by Roya Carmen
“I did say that,” I confirm, hiking up my dress—there’s no way I’m letting it drag on the concrete.
Weston leads me to the first row on the first balcony. I am absolutely stunned by the beauty of Orchestra Hall—the light open space, warm sparking glow of lights, and arches surrounding us. I marvel at the incredible architectural details.
The concert is wonderful, the music reaching deep to my very bones, it seems. The orchestra members seem so small—streaks of black, working in perfect unison. Weston’s fingers are intertwined in mine, our hands resting on the fabric of my dress. He holds my hand throughout and squeezes it occasionally. I smile at him, enjoying the sight of him lost in something so wonderful.
I plop my rear down on the bed, my beautiful dress floating around me, and I slip off my sparkly shoes. “So, Weston,” I say, with a coy smile. “When do I get my much anticipated foot massage?”
He kneels at my feet, undoing his bowtie. “I was hoping I’d get to kiss you a little first.”
I laugh. “No…I want a foot massage first. You’re not getting out of this.”
He slides his hands under my dress, and drags his soft fingers against the skin of my legs. “You obviously don’t know what kind of kiss I had in mind,” he says, his grin playful.
I’m officially intrigued.
“What kind of kiss did you have in mind?”
“The naughty kind.” His eyes darken.
My stomach flutters. And in a matter of a second or two, I’m fully aroused. I feel the familiar heaviness in my belly and the pressure in my sex. I ache for the feel of his tongue.
His gaze is locked on mine, his eyes intense. He toys with the lace of my panties. “I’ve never made you climax this way before. Would you like that?” he asks, ever so politely.
I almost want to scream, “Of course I would like that!” but I settle for a quiet yes.
“Lie back,” he orders and buries his head under the organza of my dress. He pulls my panties slowly off, and I open up for him and close my eyes.
He holds my thighs softly in his arms, sliding his tongue along the inside of them, up and down slowly. The heat of his mouth comes so close and pulls away, over and over. He’s teasing again.
And he’s driving me insane. “Weston,” I moan. “No games, please.”
My body is so aroused, it’s almost in pain—I don’t care if I have to beg.
The sensation of his warm tongue finally sweeping gently along my lips feels mind-blowing, and I know it won’t take me long to come. He licks me in a back and forth motion, teasing me. And I spread my legs wider, pressing my hips into him.
I want more.
“I love the way you taste,” he says softly.
I reach for his head under my dress and rub my hands through his hair—it’s so soft.
His mouth finally moves up to my clit, and his tongue softly swirls around it.
“Harder,” I moan, knowing I’m almost there. He builds pressure, and I groan lightly as he brings me closer. I’m louder and louder until I finally explode into his mouth. He carries on until my moans quietly disappear into the stillness of the room.
He drags his face along the length of my thigh and makes a sudden reappearance.
“You enjoyed that immensely.” He smirks, looking quite happy with himself. “I gather I didn’t do a horrible job.”
“You gather right.” My body is still limp and numb. I reach for him and bury my face in his chest.
I kiss him, sliding my tongue along his jaw, and I pull him under me.
“Your turn,” I whisper, trailing kisses down his neck.
He looks down at me and smiles.
I reach for his belt and undo his pants, freeing him.
I lick circles around his navel, teasing him. I look up at him every now and then—his eyes are closed, and there’s just the slightest hint of a smile on his lips—he’s clearly enjoying it. I love bringing him pleasure as much as I enjoy my own pleasure.
Finally, I trail down and take him in my mouth. He lets out a soft moan.
And all I want to do is rock his world.
Chapter Sixteen
I know…how you like to watch.
I SQUEAL AND JERK MY FOOT AWAY. “You’re doing a horrible job.”
Weston laughs. “It’s not my fault you’re so ticklish. How can I give you a foot massage when you won’t let me touch your feet?”
“Just take it more slowly. Don’t just pounce like that.”
