by Roya Carmen
A young woman smiles at me as she sits on one of the leather chairs across from me. She sets her shiny briefcase on the floor and leans down toward the coffee table. She touches it slightly, and a screen image appears. I’m amazed. Here I thought this was just another boring glass coffee table, but it has a secret identity. She’s checking the weather and looking up an address on Google Maps. I feel a little guilty spying, but then again, if she wanted privacy, she would have used her own tablet or laptop. This is so cool!
“So, what do you think?” a familiar voice asks.
I look up at Weston, who I hadn’t even noticed standing beside me. He’s looking as gorgeous as ever in fitted, beige khakis and a tight, plaid button shirt, opened at the collar. And all those old familiar desires come to the surface again—so fast, it’s like lightning.
“Hi,” is all I manage to say as I stand up.
“So, what do you think of this place?” His face seems eager for my reaction.
“It’s beautiful,” I say. “I like the fish.”
I’m still not sure where I am.
His wide sexy smile does me in every time. He stands with his hands on his hips, looking at his surroundings, an expression of pride on his face. “This is The Onyx. They’re all very similar, but this is my favorite.”
And it finally occurs to me—this is one of Weston’s loft condos, from the advertisement posters in his office, his pride and joy. “You do incredible work.”
“You want me to show you around?” he asks, eager.
“Of course,” I reply and take his hand. I can’t wait. I’m so excited. The warmth of his skin on mine, no matter how small his touch is, drives me crazy. He leads me to the modern-looking elevators.
The interior is all shiny stainless steel, and the buttons are aglow.
“We are riding green,” he tell me as he pushes the P button.
“Are we?” I ask, not sure what he’s saying.
“This elevator is sustainable. It uses thirty to forty percent less energy.”
“That’s great,” I say. “So this is one of your LEED certified, sustainable buildings?”
“You’ve been paying attention,” he says as he leads me out of the elevator on the top floor. I catch a glimpse of the view outside the building—it’s amazing.
“Of course, this fascinates me.”
You fascinate me.
“How does it work?” I ask, genuinely interested.
“With radio frequency identification technology, tenants can use a pass card to call an elevator before they even leave their suite,” he explains as we walk toward his suite door. “This results in fewer stops, shorter wait times, lower energy use. It’s good for the environment and everyone’s happy,” he adds as he swipes his card. “The use of LED lighting and sleep mode saves energy as well.”
He is such a nerd. But definitively the sexiest nerd I’ve ever met.
We walk into a suite, and it’s mindboggling—I get the sensation I’ve walked into the future.
“Welcome to the penthouse at The Onyx,” he says, his striking green eyes more brilliant than ever.
I stand there, motionless, speechless.
“Come in,” he urges. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Despite the contemporary design, the space manages to look cozy, accentuated with warm tones and textures. The streamlined white sectional looks inviting with its myriad of throw cushions, some furry.
But I don’t dare sit—I want to explore. This is my first time here, and I can see his essence in this space. A collection of artsy black and white photographs of buildings elegantly set in contemporary white frames hang over the sofa. And to the left side of the room, there’s a large aquarium filled with colorful coral and tropical fish.
“Do you spend a lot of time here?”
“No, not really,” he admits.
“Who takes care of your fish?” I ask, concerned, although they look plenty healthy and cared for.
“I have a service. I also have a cleaning service, which is why the place looks spotless.”
“You have a lot of services, I bet.”
“I do,” he admits. “I do employ a lot of people to keep my life running smoothly.”
“Honestly, your life gives me a headache just thinking about it.”
He laughs and wraps his arms around my waist. His touch sizzles, and my breath catches. I sometimes wish he would suddenly lose all his power over me. I know it would certainly make my life a lot simpler.
“I’ve missed you,” he tells me, his lips searching for mine. He kisses me softly and tears himself away, leaving me hanging. “Do you want a tour?”
“No. I want you to finish what you’ve started. You just can’t kiss a woman like that and walk away,” I almost snap.
He laughs at me again. “Good things come to those who wait. I’ve got something planned for us.”
My ears perk up—I want to know all about it. But he doesn’t tell me. He walks over to the kitchen—all smooth white and stainless steel surfaces, a cool industrial-style light fixture emitting a soft warm glow. He slides his finger over the refrigerator door, and a screen pops up, just like the one on the coffee table in the lobby.
“Wow,” I say. “Is everything interactive in this building?”
“Yes, state of the art. The best in glass technology.”
I can’t quite see what he’s looking at on the screen. He opens the door and grabs some grapes.
“Would you like a glass of water or an iced tea? Or perhaps a glass of wine?”
I’m pleased—he’s been paying attention too. “Red wine is fine…thanks.”
He presses a digital button on the refrigerator. Coldplay’s “Till Kingdom Come” fills the room. It’s one of the songs I included on the mixed CD I made him.
For some reason, I’m on edge. Maybe it’s the foreign surroundings or him looking so delectable. He’s perfection in every way.
He washes the grapes. “That mixed CD you gave me…quite the eclectic mix.”
“I know, right? They’re all songs I love.” I don’t tell him it’s all about the lyrics—lyrics that make me think of him—that Coldplay song says it all.
