by Roya Carmen
“I like it when you undress me,” he says.
“Me too.”
His gaze lingers on me as I undo the buttons of his vest, one by one, neither of us uttering a word.
He looks at me that same way still; eyes soft, a hint of a smile, adoration in his eyes. This feels so intimate. Way too intimate.
“You know this isn’t PG like your little scenario earlier,” I point out. “This is X-rated, baby.”
He smiles. His grin as wide as can be.
I kiss him gently on the cheek. “You can fuck me any which way you want.”
His eyes darken. “I plan to,” he breathes, pulling me to him in a frenzied kiss.
And it starts.
His tongue teases mine. My moans drown in his mouth. He pulls the waist tie and takes my breast in his mouth. As good as it feels, I pull away. I want to undress him. I work furiously at his buttons. So many buttons. As sexy as suits are, plain T-shirts are a lot easier when it comes to sex.
When I finally get him half naked, I slide my mouth along his chest, to his navel, delighting in his sweet, salty taste.
He pulls my robe off.
I pull his pants and boxers down, and take him in my mouth, just briefly. I pull away and tease him a little, just as he did me.
He groans.
I pull off his pants and his socks. I slide all over him, like a slithery eel, both our bodies fully naked and ready. I kiss his chest, lick his nipple softly. He likes that. He always moans when I do it.
He flips me over on the bed, and looms over me. He looks at me again, in that familiar way; his eyes soft, kind, searching. When he gazes at me like this, it makes me feel so much closer to him. There’s a certain intimacy in that look that I can’t quite handle. It scares me. I turn from him, onto my front, pressing my bare breasts against the cool sheets.
He grabs my shoulder. “You’re not doing that again, Mirella,” he chides, his words clipped. “Not this time.”
“Doing what?”
“Turning from me,” he says, his eyes full of angst, “asking me to take you from behind.”
I stare at him, speechless.
“I want to see your face,” he says.
“But…”
“I can fuck you any which way I want. Your words.”
I did say that.
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “And I choose good old missionary.”
I smile, wanting that so badly too. I so want him to make love to me.
Maybe just this once.
“I want to see your face when I make you come,” he says, his words barely a whisper. “I love to watch you. I like how your eyes close, but not quite. Your nostrils flare, and you always make those little sounds. I want to see you.”
I want that too. I want to see his face.
“And I will get you there,” he promises.
This is still just sex, I tell myself. And I kiss him softly. His mouth trails to my neck, his hands are tangled in my hair and mine in his. I know I shouldn’t be doing this. I know I shouldn’t let him in. Because once he has a place there, he has the ability to hurt me, to literally destroy me.
His beautiful naked body presses against mine, my sex searches for his, as my hips move frantically against him. I moan against his ear, and he hasn’t even entered me yet.
“Mirella…” He bites my bottom lip and finally eases into me, bare.
I try to pull away from him, my hand pressed firmly against his chest. “Weston, we haven’t—”
He grabs my hips and sinks deeper into me. “I want you like this,” he breathes. “…just this once.”
Just this once.
A heat fills me and a tingle travels up my spine at the sensation of him inside me, nothing separating us. He eases in and out of me so slowly, so tenderly. His mouth lingers on my breast, and my mouth sinks into his delicious smelling hair.
We keep doing this. And I know it’s not right.
But it just feels so amazing.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Oh yes…the rules.
NESTLED UNDER THE CROOK OF HIS ARM, I chide myself. I mentally scold myself for falling again.
We made love.
I told myself I wouldn’t let this happen. But yet, here we are.
I’m making too big a deal of this. It was just sex.
I don’t know what to think anymore. I bury my face in my hands, trying not to think so much. I inhale a long breath, the air making its way slowly to my lungs.
