by Roya Carmen
“I’ve missed you so much.” I pull his linen pants over his rear and wrap my hand around his beautiful cock, so hot and ready for me. He trails his mouth along my stomach as he drops to his knees and tears my leggings off. I hook my finger in the band of my panties and peel them off in a frenzy. I want him to fuck me so badly, I can barely see straight. He pulls a single foot out, his hand rough against my heel, my leggings and panties still wrapped around my left ankle. “I could be out right now, fucking anyone I want. You know how easy it’d be,” he breathes. I close my eyes as he slides his tongue beneath my belly button.
I know it. I know how easy it would be. I’ve seen the way women look at him when he walks into a room. I don’t understand why he’s not playing the field, this is his chance.
He grabs the underside of my thigh and pins it against the wall and slides his hot tongue against my wet lips, teasing. He almost does me in when he presses against my clit. “I’ve missed your sweet pussy,” he whispers as he pulls back up. His warm breath lingers along my neck as he trails kisses there. “I don’t want anyone else,” he whispers. “All I want is you. Even after all you’ve put me through…all I want is you.”
And with those words, I grab onto him and pull him against me. He holds me up with a hard grip and pins me between his hips and the wall. His fingers dig into my ass and it hurts, but the pain doesn’t bother me in the least. I close my eyes as he finally sinks into me, and it feels like heaven. “I’ve missed you too, Ella. I hate you right now,” he breathes, his mouth pressed against my neck. “But I also love you…still.”
The house is quiet as he presses slowly into me, slow and deep thrusts. The feel of him inside me again is the most amazing thing in the world. I never want to let go. I cry as the pleasure builds because I don’t know if I’ll ever have this again.
And as he makes me come, the only noises coming from behind the powder room door are the soft sounds of our labored breathing, quiet whimpers of pleasure, my climax muffled in the softness of his shirt, and his, buried in my neck.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I can almost taste it.
The house is a disaster and it’s empty. It’s the perfect time to tidy up. I sit alone on the area rug in the living room, holding the mosaic picture in my hands — a beautiful princess with golden locks in a pink dress, sitting under a tree. There are two frogs at her feet… her frog princes perhaps. The tears stream as I pick up the remnants of the girls’ project which has been sitting on the coffee table for days now. It really did turn out quite well, and I wonder where I should hang it.
Gabe has them for the day, so it’s just me. I don’t want to think about him, to remember what he said to me before he left — the day we made love in the powder room.
He was so gentle right after. As the waves of pleasure subsided and my whimpers faded into the quiet room, my mouth still pressed against his hot chest, the only sound was the buzz of the washroom fan. I was still pinned up again the wall. He kissed me softly on the cheek before he slid out of me and released me carefully, letting my feet touch the floor.
“I can’t believe we just did that,” I whispered. “Do you think they heard us?”
He shook his head as he kneeled in front of me and helped me into my leggings. He smiled at me, with that beautiful flushed post-sex expression — the look of a satisfied man. “They’re still probably busy. When they say five minutes, they mean twenty.”
I smiled down at him. “You’re right.”
Then his smile faded. “Mirella,” he started. And I knew it wouldn’t be good — he only ever calls me Mirella when he’s upset. Suddenly, I wondered what I had done. We had just made love. What could I have done?
He stood back up to his full height, and leaned into me, tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear, the gesture so gentle, but in contrast, his words were harsh. “This didn’t mean anything,” he said, his eyes dark, as black as coal. And I knew this wasn’t him speaking. This was the man he became when he was angry. But still, the words still cut deep.
“This doesn’t change a thing,” he went on with that same dark blank expression. “We’re still done, Mirella.”
“How can you say that?” I asked, my words pleading. “We just made love.”
He jerked back. “That was just sex, Mirella,” he scoffed. “You made me hard. I wanted to fuck you…get one last taste of you. That’s all it was.” And with a turn of the handle, he added, “I’m sorry if you thought it was more.”
His words hit hard, a sharp blow to my stomach. But I wasn’t done fighting for us. I reached for the handle, my hand pressed hard over his and I slammed the door shut. “You’re lying. You’re being hurtful on purpose.” After all these years, I couldn’t believe he didn’t realize how well I know him. “You’re still mad at me,” I pointed out, not letting it go.
He wiped the heel of his hand against his forehead and grabbed a fistful of his hair. “You’re fucking right, I’m still mad,” he growled. “But I’m angry at myself more than I am at you right now.”
I pressed my hand against his stomach. “Why?”
He grabbed a hard hold of my wrist and pulled my hand away. “Because you do this to me and I can’t just turn my back and move on.” His beautiful eyes almost did me in, there was so much emotion in them.
“I can’t turn my back on you and the girls. And I still want you. I still want to fuck you… and you,” he added, not quite looking at me. “You know this. And you took advantage.”
He was right. I did. I knew he wanted me. And I took advantage of a moment of weakness. I spotted it, pounced and dug my teeth in. But I wanted him just as much as he did me.
