The Ground Rules

by Roya Carmen

  His naked body slides against mine deliciously. I wonder if I’ll ever tire of this.

  I reluctantly pull away from him, and reach for his pants on the floor, in the pocket, where he always keeps a condom.

  When we find ourselves together again, he’s over me, kissing me gently. He’s heavy, but I manage to pull myself over him. I want to be on top. I want to look at him, at his beautiful face, at his amazing body.

  I slide over him, and he eases into me. Our eyes lock, and it feels very intimate. I push back and forth slowly, looking into his eyes. He reaches for my hands, not taking his eyes off mine. Our fingers intertwine gently.

  I ride him gently at first, but he feels so good, I soon go faster and harder. He grinds into me and hits just the right spot, over and over. And with each thrust, I moan as I’m brought closer and closer. He can see my face, and I can see his. We read each other—we know we are both nearing the edge.

  And finally both of us are brought to orgasm, still looking at each other. As the waves crash through me, I feel like he’s looking right into me—into my soul. And I feel I can almost see his.

  I close my eyes.

  We lie, tangled in the crisp white sheets. I stare up at the ceiling. Weston lies on my chest, and I cradle his head in my arms, running my hand through his thick dark hair.

  “I can hear your heart,” he says. “It’s beating so fast.”

  I laugh. “It’s because we just had sex.”

  “That will do it every time. It’s good for the heart. Or that’s what they say.”

  “Then my heart must be in tip-top shape,” I joke, thinking about all the sex I’ve had lately.

  He laughs, trailing his finger down my side, all the way to my legs. His touch arouses me every time, even as I lie here in post-orgasmic bliss.

  “Did you have a nice evening?” he asks. “Sex notwithstanding, that is.”

  “I did. It was a wonderful dinner. Thanks for taking me there.”

  “I wish I could do more,” he says, tracing circles with the tip of his finger around the small mole on my hip. “I wish I could take you to see the world.”

  My heart hammers in my chest, and I’m sure he can hear it.

  “Where would you take me?”

  “Everywhere…” he says softly. “Hawaii, Paris, Venice. Have you ever been to any of those places?”

  “No,” I reply, knowing he probably expected that answer.

  “You would love it.”

  “You’re going to have fun in Italy next week,” I say with a sigh, thinking about the fact that Bridget is the one who gets to see all those places with him, while I sit home, watching television in my rec room.

  “I wish I could take you, Mirella,” he says again. “But you understand why I can’t…right?”

  “Yes, I understand.” I work my way out from under him. “I think it’s time for me to go. Our five minutes are up.”

  “Mirella,” he says softly, his eyes pleading. “You’re not upset, are you?”

  I can see genuine concern on his face. I force a smile. “No, I’m fine. It’s just getting late. I should be going.”

  He grabs my hand and kisses it. “I’ll miss you.”

  “I’ll miss you too.” My words are ragged. And I feel tears coming on as I turn away.

  I cry all the way home, burying my nose in tissues, trying not to sob too loudly. Edward minds his business and doesn’t say a word. He must be wondering what the hell Weston is doing to me. But I suppose it’s his job to be discreet and loyal to his employer.

  When I get home, Gabe is already there, lounging in his sweats on the sofa, eating pretzels and watching a rerun of Seinfeld. He looks so relaxed, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Sometimes, I wish I could be a guy and not be so damn emotional.

  “What’s up?” he asks, knowing not to ask more. We never talk about our dates, with the possible exception of where we had dinner.

  My body drags as I sit next to him, shoulders hunched.

  He sits up suddenly and looks at me. “What’s wrong, Ella?”

  I reach for him and wrap my arms around him.

  “Did the bastard hurt you?” he asks, his words clipped. “I swear I’m going to kick the shit out of him.”

  “No, no.” I pull back. “He didn’t hurt me. He was a perfect gentleman, as always.”

  “Then, what happened?” he asks, looking confused.

  “I don’t know,” I say. I don’t want to tell him I’m jealous—jealous of Bridget. That would be saying too much. That would be admitting I care, admitting I’ve crossed the line, and have actual feelings for this man.

