by Roya Carmen
“You’re amazing,” I tell him. And his eyes light up.
He smiles. “Not too soft for you?” he asks, his words quiet, those amazing green eyes peeking at me under his long lashes. And in that instant, I want him again. It always happens in a split second like that, my intense desire for him.
“You’re just right. And besides, if you were exactly like Gabe, and I was exactly like Bridget, what would be the point of all this?”
He smiles in agreement. “You make an excellent argument.”
The mention of Bridget’s name makes me wonder.
“Your turn. What’s Bridget like?”
He laughs. “You don’t want to know.”
“What? Tell me,” I press. “I told you. You need to tell me.”
“Now look who’s nosy,” he teases.
I scowl at him, impatiently waiting for his answer.
“Bridget is…” he hesitates a little before adding, “a little adventurous. In fact, coincidentally, she and I have actually experimented with…” he trails off.
“With what?” I press, my voice surprisingly high. I’m insanely curious.
“With cuffs and masks, and the like,” he tells me, his lips curving up. He seems to find the subject amusing. “It was her idea, but I was never into all that.”
I just stare at him, awestruck. For some reason, his words shock me. Bridget and Weston have always seemed like the epitome of conservativeness.
“I’m not particularly dominant,” he adds, his eyes boring into mine. “I don’t control women. I like to put them on a pedestal, worship them and pleasure them.” His words bring me back to all those times he’s made me feel like a precious stone and brought me over the edge.
I smile. “I know.”
He smiles. A wicked smile. And I know he’s thinking about worshipping me and pleasuring me right then.
“And she was?” I ask. “Into all that stuff?”
“Yes. I would say so. I suppose we’ve never been completely compatible in the bedroom, which is one of the reasons we’ve experimented with open marriage.”
“Makes sense,” I say, thinking about Bridget and Weston dressed in leather and wearing masks. The vision repulses me a little. I instantly push it out of my mind. I think of Bridget, who is walking perfection; not a hair out of place, not a hint of a wrinkle on her pressed clothes, makeup meticulously applied. So she likes it kinky. A smile curves my lips at the thought.
Almost as if reading my mind, Weston says, “I’m sure she’s enjoying Gabe.”
His words render me speechless as I wonder what Gabe and Bridget are up to at this exact moment. I don’t like thinking about it.
And I try not to.
“How do you feel about that Mirella?” he asks me, his tone serious. “Another woman enjoying your husband?”
His question catches me off guard. I know we’re not supposed to be talking about this. But I contemplate his question, regardless.
“Well, I’ve been enjoying you,” I point out. “Immensely,” I add with a sly smile. “And I guess that’s the idea, isn’t it? We’re sharing and we’re both benefiting.”
He smiles at me. “That’s a good attitude. That’s exactly what this is all about.”
We sit silently, looking at each other for a beat.
“But I think you were right, with the rules. They make sense. It’s not really a good idea talking about all this.”
“No it isn’t. There’s a reason the rules are in place,” he says, his tone self-righteous.
“Hmmm, but if I recall correctly, you started it.”
He laughs. “No, you did.”
“Did I?” I ask. I can’t keep track anymore. This conversation has certainly veered off the path.
I smile at him and trail the tip of my finger softly around his belly-button. This always gets him going.
He gives me that mischievous smile I love so much and wraps his arms gently around my waist, his breath warming my ear. “Let’s say we stop talking all together.”
I’m plastered all over Weston, our bodies sweaty. He smells amazing—a heady mix of his earthy bliss, sweat and sex. “Wow, round number two,” I say.
He laughs. “Ready for round number three?”
I laugh as I climb off him. “No, please, I’m exhausted,” I joke, cozying up just under his shoulder. I press my head against his chest.
He strokes my hair, the touch of his fingers gentle. “Can you stay?” he asks softly.
My breath catches.
He wants me to stay the night. I turn to him. “What do you mean?”
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “I want to fall asleep next to you.”
I want to. I want to so badly. “We probably shouldn’t…the girls.”
He sighs, disappointment written all over his face. “Perhaps you’re right.”
I think about it for a second. Maybe…
“I can call Roselyn. See if we can make this work.”
His face lights up.
He hugs my shoulders as I pick up the phone. I look at him before making the call. “This is against the rules, isn’t it?”
He looks at me, his eyes soft, but doesn’t say a word. He kisses my shoulder. And I just don’t care.
I don’t care if we break all the rules.
When I call my room, a groggy Roselyn answers; she apologizes for having fallen asleep. I gaze over at the clock and realize how late it is: 1:06 a.m.
“No, I’m the one who’s sorry,” I tell her. “I’m so sorry. I lost track of time.”
“No big deal,” she says. “How was your night?” she asks with a hint of playfulness. “Enjoying the big apple?”
You have no idea.
“We had a great time. Listen,” I go on, my words tentative, “I’m not sure how to ask this. I know it’s crazy. I was wondering if you could stay the night, sleep in my bed. I might be very late.”
“I see…” is all she says, and I suddenly feel like the worst mother on the planet.
“I’m sorry, that’s stupid. I’ll come right home.”