I stare up at the ornate crown molding, such beautiful craftsmanship. I think about Gabe, he would love this hotel. He appreciates the traditional details of old buildings. Many of the furniture designs Keates Furnishings carries are traditionally inspired—solid hard wood construction. I wonder what he’s doing tonight. I wonder if he’s seeing Bridget. He’d mentioned maybe going to the city. I told him there would be nothing going on between Weston and I this weekend. I honestly didn’t think there would be. And now I feel like I’ve lied to him. Guilt washes over me.
Weston strokes my hair, my head lies comfortably on his stomach, it fits perfectly there, like it has found its home. Sometimes, when I’m with him, it almost feels like it’s where I belong. I think about Gabe again.
“What a convenient coincidence for you,” I venture, turning my head to look at him. “That Gabe had to work this weekend. We would definitely not be doing this if he were here.”
He smiles. “It wasn’t a coincidence,” he says matter-of-factly, no hint of remorse.
“You sneaky bastard. You made sure he had to work this weekend.”
“Well, not really,” he clarifies. “I knew this weekend would be busy for him with the deliveries expected this week, so I planned the trip for this weekend.”
“You little devil. You wanted me all to yourself.”
“It’s not what you think. I didn’t think we would be doing this. I just wanted it to be you and me. The dynamic is better this way. I feel more at ease with just you. I like you.”
“And you don’t like Gabe?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Not really,” he admits with a hint of a smile.
“Well, the feeling is mutual,” I tell him.
“Fair enough. I don’t think any man is expected to like the man his wife is sleeping with.”
“You make a good point. But I like Bridget, so I suppose it’s different for women.”
“She likes you too.”
I smile. “The only thing I can’t stand about her is that annoying ‘perfection’ thing she’s got going on. She’s flawless.”
He laughs. “But a flaw, here or there, is even more beautiful than perfection.”
I like hearing those words. And I like the way he says them to me. The way he looks at me when he says them. I wonder if Bridget is too perfect for him. He’s almost flawless too. They are perfectly matched. But since I’ve gotten to know him, I realize he’s not perfect. And maybe if I knew her better, I would realize she isn’t either. I want to learn more about her. I want to ask. But I know I’m not supposed to.
“So what does Bridget think about all this,” I venture, carefully measuring my words.
The truth is, I have a million questions about Bridget. Does he get the urge to hug her when he sees her smile? Does he scrape off the caked-on toothpaste she leaves in the sink? Does he pick her up on a whim, and twirl her around, like Gabe does to me? Does he make love to her, or does he fuck her? Does he make her come? Does he love her?
I often have a vision of the two of them. They’re sitting on a bed. She’s wearing cotton panties and an old worn T-shirt of his. He kisses her foot, and then slides slowly up along her long, thin legs and lean body, and kisses her cheek. I don’t know why I have this recurring vision, and I certainly don’t like it. But it’s there, nevertheless, etched in my mind.
“This whole arrangement, how is she handling it?” I press.
I want to know.
He sits up, looking surprised by the mention of h
er name. I’ve hardly ever dared speak of her before. “To be honest, we’ve never really talked about it. We never do. It’s best if we don’t.”
I know.
The rules.
“How did she feel about you being here with me and the girls this weekend? Surely, that must have upset her.” I know if the roles were reversed, I certainly wouldn’t stand for it.
“She was fine. She has a big case she’s working on. The thing you have to understand about Bridget, she’s very independent, self-fulfilled, self-involved, one could almost say,” he goes on as if he’s telling me what she likes on her toast, or how she takes her coffee. But this is so much more. “She’s very successful and very busy. I don’t think she has the time to care what I do. I’m very proud of her. She’s worked hard to get where she is.”
There’s something sad about that, I think, but I don’t say a word. Personally, I want someone to care what I do, care about where I am, to be a little jealous, to fight for me, to give a damn.
“She and I don’t see each other for days on end sometimes. We pass each other, like ships in the night. I almost see you as much as I see her.”
“Oh,” is all I manage.
He smiles. He seems so laid-back tonight, and open.
This is my chance.