“I’m sorry,” I told him. I knew it wasn’t much, but I was at a loss for words. My eyes were drowning in tears as I pressed my hand against him again. “I just miss you so much, Gabe. I wanted to be close to you again.”
He tore himself from me. “I should go.”
The girls were just about done with their project when we got back to the living room. Gabe sat next to them on the floor and gave them one last five minutes, seething.
I cried when I said my goodbyes. Claire whispered in my ear. “It will be okay, Mommy. Daddy will come back soon,” she assured me with a sweet kiss on the cheek. “His friend will get all better soon, I just know it.”
I held her and her sister tight in my arms and said one last goodbye.
I need to talk to someone. But I have no one. I can’t exactly speak to my dad or my brothers about this. And Gwen is away at one of those posh summer retreats this weekend. I don’t want to bother her. She’s done so much for me already. I could talk to Weston, but there’s no way I’m doing that.
I force down a small bowl of soup and a salami sandwich. I wonder if Weston would be upset with me right now for eating deli meat — it was a no-no on the list. I try to read the paper, but nothing is getting in. I just want to crumble and…
The doorbell rings and I hope it’s not one of the neighbors wanting to borrow something for the thousandth time. I really don’t want anyone to see me in this state. I run to the powder room to check my reflection. I look like death. My face is puffy, my mascara is running. I run some tissue under the tap water and attempt to wipe off the black streaks running down my cheeks. And still, the doorbell sounds again.
I finally make my way to the door and am surprised to see a tall gangly man dressed in short brown shorts and a matching shirt — the UPS guy.
He’s holding a small package. “Hi,” he smiles at me, clearly not noticing my gloomy mood. “How are you today?”
I don’t tell him I’m in the midst of a complete descent into darkness. “I’m fine, thank you.”
He hands me the gadget with a smile. “Could you sign for your package?”
I sign quickly, handling the electronic pen with the skill of a pro. In truth, I haven’t signed for packages often. This feels slightly thrilling — a small flicker of happiness. What could it be? I haven’t ordered anything.
He shoot
s me another smile. “Have a good day,” he tells me as he bounds down my steps. And suddenly my mood brightens a little. Sometimes the kindness of strangers really does make a difference.
I close the door and tear into the package. I smile at the sight of its contents — a CD with a yellow Post-it Note attached.
My turn…
Weston’s Super-Fabuloustic Music Mix 4 Mirella
To cheer you up,
Take care, Weston
I laugh at the words ‘Super-Fabuloustic Music Mix’.
Copycat.
My tears of sorrow are suddenly replaced by tears of joy. How could he have known this is exactly what I needed today? The coincidence is just too bizarre. I start to wonder if the man really is psychic.
I quickly scan the list on the cover, printed methodically in black. Each letter is straight and perfect. It’s clearly Weston’s handwriting. I’m glad to see Kathryn had nothing to do with this little project. I recognize some of the song titles instantly, but others are a puzzle to me. I notice a few songs from the same artists I chose for the CD I made him. A smile curves on my lips as I realize we have similar musical tastes. The printed copy reads:
You’re Beautiful — James Blunt
Trouble — Ray LaMontagne
Brilliant Disguise — Bruce Springsteen
Crash into Me — Dave Matthews Band
Wonderful Tonight — Eric Clapton
Pictures of You — The Cure
Northern Wind — City and Colour
Desire — Ryan Adams
Better Together — Jack Johnson
Comme des enfants — Coeur de Pirate
Let Her Go — Passenger
Here Comes the Sun — George Harrison
I bound up the stairs, practically sprinting to the old CD player in Claire’s bedroom. I throw in the CD, and plop myself on the purple bed. Tokyo the giraffe looms over me, his long-lashed black eyes fixed on me, almost disapproving, as if he’s asking me what silly shenanigans I’m up to now. I remember the day we got him. The day this whole sordid mess started. The day I got pregnant.
The room is soothing with its soft lavenders and pinks, butterflies skittering all over the walls.
Butterflies.
I can’t be in this room and not think about Weston. I make a mental note to talk to Claire about redecorating her room as the melody of the first song consumes me — James Blunt’s gripping You’re Beautiful. I get lost in the words and the beautiful melody. The second song, Trouble, has me from the first note. Each song is just as brilliant as the next. What a wonderful gift to receive. It could not have been better timed — lifting me from deep sorrow to soak up the light. The last song lifts my spirits beyond imagination. It is better than any drug I could have consumed.
Before listening to the playlist again, I dash downstairs and grab my cell. A small thank you text is in order.
Thank you so much for the CD.
You have no idea what it meant… M
As I make my way back upstairs, I hear my phone, the sound muffled in my bag. I turn on my heel, knowing it’s him. I sprint down the stairs and grab it with all the eagerness of a kid on Christmas morning.
“Hello,” he says. His soft voice still brings me to my knees. “I got your text.”
I’m so happy he called. I really need someone to talk to. I need a friend.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” he says.
The long silence doesn’t unnerve me. I’m just glad he’s there, on the other end of the line. I can’t see him or touch him, but that doesn’t matter because all I want is to talk to my friend.