  “I just don’t know if I can do this anymore.”

  His large hazel eyes contemplate me for the longest time. “We can put a stop to this whenever you want, Ella. Just say the word.”

  “I know,” I say, and give him a small smile. The truth is…I don’t want to put a stop to it. I feel I couldn’t live without Weston in my life right now, which scares the hell out of me.

  “I’m just tired. It’s been a long night.”

  “Yeah, you’re home pretty late,” he points out, and I sense he would like some kind of explanation, but doesn’t dare ask.

  “Weston took me to this amazing restaurant,” I explain. “The place has the most panoramic views of the city. And he wanted to have a late dinner so we could see the twinkling lights at night.”

  “Oh…I see,” he says. “The guy sure knows how to show a gal a good time.”

  “Yes.”

  “It helps when you’re filthy rich,” he adds, not quite looking at me. And I can tell it bothers him—the fact that Weston probably makes more money in a week, than he might make in a year.

  I reach for him, wrap my arms around him, and my mouth tugs at his ear. “Well, you know who’s best at showing a girl a good time in bed?”

  “Oh…” he says, laughing. “Weston couldn’t get the job done?”

  “Well, I had to do all the work. I’m exhausted. I want to be a little lazy with you now.”

  A smile plays on his lips. “You want it soft or rough?” he whispers in my ear.

  I laugh out loud. “What I really want is to cuddle with you and watch Seinfeld.”

  “Well, you know I’m always available if you change your mind,” he jokes, squeezing me into his arms.

  I laugh again.

  Who needs Weston when I have this?

  This is a nice moment, I muse, my legs stretched across the picnic blanket.

  It’s a lovely day, hot and sunny, and Chloe and Claire are playing at the park just a few yards from where Gabe and I sit. I’ve brought along sandwiches, fruit, and chocolate cupcakes for dessert.

  “Those look good,” Gabe says, eyeing the cupcakes. “Did you make them?”

  “Yes,” I answer proudly. “This morning, with the girls. They loved it.”

  “I bet they did,” he says, laughing, tiny lines forming at the edge of his eyes. “I bet it was a mess too.”

  “Oh…it was,” I say playfully. And he smiles at me. And then it occurs to me I’ve forgotten how gorgeous he is—his curly, unruly dark hair brushes the collar of his white T-shirt, the black stringed hippie necklace he always wears falls at the top of his broad chest, his tribal tattoo as sexy as ever. When I first met him, he was ink-free, but over the years, he’s practically become a human canvas—a large tattoo covers half of his torso and left arm—I think it’s pretty hot.

  I haven’t been thinking enough about him, I realize. I’ve been thinking too much about Weston and what he might be doing with his family, driving myself insane in the process and forgetting to enjoy my own wonderful life.

  “I love you,” I say out of the blue, inspired by the moment.

  He eyes me with a funny look, curiosity in his eyes. “I love you too, Ella,” he replies with a sexy smile.

  And just then, I think I don’t need to see Weston again, just yet.

  “Bridget and Weston are back from their vacati
on next Friday. But I don’t think we should get together with them right away.”

  “Oh…okay,” he says. “Why not?”

  “Well, because I think we could use more time for us.”

  He smiles at me. I can tell he’s happy to hear me say this. “I thought you were counting the days until he came back.”

  “I was not,” I argue. But, he’s right. I had been. And I realize I’ve been silly.

  If we can wait for them…Weston and Bridget can wait for us too.

  I contact Kathryn by e-mail, explain we can’t make our arranged date, and tell her I will contact her about future plans. I realize this is leaving Weston in limbo, and he will absolutely despise this, being such a slave to routine and schedules. This is a man who likes to have his whole life planned ahead of time, practically down to the last hour. This will drive him absolutely bonkers, and I smile at the thought.

  In the following weeks, Gabe takes some time off work, and we spend quality time with the girls, going on day trips to the beach, to the city, to Gwen’s pool, and the zoo. We enjoy movie nights with popcorn, and Gabe and I get reacquainted, making love often.