He smirks. “Well, usually, you quite enjoy it when I pounce,” he says with a sly smile.
I laugh. “Well, that’s another matter entirely.”
“I’ll be gentle,” he promises as he takes my foot in his hands and rubs softly in a slow motion. “I’ll stay away from your toes for the time being.”
He rubs gently, and it feels so nice. It’s wonderful, being here with him. I don’t think I will ever tire of it. I can’t believe the night we just shared—the dress, the amazing changing room quickie, dinner and the symphony, the best oral sex of my life, and now a foot massage!
I lie back on the bed, close my eyes, and decide life couldn’t possibly get any better.
“Why did you pull away, Mirella?” he asks, still rubbing my foot. His words are sudden and unexpected.
I lean up on my elbows. He doesn’t look up at me—his eyes are still focused on my feet.
“What do you mean?”
“You shut me out for weeks and left me no other choice but to contact you and break the rules.”
“I was busy,” I say matter-of-factly, knowing very well I’m full of it.
He’s certainly not stupid. “Don’t lie to me,” he pleads. “I know there was more to it than that.”
He’s right, but I don’t want to tell him the truth—the emotions of envy, jealousy, and anger I experience regularly, the way I drive myself crazy thinking about him when he’s not with me.
I feel so unhinged.
But I can’t tell him all this.
“I needed a break.”
It’s true—I did need to pull away—for my own sanity.
“A break?” he asks, finally looking up at me. “Why?”
I hesitate before answering, careful not to cross any lines with my reply.
“Well, for starters, sometimes it feels like you’re always in control. I’m always the one waiting for your signal, asking myself a million questions. When will I see you next? Where will you take me?” I explain. “I wanted to be the one who made you wonder, for once.”
“Well, you certainly achieved your goal. Do you not like the way our arrangement works?” he asks, genuine concern in his eyes.
“It’s fine. But, when you’re jetting off to who-knows-where, I’m left back here, waiting for you.”
“It bothers you when I go away with my family?”
I hesitate before telling him, “I get a little jealous…the thought of you and her in all these exotic places.”
The color drains from his face. He closes his eyes and lets out a huge sigh. “Mirella,” he starts. “We discussed this a long time ago. There is no room for jealousy in this arrangement.” His tone is condescending—I feel like a child being scolded.
I’m just human, for fuck’s sake.
“If you can’t—”
“I’m fine, really.” I realize I’m threading a line here. “No, really, I’m fine, Weston,” I lie. “I just miss you, that’s all.”
“I miss you too. Very much.”
It’s Sunday morning, and Gabe has gone out to train at his club. He usually trains and spars with his buddies, Jason and Rob. He also hangs out with Stephen, an old friend from high school. But mostly, he likes to spend time with the girls and me.
I’ve made a late breakfast—pancakes, eggs, and cut-up strawberries.
I’m still on a high.
As soon as I get the chance, I call Gwen and tell her all about the dress. She asks me to describe it, but I can’t really do it justice. How do you describe something so beauti
ful?
Gwen shows up at my doorstep an hour later.
She storms into the house, not even taking off her wedges. “Let me see it.”
I laugh. “Come to my room.”
We run up the stairs like giddy school girls.
I slowly drag the dress out from the back of my closet. I’ve hidden it from Gabe. When I came home, after my date, he wasn’t home yet. This bothered me somewhat. I came home relatively late—Caroline had fallen asleep on the sofa. I wondered what he and Bridget were up to. Anyway, I don’t want him to know Weston has given me such a wonderful gift. Gabe will never notice it in my closet—he’s not very observant when it comes to my clothes. If I ever choose to wear it again, I can simply tell him I bought it myself—a little white lie.
I hand the dress to Gwen.
Her jaw drops.
She eyes the label, and her eyes practically pop out of her head.
“Holy hell, Mirella,” she almost yells. And I kind of want to scold her for cursing in my house, but I let it go.