“No, don’t worry about it. The girls are sleeping like logs and I’m fine here.”
My heart skips a beat. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“I’ll be there by six latest, before they wake up,” I assure her. “Thanks so much, Roselyn.”
“No problem. Have fun.”
I turn to Weston. “They’re sleeping soundly,” I tell him, glad they’re not wondering where I am.
I cradle the phone receiver under my chin as I slip my panties back on. “And call me straight away if they wake up and want me.”
“Yes,” Roselyn says, her voice cheerful. “Don’t you worry.”
“Thanks.”
I turn to Weston. “She knows, doesn’t she?”
He smiles.
“Does she think I’m your mistress?”
He laughs. “No, she knows the details. She and Bridget are very close,” he tells me as he pulls me to him. “Bridget doesn’t really have any close girlfriends. She loves to confide in Roselyn.”
This doesn’t surprise me. Bridget is the kind of woman who probably has a hard time finding friends. Most women are probably just too intimidated by her. She’s the woman you hate, until you get to know her better. But even me, I like her enough, but I can’t imagine us ever being besties.
“How about you?” I ask, sliding back on the bed. “Do you have friends?”
He smiles. “You’re my friend.”
I laugh, flattered. “No, I mean guy friends, dudes, you know.”
He shoots me a tight smile. “Well, there’s Simon, my partner. He and I have known each other forever. We go out for a beer once in a while. But generally, I’m too busy with work.”
I lean over him, and kiss the edge of his jaw. “Well, all work and no play makes Weston a very dull boy.”
He laughs. “Oh, I’m dull now. You didn’t seem to think so ten minutes ago,” he teases as he grabs m
y ass and pulls me under him.
I laugh. “I told you I’m too exhausted for another round.”
He smiles. “I know,” he says, his eyes have that look again. “I just want you tight against me until we both slip quietly into dreamland.”
I cuddle against him. A small part of me feels guilt but I dismiss it, telling myself this is just a few hours in his arms.
We lay together, in silence. Not a word needs to be said.
But something is still tickling at the back of my mind, something he said. I’m curious.
I look up at him. “You mentioned this sexual mismatch between you and Bridget as one of the reasons you first explored open-marriage, what were the others?”
His soft expression morphs, the change is so swift, I’m taken aback. He seems upset, shaken.
And I’m afraid I’ve asked one too many questions.
I smile up at him. “Never mind,” I say casually. “I’m being really nosy now.”
He smiles at me—a tight lipped smile. Whatever it is, I don’t think he wants to talk about it, and I’m certainly not going to force it.
I bite my lip. I’ve gone and put my foot in my mouth again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“It’s fine,” he tells me, gazing off into the distance with a blank stare. “I can tell you about it,” he says, his words barely audible, “but it’s not something I really like to talk about.”
“It’s fine. You don’t need to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
“I want to.”
I sit up, wanting to know. “What? What is it?” I can see he’s upset.
His mouth stretches into a hard line as he looks away. He’s having a hard time with this. “Bridget and I…we…” he says softly and his voice cracks. His tone is always so even, measured, but now it’s all over the place. “We…we’ve suffered a loss…about four years ago.” He doesn’t elaborate, leaving me desperate to know.
There’s no awkwardness, no discomfort when I ask him to tell me.
“We had a boy, Jonathan.”
My heart sinks. I can’t imagine. My eyes well up, and my throat tightens. I know I’m going to cry. I can’t help myself.
His eyes bore into mine as he wipes a tear away. “Don’t…”
I try to swallow the lump in my throat. “I…I’m sorry.”
He pulls away from me and buries his face in his hands. His shoulders quiver and I hold him tight in my arms. There’s something so dreadful about the sound of a grown man crying—especially a man who’s usually so contained.
I remember now that first night, when I asked him if he had kids. He didn’t answer me at first and I thought it was so odd, but there was something about him. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but I knew he was upset, couldn’t quite work out his answer.
He pulls away, sucking in a long breath. “It’s fine…” he says as he wipes a tear off his cheek with the tip of his finger. I lunge for the box of tissue on the night stand and hand him not one, but three tissues.
A hint of a smile breaks on his face. “Thanks. I think I’m covered.”
I reach for him, and hold him in my arms. “You don’t need to say another word if you don’t want to,” I tell him with a kiss on his soaked cheek. “But I’m here if you want to talk.”
He takes my hand in his. “I want to. I want you to know.” His tone has evened out somewhat, but there’s still so much pain in his voice.
“About four years ago, we had a boy, Jonathan,” he starts again and I hold his hand tightly, my gaze glued to him. “He was about five years younger than Lizzie, and we knew he was different from the onset.”
“He was sick?”
He sighs. “No, he was perfectly healthy. He was almost completely bald, little blond wisps of hair. I guess he took after Bridget. Ashton and Lizzie were both born with full heads of dark hair.”
I smile, picturing my own girls at birth.
A hint of a smile stretches across his face. “And he wasn’t serious like his siblings. He was always so full of smiles and laughs. He lit up our lives. I could tell he had a good sense of humor.”
His smile fades, and I don’t want to hear it anymore. I don’t want to hear, but I don’t say a word because he needs to tell me.