  We are happy, I realize, more than once.

  Why are we messing with that?

  Every day it seems Kathryn contacts me and asks what the status is on our next date. She tells me Weston would like to know for scheduling purposes.

  Scheduling purposes, my ass.

  He just can’t stand this.

  She sends me e-mail after e-mail, inquiring about our schedule openings and informing us Weston and Bridget have made alternate plans for the Friday and Saturday, asking if a weeknight might be more manageable. I ignore most of her messages. I’m sure she isn’t offended—she’s just the go-between.

  I’m trying to hurt him.

  But I’m also trying to hold on to Gabe.

  Each day I don’t see Weston is another day closer to sanity, to a simpler life. Gone are the feelings of insecurity and guilt, the petty jealousies. I feel lighter, free. Maybe if I never get back to him, he’ll get the picture and we will have said good-bye without actually saying good-bye.

  But the thought of actually letting go seems impossible to me.

  I lie poolside at Gwen’s place. The girls are splashing around in the pool. Chloe’s a decent swimmer but Claire isn’t—she’s wearing her water wings, and I keep an eye on her while sipping an appletini. Gwen sure knows how to entertain—it’s relatively easy with a fully stocked bar and pool. Pushing thirty, Gwen has yet to have kids—she and Greg are enjoying their freedom too much—traveling often and playing golf almost every day. Today is one of those rare summer days I get her all to myself.

  She lies back on the blue lounge chair, black braids falling to the side, her large sunglasses pointing to the sky. She says she’s working on her tan, and I laugh—her dark skin is in no need of a tan. My freckly, Irish white skin, on the other hand, is another story. I slather on more sunscreen at the thought. And I look over at the girls, wondering if I should touch them up a little too. But I don’t worry too much about it—they’ve inherited Gabe’s beautiful olive skin—every summer, I thank the Lord for that.

  “So,” Gwen says. “You and Weston haven’t seen each other for a while.”

  “Nope.” I simply say. Gwen knows the rules. She knows I’m not supposed to say too much about our dates. And it is just killing her.

  “I’m making him sweat a little,” I add, giving her a mischievous look.

  “I bet he doesn’t like that.”

  “No, I don’t think he does,” I say, quite satisfied with myself.

  I hear the old familiar Beyoncé tune on my phone, and reach into my beach bag. I throw in a casual hello, not bothering to look who’s on the other end of the line.

  “Mirella,” he says.

  My breath catches. I recognize his soft-spoken voice instantly. “Hi,” is all I manage to say.

  “How are you?” he asks, his words sound strained.

  “Uh…good,” I stammer a little.

  “I’ve missed you.” My heart does another flip flop, but still, I don’t tell him I’ve missed him too. Even if I have.

  “Where are we at, Mirella?” he asks. “Why haven’t you contacted us?”

  “Well, you know,” I say casually. “We’ve been busy.”

  “Too busy to send one e-mail?”

  “Why are you calling me anyway?” I say. “I thought this was against the rules.”

  At these words, Gwen perks up and takes off her sunglasses, her mouth in the shape of an O.

  “You’ve left me no choice,” he points out. “I’ve missed you.”

  “How was your trip?” I ask, my words clipped.

  “It was quite nice, but I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

  He’s getting to me.

  “Weston,” I say. “You’re breaking a few rules right now,” I remind him, still keeping an eye on Claire. Gwen is too engrossed in our conversation to pay any attention to the girls.

  “I know,” he says. “I miss you. I miss your touch.”

  Now he’s starting to arouse me. I should really end this conversation.

  “Please, I need to see you,” he adds, his voice soft.

  “Listen,” I start, my words business-like, “I’ll contact Kathryn shortly and maybe we can set up something for next weekend.”

  “I’d like that,” he says, his words barely a whisper.

  “Bye, Weston,” I say before hanging up.

  “Holy cow,” Gwen squeals.

  “I can’t believe he called me,” I tell her, not able to restrain the smile on my face.