He walks over to the wine fridge and pulls out a bottle of Shiraz. “Everything from the Cure to Beyoncé.”
“Well, I couldn’t make you a mixed CD without a little Beyoncé, could I? I love her.”
He laughs. “I’ve noticed. I’ve heard your ringtone.”
“Have you listened to all the songs?”
He fetches a dish from the cupboard. “Of course…I love them. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I say with a shy smile—I know it wasn’t much.
He plops the grapes on an ultra-cool serving dish. “That Melissa Etheridge song…quite clever.”
I smile. “I thought it was fitting. ‘Your Little Secret’…that’s what I am, aren’t I?”
He looks down at me. “I wish you weren’t. In another life, I’d introduce you to everyone I know.”
My breath catches at his words—my heart caught like a fish on a hook.
Me too.
He opens the Shiraz in a matter of seconds with some cool looking, ultra-modern bottle opener.
“You like gadgets, don’t you?”
He fetches two wine glasses. “I do. I love them.”
“What else do you love?” I ask. I want to know everything about him. I just don’t know enough.
He seems taken aback and takes a few seconds to contemplate my question as he pours me a glass. “I love my children,” he confesses with a huge smile. “I love my work. I love architecture and technology.” He looks around the room. “I love the sea. I love quiet…I love spending time with you,” he finally adds, his words soft.
My body warms at his words.
“I love spending time with you too.”
And we stand there, looking at each other—the energy between us seems to heat up.
“I want to show you the master,” he s
ays with a playful smile, “but I fear you might just pounce on me when we get there.”
I laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Admit it,” he presses, “you can hardly wait to tear my clothes off.”
He’s so arrogant. But he’s so right.
“Guilty,” I finally admit, slightly embarrassed, “but I promise I’ll be good.”
“Good,” he says as he takes my hand and leads me to the bedroom.
He was right—as soon as we step into his bedroom, all thoughts turn to sex—his naked body on mine, mine on his. Now. The room is so sensual—tufted velvet soft brown headboard, crisp white linens, colorful retro looking pillows, and a few of those soft, white furry cushions. The whole room has a retro seventies vibe. I spot the sleek black music player in the corner.
“Do you like The Doors?” I ask him, “The band, I mean.”
“I do actually. I have the greatest hits on my iPod.”
A smile curves on my lips. “Why don’t you put that on and make love to me on that deliciously comfy looking bed.”
“You are a temptress, Mirella,” he proclaims, his eyes dark. “I told you I wanted to wait. You promised you’d be good, remember?”
“You’re driving me crazy, Weston. You are the king of delayed gratification.”
He laughs his delectable laugh. “I’ve never thought about myself that way, but that’s quite accurate, actually.”
“It’s maddening, is what it is,” I almost scream.
“Sit down on the bed,” he urges. And I do, thinking this could lead somewhere.
He takes a seat on one of the retro, white leather, egg-shaped chairs.
He stares at me, his gaze intense. He seems to want to tell me something. So I don’t utter a word, and I wait for him to talk.
“Have you ever experimented with tantric sex?” he asks.
I bite my lip, not quite able to catch my words.
“Or the Kama Sutra?”
God, he’s full of surprises. “Um…no,” I say. “Why do you ask?”
“Do you know anything about it?” he asks me, his gaze serious.
“Not much,” I admit. The truth is…I know nothing.
“Is it something you could see yourself doing?”
“Uh…maybe,” I stammer a little. Where is he going with this? “Why? Is this something you’re interested in?”
“Yes, very much so,” he confesses, not a hint of humor in his expression.
I suddenly find myself very aroused by the conversation and the way he’s looking at me.
I’m not sure if it’s the conversation, the sensual room, or how delectably sexy he looks in his snug-fitting plaid shirt, but I find myself in serious want.
“Tell me about it,” I say, my words soft and raspy. “I want to know more.”
From the way he’s looking at me, I can tell he knows I’m turned on. And he is too. There’s no denying it—it’s palpable.
“Well, it’s all about bringing awareness into the sexual act, a consciousness, a certain level of intimacy between lovers.”
“Interesting…”
“It’s about being in the moment, breathing it in, and appreciating each other. There are many sexual positions which foster intimacy.”
“I see,” I say, “and you’ve done this…with Bridget?”
His smile is barely discernable. “Well, Bridget’s not really into it. We’ve dabbled. But I’ve always wanted to explore it deeper.”
“I see.” And I can’t help but play the devil’s advocate. “But you mention it’s about increasing intimacy…isn’t that exactly what you and I should be avoiding?” I’m quick to add, “Isn’t this arrangement between us supposed to be purely physical?”
He looks slightly offended and takes a deep breath. “What I’m talking about is physical intimacy, not emotional intimacy.”
“But doesn’t physical intimacy translate into emotional intimacy?” I ask, confused.
“Damn it, Mirella,” he snaps as he stands to his feet.
I stare down at the bed linens. “I’m sorry.”
He kneels in front of me and tilts my chin to face him, straight in the eye. He’s so beautiful. “Are you afraid of me?”
