against him, completely breaking the five-some. It seems there’s just us two on the dance floor.
“You look fuckin’ amazing in that dress,” he breathes against my ear. “I can’t wait to have you later.”
If I weren’t already so turned on, his words would set me on fire. “Me too,” I finally manage to croak out.
He presses and grinds against me, in a smooth seductive motion, his lips trailing against my neck. We move in unison, swaying sensually from side to side, to the beat of the music. I close my eyes and delight in the feel of him close against me. I feel him hard against my belly and I almost want to call it a night, and run back to the villa with him.
I open my eyes to see Weston fixing us with his gaze. He hasn’t moved an inch all night. He’s so serious looking, I’m almost tempted to walk up to him and tell him to chill and come dance.
But he doesn’t dance. He’s made that quite clear.
It seems I’ve been abandoned. Gabe and Bridget are at the bar, sipping drinks. And Gabe’s girlfriends have disappeared, they probably realized he already had a threesome going.
But I want to stay and dance.
I move to the rhythm, swaying my hips sensually, my body fully in touch with the music. I’m feeling good; the white wine and martinis coursing through my veins. I’m almost in a trance when I spot Weston watching me still…focused.
He obviously likes to watch me dance.
And I like to be watched.
I sway my hips lower to the ground and hike up the skirt of my dress. I see a hint of a smile on his face, his eyes still fixed on me. I sway my head back and forth, letting my hair bounce slowly against my shoulders. I close my eyes and bite my bottom lip. In my mind, he’s all over me. I imagine him grinding against me, his soft long fingers under the skirt of my dress, his mouth on my shoulder.
I open my eyes. He’s still watching me. And he seems just as aroused as I am.
I close my eyes again and feel his gaze on me, delighting in that sensation, and the beat of the music. But within a beat or two, I sense him gone. I open my eyes to see him standing beside Bridget. He whispers something in her ear. I really hope he’s not planning to take her to a private room and take her against a wall—that’s my fantasy.
He makes a beeline for me, zeroing in on me, his gaze focused. His expression is heart attack serious, his mouth a hard line, he almost seems upset with me. I wonder what I’ve done
to get his undies in such a bunch.
“Come with me,” he almost barks.
Yes, maybe he’s had his fill of watching me and just can’t wait to take me to the private room.
He drags me through the crowd, out of the club. “It’s time for you to go home.”
What? Who the hell does he think he is?
“You can’t tell me when to leave. You’re not the boss of me. Geez.”
“You have a long flight tomorrow,” he points out. “And trust me, you don’t want a hangover,” he adds as he pulls me by the hand toward the sleek Escalade parked not too far away.
“But I haven’t had that much to drink,” I argue.
“My point exactly. Better stop while you’re ahead and get a good night’s sleep.”
“Who are you? My mother?”
“No, unlike your mother, I care about you.”
Wow, low blow. What the hell is wrong with him?
“You’re a real jerk,” I tell him as our driver opens the door for us, discreetly averting his gaze. “I’m not sure why I even like you sometimes,” I tell him as I buckle my seat belt, like a good girl. He smiles, that sweet shy smile of his. Yep. There it is, the reason I like him so much. “Well, at least we’re talking now. You’ve barely said two words to me all night,” I say.
Of course, he doesn’t say a single thing in response. It seems he’s still not speaking to me.
“Gabe and Bridget are hanging back?” I ask.
He smiles. “No rest for the wicked, as they say.” He says this almost like he knows they will be up to no good. And this doesn’t seem to faze him in the least. I don’t understand him. When I think about them together, it certainly doesn’t bring a smile to my face. Generally, I just try not to think about them at all.
“You’ve had yourself a good time tonight,” he says, not quite looking at me.
“Well, I was having a good time, until Mr. Buzzkill came storming in.”
He laughs. “I’m sorry to always be the voice of reason. We can’t all be as carefree as your husband.”
Weston almost never says “Gabe.” He always refers to Gabe as “your husband.” I’m not sure why. Maybe uttering his name makes him more real, gives him more importance. Or maybe he’s reminding me I’m married, or reminding himself, possibly.
“You should try it sometime,” I venture, “being carefree. It’s fun.”
He eyes me with a stern expression. “I didn’t achieve all I have by being carefree, Mirella.”
I stare him down for a second or two. He’s just so damn arrogant. “You are such a stiff.”
“Oh, am I?” he scoffs and I can almost see the fumes emanating from his head. He’s angry. I’m really getting to him. “I’m not so stiff when I’m pinning you against a wall.” He turns to look me straight in the eye. “When I’m finger deep in you, making you come, when my face is buried in your pussy.”
My jaw drops. I’ve never heard him speak like this before.
He smiles, pleased by my reaction. “It’s what you like, isn’t it? Dirty talk. I wager Gabe is very skilled at filthy conversation.”
I’m speechless. The man certainly knows how to shut a person up.
We ride the rest of the way in absolute complete silence.
Chapter Eighteen
You’ve been toying with me all week.
WESTON PULLS ME UP THE STAIRS without a sound. I haven’t said a thing since he uttered the word “pussy.” Our conversation in the car was kind of unsettling, but kind of hot.
He leads me to the door at the end of the hall. As he opens the door and leads me in, I can see it’s another guest room. It’s dark and I can barely see a thing with the exception of the moonlight streaming through the window.