“What is it like with her?” I ask, venturing into forbidden territory. I know this is strictly against the rules.
He cocks a brow. “What do you mean?” he asks, clearly confused.
“Sex,” I whisper.
He laughs. “You know we’re not supposed to be talking about this,” he teases.
“Oh yes…the rules,” I say casually. “Are we still following those?”
“I know we’ve bent a few, but we should try to stay on track, don’t you think?”
I sigh. “I’m curious,” I admit. “Aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Anything you want to know, I can tell you,” I tell him, my words smooth and silky. I know he’s dying to know.
His gaze lingers on me, his eyes curious. He doesn’t say a word for the longest time as he studies me.
His gaze doesn’t quite reach mine when he asks me, “You and Gabe have a healthy sexual relationship?” He never quite looks at me when he’s a bit nervous, when he’s asking me a tricky question. It’s his “tell.” I can see it’s hard for him to ask me, but he has, nevertheless.
He must be very curious.
I want to answer his question, but I want to tease him a little first, make him squirm.
“Why, Weston,” I say with a sly smile, “you’re breaking your own rules. Didn’t you just say we weren’t supposed to discuss our sexual relations? Isn’t that rule number two?”
He smiles. God, he’s so sexy when he smiles.
“Yes, you’re absolutely right. I’m behaving rather badly. I shouldn’t have asked.”
I can see the disappointment on his face. He wants to know. He’s curious.
“It’s okay,” I say, my voice soft. “I want to tell you. We can cheat just a little this one time.”
He smiles, his eyes glued to me.
“Gabe and I, well, I think you could say our sex life is decent,” I tell him, my eyes searching for his reaction. “Great even, some would say.”
He nods. And I can tell it’s not the answer he was hoping for. I don’t know why he cares. He’s not supposed to care.
“Gabe is playful most of the time. He’s a very generous lover. He seems to care very much about my pleasure. Kind of like you,” I add and pause for a moment, I’m not sure I want to tell him all this. “Gabe and I have an interesting sexual dynamic,” I go on. I know I’m about to confide something I’ve never told anyone. And I know I’m breaking the rules sharing such intimate information.
“How so?” he asks, his expression curious.
“Gabe generally likes to be in charge,” I explain, not quite making eye contact, “he likes to dominate,” I add, finally turning my head to face him.
Weston raises a brow. He doesn’t seem surprised. “I see. And you like to submit?”
“I do,” I confess. I don’t quite know what else to add.
“Do you subscribe to the whole whips and chains thing?” he asks. I can tell he’s intrigued and wants to know more.
I laugh out loud. “No, nothing like that.”
“Then what?” he asks, eager. “What does he do to you?”
“I’m afraid we’re getting a little nosy, Mr. Hanson,” I say with a sly smile.
He bites his lip. “I’m sorry.”
I’m not sure I want to tell him. I’m not sure I want him to know this side of me. It’s not really a big deal, but still…
Not quite looking at him, I decide to tell him. “He likes to restrain me sometimes,” I confess. Weston’s eyes grow wide and I’m quick to clarify. “It’s pretty innocent. He just does it with my collection of scarves, using our bed bedposts.”
Weston eyes me with a raised brow. “And you enjoy this?”
I smile. “Yes,” I tell him, and I carry on. “And occasionally, he’s a little rough, usually it’s when he hasn’t had me for a while.”
Weston listens intently, an expression of concern on his face.
“But not in a bad way, mind you,” I’m quick to add. “I guess he just gets a little carried away.”
I stop talking, not sure I want to tell him more. He seems both confused and curious. He doesn’t say a word, urging me to go on.
I look down at my hands and twiddle my thumbs. “He likes to have me on my knees,” I tell him. I don’t like talking about the details to anyone, least of all Weston, who studies me with serious eyes.
“Most men like it that way,” he points out. “I like that too. I get to worship your beautiful back.”