“Yes,” I confess. But I don’t tell him I’m already falling for him and that making love to him might just throw me over the edge. I don’t tell him I don’t want to jeopardize the most important thing in my life—my family. And I don’t tell him I don’t quite trust myself to not go down that road. “You are a man of contradictions, Weston. One minute, you tell me to back away, keep my distance, to not be jealous. And the next, you kiss me with such emotion, whisper sweet nothings, and talk about fostering deeper physical intimacy.”
He stares down at the floor, speechless.
“I’m serious, Weston. You’re so mercurial. Make up your mind, already.”
He looks up at me again. “I know,” he says. “But…we are allowed a certain level of physical intimacy.”
“Be careful what you wish for, Weston. I don’t mean to sound cliché, but we’re walking on thin ice, you and me, don’t you think?”
He looks down at the floor, not able to face me. “Perhaps,” he says matter-of-factly.
There’s an uncomfortable silence between us, and I’m desperate to fill it and end this conversation.
“I want to go check out the bathroom. I’m sure it’s fabulous,” I venture as I jump to my feet.
When he joins me in the washroom, I’m glad to see the energy between us has shifted.
The space is sterile—sleek, clean surfaces abound. I’m intrigued by the toilet, which seems to float on the wall, the toilet handle sticks out of the walnut finish. There’s no tank, no bottom. I’ve never seen a toilet like this—I’m fascinated.
“Where’s the tank?” I ask, intrigued.
“It’s built into the wall,” he explains, seemingly amused by my fascination.
“And what keeps it up?” I ask, not waiting for an answer. “I’d be afraid to come crashing down.”
He laughs. “A little thing like you,” he says. “You’d probably have to be a thousand pounds to bring that toilet down.”
“It’s kind of freaky.”
“You haven’t been out much, have you?” he teases.
“You’ve noticed?”
“A little.”
I laugh inwardly at the sound of our discussion. This is just what we needed—a conversation about a toilet—non-sexual, not intimate at all. Things were getting way too intense back in the bedroom.
I take in the rest of the bathroom—it is purely innovative. Two square, stainless-steel sinks sit side by side under a seamless mirror, which almost melts into the wall. The glass enclosed shower is accentuated with a dramatic mosaic backsplash—the tiny tiles making up an image of an oriental tree.
“I love the shower. What a nice touch.”
“I can’t take the credit, I’m afraid,” he confesses. “That goes to our designers.”
There are about a zillion shower heads, including a large overhead one, and a digital touch pad on the outside wall with LED display.
“That is one fancy shower. It looks complicated.”
He laughs. “It is.”
The large sleek soaker tub looks very inviting. “You and me, later,” I say with a sly grin, “in that thing.”
“Maybe,” he says with a devilish smile. “But I think you might enjoy the shower more.”
“Oh…would I?” I say. “I’m more of a bubble bath kind of girl.”
“Trust me…you would like this shower.”
I’m not sure exactly what he’s saying, but he’s turning me on, nevertheless.
I grab his shirt and pull him to me. “Well, let’s try it right now,” I venture with my sexiest voice.
He kisses me…another sensual, soft kiss. But then he pulls away again.
The man is driving me absolutely bonkers.
The intercom buzzes just as I’m about to beg.
A lady’s voice tells him the catering crew has arrived.
“Please send them up,” he says.
And I know I won’t see any action anytime soon.
The crew arrives and the atmosphere becomes chaotic and loud. After we offer our initial hellos, they set up in the kitchen—boxes, crates, stainless-steel food heating contraptions, and dishware. A plump, middle-aged lady with sharp bangs seems to be in charge, barking out orders.
“Do you need anything from us, Rhonda?” Weston asks.
“Nope. I think we’re all set,” she tells him, smiling at both of us. “You two pretend we’re not here.”
The two assistants, a young man and woman, travel up and down the glass-encased staircase. I haven’t even been to the second level yet, and I wonder what’s up there. They seem to know what they’re doing and where they’re going—I gather they’ve been here before.
“You entertain a lot?” I ask, wondering if he’s brought other women here before.
“Yes. We’ve had a few parties here. Mostly when the units first opened…showings, for promotional and marketing purposes.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “This is all being covered by the company? Isn’t that an inappropriate use of company funds?”
“Who are you?” he jokes. “My accountant?”
“What’s upstairs?” I ask, curious.
“Do you want to see?” he asks, taking my hand. I love it when he takes my hand. Unlike Gabe, Weston is not the most touchy-feely person, but when he does touch me, he usually lights me up.
He leads me up the stairs, and I follow eagerly. When we reach the landing, I am awestruck. The contemporary theme continues up here, warm shades and soft lighting. A window looks out to a wonderful view, and that’s when I’m reminded we’re in the penthouse.
“It pays to be the boss,” I say casually. “This place is fantastic.”
He smiles as he brings me into his den, furnished with a sleek walnut desk and white leather desk chair. Multiple large, flat screens cover the desk and a large TV stretches along the wall. Everything is meticulously ordered, groups of objects forming perfect lines and angles, books and display pieces arranged flawlessly.