“Stay right there,” he says as he walks over to the door, locks it and dims the lights. The room comes alive in the warm glow of the light; a heavenly bed covered in sky blue linens, a large headboard of planked driftwood, soft hues abound. This room is just as romantic as all the other ones.
I’m filled with anticipation. He hasn’t brought me to my room. He hasn’t put me to bed. I know why we’re here. I want to throw myself at him, but I respect his boundaries and I don’t even dare utter a word. He’s been behaving so oddly it’s almost disconcerting.
I stand in the middle of the room, trembling a little. He walks in lazy circles around me, watching me intently. I’m motionless, I’m breathless. His gaze sweeps over me, in that same intense way it has all night. He seems focused…resolute. I wonder what he has in mind for us.
He finally speaks. “That trampy little dress of yours, it’s been distracting me all night,” he tells me with a perplexing smile. “And I don’t get distracted very easily.”
I shoot him a sly grin. “That was the idea.”
“That’s not the kind of dress I approve of,” he adds, serious.
I almost want to laugh. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
He bites his bottom lip and I take this as a sign to make my move. I know we’re not supposed to be doing this, but he’s being so damned sexy.
I take a tentative step toward him.
“Don’t move an inch,” he says, his tone all business. He keeps trailing slow circles around me, his intense stare not leaving me. He’s starting to unsettle me. Here I am, standing in the middle of the room, wondering what he wants with me. I’m beginning to doubt he wants to have sex, he would have surely made a move by now. He seems upset with me. I’m not sure if I’m in trouble. I turn my head back to look at him behind me.
“I told you not to move,” he snaps, slowly making his way around me.
I realize I have free will, he can’t tell me what to do—nobody can. But I am curious. I want to see how all this plays out. He’s acting so peculiar. I’ve never seen him like this.
He finally stops dead center in front of me. He’s so close, about a foot or two from me. I could almost touch him—if only I were allowed to move.
“You’ve been toying with me all week, Mirella,” he says, his words unbelievably sensual.
“Have I?”
He smiles that sexy grin I love. “Don’t be coy. You know exactly what I’m alluding to.”
There’s something about this moment—the room, the moonlight, his sleek dark presence, his smooth voice in the still eerie silence, the words he’s saying to me—it’s impossibly erotic. I want him to reach out and touch me, but I don’t dare ask.
My heart pounds as I say, “You seemed to enjoy the entertainment last night.” The words sliding off my tongue, smooth and silky. I’m feeling bold.
“Yes,” he says softly, the word barely a whisper. “One could most certainly say that.”
He takes off his jacket slowly, not taking his eyes off me. He finally pulls his gaze away to go hang his jacket on the back of the desk chair. I don’t dare move. When he makes his way back to me, he fixes me again with his gaze, without the slightest hint of humor.
“You enjoyed me watching you with him.”
I can’t lie. He reads me too well. I’m utterly transparent to him. “I did. It was so…”
“Sensual,” he says, with that make-you-melt smile. “Did it excite you, Mirella? My eyes fixed on you?” he asks, his eyes almost black, heavy.
I can’t seem to answer him. I don’t want to admit it, not even to myself. The room is dead silent, and still. I wonder why we’re here. I have a pretty good idea. I can feel the heat in the room, despite the cool air.
“Yes, very much,” I admit, and then I ask him something I’ve been curious about. “It didn’t bother you, seeing me with him?”
He doesn’t quite look at me, mulling the question over, perhaps calculating an appropriate answer, undoubtedly something vaguely appropriate and slightly cryptic, and all the while, looking devastatingly beautiful in his black dress button up dress shirt and slim dark pants hanging off his hips, just right.
“It did,” he finally manages. “I don’t like the idea of anyone else making you come.�
�� A hint of a smile plays on his lips as he goes on. “But he’s your husband and as much as I’d like to imagine he’s hopeless in bed and never makes you climax, I think I know better.” He bends his head and closes his eyes, seemingly not able to quite look at me when he says, “Your husband inside of you, you watching me watching you, it was astoundingly erotic.”
I’m shocked. I’m stunned by his openness. This is a man who’s usually so closed off. And now he’s letting me in.
Damn, this conversation is hot.
Neither of us utters a word. Silence fills the eerily quiet room.
I wonder what’s going on in his mind. What he wants. Why he hasn’t come to me.
“That husband of yours,” he finally says, “he’s what one would call a ‘bad boy.’”
I smile.
Yes, he is.
And then it hits me. The reason Weston is acting so peculiar, so unlike himself, so alpha. He’s jealous. Insanely jealous. Seeing me with Gabe all week must be driving him mad. And I like that. I don’t know why, but I love it. I love the fact that he’s acting so territorial. It’s such a turn-on.
“A little,” I finally say with a coy smile. “He has his moments.”
“You enjoy that?”
I think about it for a moment. I suppose I do. “What do you consider yourself, Weston? A bad boy or a good boy?”
He pauses and scratches his chin. “A good boy,” he says with a wicked smile, “of course.”
A mischievous grin stretches across my face. “Of course. I enjoy my men both good and bad, I suppose. I like to mix it up.”
“You are a wicked girl,” he says with that familiar expression. He’s going to pounce, very soon.
Splendid. We are here to screw. I was starting to wonder.
I slide the tip of my finger along my bottom lip. “Are you planning on kissing me anytime soon?”