“What?”
“This is a Jeanne Lanvin dress.”
“Is that good?” I ask. I don’t know nearly as much about fashion as Gwen does. I don’t really care about labels—I just like pretty things.
“You can’t even buy a dress like this,” she explains, her eyes still wide as saucers. “This is the kind of dress they hang in museums. This dress is worth like ten, twenty grand…or probably even more.”
My heart drops.
It really isn’t a big deal, Mirella.
He might as well have bought me a car.
“Who knows exactly…I’m not sure,” she says. “I’m no expert,” she adds as she trails her fingers along the embroidery. “Do you know how old it is?”
“The lady at the shop said nineteen thirties.”
“Wow…” she says, looking over at me.
Her gaze softens, and there’s a hint of concern in her eyes. “Mirella…I don’t know…” she trails off.
“What?” I ask, eager to know what’s bothering her all of a sudden.
“You should probably be careful with him.”
“Why?” I ask. “What do you mean?”
“I think he might be in love.”
I’ve been thinking about Gwen’s words. I really don’t think Weston’s in love with me. He’s just fond of grand gestures—everything has to be grandiose with him. And since he’s filthy rich, a ridiculously expensive gift might not represent as much to him as it might for the rest of us lowly middle-class civilians.
I tell myself I’m not going to dwell on it. And I act like everything is just as it was before.
Weston and I are scheduled to go out next Saturday, the day after his birthday. He never mentioned his birthday was coming, but I know since I’ve done more than my share of cyber-stalking.
I really want to get him something. But what do you get for the man who has everything? He gives me a priceless dress, and what do I get him…a lame tie? I’ve been racking my brain about it for weeks.
And I know I’m breaking the rules—giving him a gift.
But he did.
Therefore, so can I.
I decide to contact Kathryn.
Dear Kathryn,
I am looking to get a little something for Weston’s birthday.
Could you please ask him for any advice?
Cheers,
Mirella
I pace all day, impatiently awaiting her reply. I wonder if Weston could even give me an idea. He seems like the kind of person who is very particular.
Finally, toward the end of the day, I’m surprised to receive an e-mail, not from Kathryn, but from Weston himself.
Dear Mirella,
I was amused to receive your message from Kathryn. How did you even know it was my birthday? It appears someone has been doing a little spying.
There is only one thing I would like—a photo of you. Framed or unframed.
Looking forward to seeing you,
Regards,
Weston
P.S. Clarification: Although I would most likely immensely enjoy a boudoir photo of you, what I would really like is a simple photo of your beautiful face. And I want to see that smile.
My breath catches as I read the message over and over again—your beautiful face. His words are so sweet and his needs are so simple—all he wants is me.
I’m almost tempted to reply with something flirty, but I know that’s against the rules. He might be breaking the rules, but I’m desperately trying to stick to them. So I do not reply and content myself with the knowledge that I will see him shortly.
I print the e-mail, fold it into a little square, and hide it in my jewelry box.
I dive into the photo albums and look for a nice photo of myself.
I feverishly dig through all the albums and the photo collection on my laptop.
But there are none.
The only nice ones are from my wedding day, taken by our wonderful wedding photographer, and I’m sure this is not what Weston had in mind.
I can’t believe I do not have one single nice photo of myself.
Gabe and I take a lot of photos. We actually have a nice camera—a high-end Canon digital camera with a few lenses. But we reserve the use of it mostly for trips and photos of the girls. We barely ever take photos of ourselves. And I really don’t think Weston wants a photo of me cradling Claire or Chloe in my arms or smiling cheek-to-cheek with Gabe or standing in front of the Statue of Liberty with a backpack, wearing ugly sneakers.
I sit on the plush carpet in my bedroom, shoulders hunched, surrounded by a mess of photo albums and my laptop. I feel completely defeated.