“Yes, but with Gabe, it’s different. It’s…” How can I describe to him the way Gabe handles me sometimes; roughly, swiftly…like he just wants to eat me raw.
I’m brought back to the last time Gabe and I…
Gabe had had a horrible day at work and had called me at school. He hadn’t said much, but I knew he was a mess. These kinds of meltdowns are pretty rare for him, but they do happen once in a while. I think it’s just pent-up frustration. I took my lunch hour to go see him, concerned. As soon as he spotted my face as I peeked into the doorway of his office, he dragged me in, locked the door and pressed me against it. He kissed me in a fevered pitch, biting at my bottom lip. He literally tore my blouse off (I had to swing by home to get a new blouse and was consequently late getting back to work). He practically ripped my bra off too, hiked up my pencil skirt, tore off my panties in one swift move, ripping the seam. I knew I was his drug at that moment. He doesn’t turn to alcohol or anything else, he turns to me. He had me willingly bent over his desk within seconds, scraping his coarse beard along my back and licking a line down my spine. I loved it. And when he reached my rear, he bit the soft flesh. “Be gentle,” I reminded him. I was thinking about Weston. I didn’t want Weston to see a bite mark on my flesh.
“It’s primal,” I finally manage.
“I see,” he says softly. And I almost feel like I’m confiding in my therapist. This is probably what it would feel like, if I had a head doctor, which I really probably should.
I swallow hard. “Sometimes he bites,” I add reluctantly, “…not too hard, mind you.” I can’t believe I’m telling someone all this. I haven’t even talked to Gwen about this. But the more I share, the more I realize I’ve kind of wanted to tell someone forever.
Weston’s gaze is fixed on me as I keep going.
“And sometimes he’s a little crass. You were right, he is quite skilled at filthy conversation. He likes to talk dirty.” I tell Weston, not quite looking at him. I realize I am a little ill at ease. I’ve always wondered if this kind of sexual dynamic is healthy. But when I catch a glimpse of Weston, he’s not judging me. He almost looks confused.
“And you,” he says, his words slow and soft, “you like this?
”
I don’t want to admit it, but I do. I nod, and am quick to tell him, “But you need to realize it’s not always like that. Most of the time, we have pretty vanilla sex.”
“I see,” he says as his finger trails circles on my arm. “But you like it when he spices things up once in a while.”
“I guess you could put it that way.”
He smiles a wicked grin. “So what kind of things does he say when he talks dirty?”
I laugh, feeling the blush rise to my cheeks. “God, I can’t possibly repeat it.”
He laughs, his smile wide, lines etched at the corner of his eyes. But his smile swiftly fades and there’s concern in his expression when he asks me, “Does he ever hurt you?” I can tell he doesn’t want to ask this question, but he feels he has to.
“Sometimes, a little,” I admit. “But he’s very good. He’ll stop if I ask him to.”
“Does he ever leave marks?”
I smile up at him and shake my head.
He smiles. “I’m sure I would have noticed if there had been the slightest mark on your body. I’ve studied every single inch of your skin obsessively.”
I laugh softly at his words, but the laughter fades as my thoughts are brought back to a long time ago. “He used to. He used to bite hard. I would often be left with soft bruises. But I’ve asked him to stop that. So now it’s more playful.”
He blows out a breath but doesn’t say a word.
“He’s not a bad person,” I press. He’s not. I hadn’t meant to paint him as a monster. “He’s just a little, passionate.”
“I’m almost sorry I asked,” he says, but his tone is light.
We sit in silence for a beat.
I feel naked…stripped. The silence seems to stretch into infinity. Part of me regrets sharing so much.
An uncomfortable silence fills the room, and I fear I’ve told him too much.
“Being with me must be quite different for you,” he finally manages, not quite looking at me.
“It is,” I tell him.
He looks up at me. His eyes seem to be searching for something.
“And that’s definitely not a bad thing,” I say. Despite all his success, money and power, Weston’s just like any other man—he wants to know he’s good in bed.