His voice cracks again as he goes on. “But he got sick.”
I squeeze his hand and the tears come again.
“We didn’t think much of it at first. He was in daycare and many of the kids were sick. He was getting over RSV, or so we thought. RSV is—”
“I know what it is. Chloe had it.”
“Well, then you probably know it’s usually not too serious,” he says, and his words have taken on a more measured tone, almost-business like, “…unless the immune system is compromised.”
“What happened?” I can’t help but wonder how things could have gone so awry?
“One night, Jonathan was six months old, Bridget was away on business, and I was working late. I was so busy at the time, so consumed with work.” He sucks in a breath. “Roselyn was away for a few months taking care of her dying mother. So we had to make due with temporary caretakers and Madison, our next door neighbor, for a few weeks. She was barely thirteen. She didn’t know what to do. She called me at work in a panic. She told me Jonathan wouldn’t stop crying. Told me he wouldn’t take his bottle. He had a fever. She wasn’t sure if it was too high.”
Oh God.
The tears fall down his cheeks again, but his tone is shockingly even, almost monotone, as he tells me his story. “I rushed home. He was limp in my arms, and he looked blue. I rushed him to the hospital. They stuck a mask on him as soon as we got there.”
“Could they not save him?”
“We’d been there for almost eighteen hours when the monitors started beeping, and the nurses and doctors rushed in. Turns out, he had been misdiagnosed. I remember it like it was yesterday. They wheeled him in a frenzy, zooming him back and forth across the hospital, like a damn boomerang. I tried to ask them what the hell was going on. They wouldn’t talk to me.”
He buries his face in his hands, pulling at his hair. “I felt so helpless. I was useless.”
I press his face against my chest. “There’s nothing you could have done.”
I can’t even imagine going through that; the pain, the anger, the remorse, the sense of loss. I realize how strong he is as I hold him in my arms. He’s so much stronger than me.
He pulls away again, not quite looking at me. “He was eventually diagnosed with a severe case of pneumonia,” he goes on, his words eerily monotone. “But it was too late, and he died at four ten pm, on March twenty-ninth.”
I reach for him again and hold him in my arms tightly. And I don’t say a thing. There are no words, no words I could possibly say to take his pain away.
His tears soak my shoulder and the sounds of his cries vibrate against my skin. I close my eyes. Never in a million years, would I have imagined this night turning out this way.
He pulls slowly away from me, wiping the tears off his cheeks with one of the tissues I gave him.
He smiles. “Thank you for listening.”
I smile and reach out to hug him. “Thank you for telling me.”
He sighs. “Unfortunately, there’s more.”
I trail my finger along his beautiful face, the tip of my finger damp. “Tell me only if you want to.”
He looks up at me, and there’s still so much darkness in his eyes.
“Bridget and I…we didn’t cope well,” he tells me, sinking into the pillows. “I blamed her. I blamed her for everything. I was horrible. I had so much anger in me. I had to blame someone. I blamed her for not being there, for choosing work over our children, for not breastfeeding him. In my mind, I thought if she had been there for him, he wouldn’t have been at that daycare. He would have been healthy, with a strong immune system.”
“She had to go back to work,” I try to tell him, my words carefully measured.
“That’s the thing�
��she didn’t. She could have taken additional leave. Lord knows we didn’t need the extra money. I begged her to stay with him for a year. But she wouldn’t.”
“Did she blame you?”
“Oh yes. She blamed me for not being there. She blamed me for not rushing him to the hospital sooner.”
“That must have been so hard.” I can’t imagine fighting over something like this. Gabe and I usually fight over trivial things, but something like this? It would destroy us.
“It was. We fought constantly. We hated each other. And the children…although they were so young, knew something wasn’t right.”
“Of course.” I picture these sweet little children, not understanding why their little baby brother is gone, why their parents are screaming at each other.
“We tried everything in that first year. We buried ourselves in our work. We moved, trying to erase the memories. We traveled.”
“Did it help?”
“No. Eventually, Bridget buried herself in Peter. She told me he took her to another place, away from the pain. Oddly enough, I understood. I didn’t want to lose her or our family.”
I sit up, my body tense. I want to know everything. “What happened?” I spit out before I can stop myself.
“Peter and Melinda were acquaintances of ours. That’s how it all started. We both knew Melinda had lusted after me for years. And Bridget and Peter were already involved…and we all entered into an arrangement of sorts.”
A hint of jealousy overtakes me. I wonder about this woman he was with. “Was she beautiful?” I ask.
“Yes. That was part of the allure. She was a brunette but very much like Bridget in every other sense.”
“Did she…did she help you?”
He stares down at the sheets, not saying a word, contemplating his answer. “No,” he finally says. “She didn’t. And neither did the next woman.”
I kiss his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
“No one helped me,” he says and he turns to look at me. There’s a vulnerability about him, his brilliant green eyes soft. “No one until now.”
My breath catches. I close my eyes, not able to look at him.
I thought he was under my skin before. I was convinced of it.
But I was wrong.
He hadn’t quite etched his way completely into my heart, just yet…until now.