  “Well, sweetie, it looks like you broke him,” she says, her toothy smile as wide as I’ve ever seen it. “He begged, didn’t he?”

  A smile stretches across my face. “He sure did.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  I wanted you to suffer a little…

  KATHRYN’S E-MAIL IS A LITTLE CRYPTIC.

  Dear Mirella,

  All plans have been arranged for your date with Weston this next Saturday. Edward will pick you up at 4:00 p.m. Dress however you would like, but please ensure you are wearing a white or beige strapless bra and very high heels (five inch minimum).

  When you get to your destination, a girl in a red polka-dot dress will meet you.

  Weston looks forward to seeing you.

  Best,

  Kathryn

  P.S. Please forward your measurements: bust, waist, inseam (from waist to floor) and shoe size.

  What the…?

  I don’t even want to ask.

  I do as I’m told, curiosity filling every cell of me. I settle on tight white capris and a black breezy polka-dot blouse, with a strapless bra, as requested, and five-inch black pumps. I’ve styled my hair in a retro do and dabbed on some red lipstick. I’m quite happy with the results—I look classy, very “Audrey Hepburn.” The shoes are not the most comfortable ones I own, but if history is any indication, there won’t be much walking tonight.

  As Edward drives me to the city, I try to pry information out of him. But he knows nothing. At least he acts like he knows nothing. He drops me off on some random corner, by a health food store. I have no idea where I am. I hold my black clutch tightly, realizing I’m a little on edge.

  I look for a woman in a red polka-dot dress, but I don’t see one. There are a lot of people milling about, but no woman in a red polka-dot dress. What is going on? I turn back toward the car, but Edward has driven off.

  I pace back and forth, and my feet are starting to hurt. Finally, I spot a bench and make the trek toward it.

  I’m extremely happy to sit down, but still wondering what the hell is going on.

  I wait and wait, watching people go by, fidgeting, crossing and uncrossing my legs, my heeled foot dangling above the pavement. I look at my watch every two minutes, and finally it occurs to me—I’ve been waiting fifteen minutes.

  That’s when I see her.

  She’s wear
ing an adorable red polka-dot dress. She’s not the woman I’d been looking for, but rather a cherubic little girl with adorable blond ringlets. Her mother holds her hand and seems to know who I am. I stand and practically sprint to them.

  “Mirella?” says the mother.

  “Yes,” I reply, more relieved than I could have imagined.

  “I’m Anika and this is Tasha,” she says, tilting her gaze to the adorable girl, who’s staring down shyly at her red Mary Janes. “We’re friends of Weston’s.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I offer, extending my hand.

  She digs into her chic black purse. “Weston has asked me to give you this note.” Her gloved hand reaches to offer me the white envelope.

  I take the envelope, still confused as ever. “Did Weston mention what this is all about?”

  She laughs a little, looking down at my shoes. “Oh…he sort of did, but I can’t tell you. He’s a mystery, isn’t he?”

  The suspense builds as I tear the envelope open.

  The note reads:

  Meet me at Ann Santhers.

  I sigh and look up at the sky. I’m as puzzled as ever.

  “I’m not sure where that is,” I confess.

  “It’s just up there. Take a left on Belmont Avenue, and keep walking. It’ll be on the south side.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Thank you. It was nice meeting you.”

  “Likewise,” she says with a mischievous smile. Tasha waves good-bye. She is very adorable—she looks a lot like Claire. I turn and I make my way toward Starbucks.

  I round the corner, hobbling on my feet. My shoes are already killing me, and I hope this place isn’t too far. There are lots of restaurants and quaint establishments—I can’t help but think it would be a nice stroll if I weren’t wearing these blasted five-inch heels.

  I pass a martial arts center and decide to lean against the window and peek in—it’s really just an excuse to step out of my pumps and give my feet a break.

  I rub the heel of my foot.

  Sucking in a long breath, I head toward my destination. I don’t understand why Weston’s driver wouldn’t simply drive me to this place. I spot a blue overhang, and I’m sure that’s the place. But when I get there, I realize it’s not.