I lie down in the middle of it all, and I think of Weston—the way he looks when he smiles at me, his funny quirks, what he likes.
And an idea hits me.
Then another…
And yet another one…and that last one brings a mischievous smile to my lips.
Quite a sight I must be when Chloe walks in.
She looks at me like I’ve gone off the deep end. “What’s so funny, Mommy? Why are you smiling? What are you doing?”
“Looking at pictures.”
“Can I see?”
Chloe, Claire, and I spend over two hours looking at photos, and I forget to make dinner. When Gabe gets home, he’s mildly annoyed, and we order a pizza.
It’s no roast beef, but it’s still pretty damn good.
To date, Weston has planned all our dates, and I don’t mind it that way—he knows the city better than I do, and he’s the one footing the bill. I also get the impression he likes to be in charge. As he’s told me more than once, he doesn’t like the unexpected—he likes to know what’s coming. I’m sure the idea of a date he knows nothing about would not sit well with him.
But just this once…I type a message to Kathryn.
Dear Kathryn,
How are you?
I’m not sure if you and Weston have already planned our evening this next Saturday, but I would like to suggest a walk in Lincoln Park at around 5:00 p.m., followed by dinner at Mon Ami Gabi.
Please let Weston know and get back to me with his opinion on the matter.
Cheers,
Mirella
Kathryn’s reply is short and curt.
Dear Mirella,
I’m very well. Thank you. Weston is fine with your suggestion and will meet you at Elis Fountain at 5:00 p.m. Edward will pick you up as per usual.
Best,
Kathryn
I wear a flowery summer dress and sensible pumps. I’ve always loved this particular dress—the vibrant colors bring out the color in my cheeks. I curl my hair, take more care than usual with my makeup, and finish things off with a classic red lipstick. Today, I really want to look good.
I stuff Weston’s birthday presents in a large red purse, along with my camera.
I kiss Gabe and the girls before I leave.
“You’re going out early tonight,” Gabe points out. He�
��s the one in charge of dinner tonight, and I smile at the thought—the girls will most likely be eating boxed pizza.
“We’re going for an early walk in Lincoln Park and then dinner. I won’t be very late. What about you?”
“We’re going to eat in the Theater District. That’s all I know.”
Chloe looks up from her drawing, pencil in hand. “You’re going to see your friends in Chicago again, Mommy?”
“Yes. And Daddy too. Caroline will come over later.”
“Yay,” she says, cheerful.
I’m amazed at how smoothly this arrangement is running. We had a rough time at the get-go, but now it’s simply become our “lifestyle.” I convince myself everything’s fine. The girls are happy. Gabe and I are happy. I delude myself into thinking we’re not hurting anyone. I even convince myself we’re not taking a huge risk.
And I convince myself I’m not ashamed. But of course, no one knows…with the exception of Gwen. I’m sure that even if we told our friends and families, they wouldn’t believe us. And if they did, their opinion of us would surely change drastically—as far as everyone is concerned, we’ve always been the sweetest couple there ever was.
I sit on the concrete bench at the fountain and turn my head to study the statues of flocking geese and strange half-cherub, half-mermaid mythological creatures wrestling fish. It’s bizarre, but lovely nevertheless. I’m so enthralled by the fountain I don’t even notice when Weston walks up to me.
He smiles at me, and I stand up to greet him. He looks handsome in a dark fitted top and slim gray chinos. His hair is perfectly smooth as always, with that one unruly lock of hair sticking up—the sight of it always makes me smile. I can’t believe I hadn’t noticed it the first time we met.
“You look lovely,” he says, and no other words pass between us. From his expression, I can tell he means it. He’s not just being polite—Weston is not one for pretense. I’ve noticed he only says what he means—and that’s another thing I like about him.
I reach into my bag. “I’m sorry. I don’t have a nice photo of myself to give you.”
“Not even a single one?” he asks, his expression a mix of surprise and disappointment. “I find that hard to believe.”