“I love it. The songs you chose are beautiful.”
I can almost hear him smile when he says, “I’m glad you like them.”
I take a seat on the carpeted stairs. “I love that Clapton song. It’s so pretty.”
“It makes me think of you. That night you wore the red dress.” I smile, remembering that perfect night. “And that first song reminds me of you too,” he says. “The first time I saw you. I thought you were lovely, but never in my dreams…”
It’s quiet at his end. I wonder where he is, if he’s standing or sitting, leaning against a wall. “You thought I was out of your league,” I tease.
He laughs. “Exactly. I did. You were married, and even if…you seemed too sweet to fall for the likes of me, or be interested in our lifestyle.”
I smile at the memory — how nervous he seemed that first night. That fateful night it all seemed so surreal, so sudden.
“That Dave Matthews Band song, Crash into Me makes me think of you,” I tell him.
“Really?”
“That’s what it felt like the first time we met,” I confess. “Like you just crashed into me. It was so sudden, so unexpected.”
I hear soft laughter at the other end of the line. “It was. It was amazing.”
“You came out of nowhere,” I tell him, remembering that night so long ago. “One second, I was here, and the next, I was gone…caught up in you. Absolutely wrecked.”
“Wrecked?”
“Yes, absolutely wrecked.”
“You have it all wrong, Mirella,” he says, his voice quiet. “You are the one who has wrecked me.”
I close my eyes, my heart caught up in his words. I don’t want to do this right now. I don’t want to go deep into this. I just want to talk to my friend.
“There’s a French song in the mix,” I point out. “You know I don’t understand French, right?” I’m teasing. I hope he can tell by the tone of my voice.
“It’s beautiful. It’s by this French-Canadian songstress who has the voice of an angel.”
“What is it about?”
There’s another silence. And I try to remember the song. I listened to the beautiful melody but couldn’t understand a word.
“It’s about a woman who is passionately loved by two men,” he finally manages. My breath catches, his words replaying in my mind. “I thought it was fitting,” he says quietly.
I find myself without words. Another silence divides us. The air seems so charged. And neither of us seems to be able to utter a single syllable.
My voice trembles as I finally venture, “Does she love them both?”
He clears his throat and after a long pause, he says quietly, “I believe so.”
He knows I love him. He knows it despite the fact that I haven’t told him since that night so long ago, in the canopy bed under the stars. And he knows I love Gabe too.
“She does,” I whisper.
Another dreadful silence. I can almost hear the pounding of my heart in my ears. I want him to say something. “What a mess she must be in,” I finally manage, a poor attempt at humor.
“Yes, I can only imagine.”
Yes, I’m in a horrible mess, I want to scream. I feel the heaviness consume me and I want to tell him how I cry myself to sleep every night, how I can barely eat a thing, how I can’t find the strength to take my daughters to the park on some days.
Almost as if he can read my mind, he asks, “How are you, really? Please tell me the truth.”
The lump in my throat grows thicker and I can’t hold in the tears anymore. “I’m in shambles,” I cry. “And I deserve it, every miserable second of it.”
“No, you don’t. Listen to me, Mirella. You don’t deserve misery. I wish–”
“I do. I’ve committed one of the seven deadly sins,” I point out. “I’ve craved you. I’ve lusted for you. This is why I’m in this mess.”
“No,” he says, and I can hear the raised pitch of his voice. “Think about it…God’s invention, it’s genius. How else to ensure the propagation of human kind? Lust is what that is.”
I don’t say a word as he goes on.
“The man sees the woman and desires her, wants to touch her, taste her, get as close to her as he possibly can,” he says. “And it’s not just in his mind, it’s his body too. His heart beats faster, his skin flushes, the blood courses through him, he hardens for
her. He craves her. She becomes a physiological need.”
A wave of desire washes over me as I listen to his words. His voice is so soft. I want him to stop talking now. But he’s not quite done.
“And the woman has the same reactions. She wants to taste and touch, and be touched by him, be explored to the depths. Her heart beats too and her body readies for him, becomes hot, wet, pliable.”
I don’t think he’s purposely trying to arouse me, but hell…
“Weston…”
“Think about it,” he goes on. “Take a small boy building a car, would he fault his creation for rolling when he pushed it? When he built it to do just that?”
I decide to play the devil’s advocate. “So you’re saying God wanted us to all run around and go at it like wild animals?”
“Well, no, but I’m saying I don’t think monogamy is quite—”
“Of course, someone who leads a poly-amorous lifestyle wouldn’t think monogamy is a natural state.”
I’m not sure how this conversation has managed to turn into a fight, but it sure did. My heart is beating hard, and my breathing is ragged. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m angry or aroused.
“Monogamy becomes a natural state when one finds the person he or she is meant to be with,” he says matter-of-factly. “That’s what I truly think.”
“Then by that argument, Bridget and Gabe are not the ones we are meant to be with.”
“I didn’t say that.”
I can see this conversation going in a direction I don’t want it to go. I can’t do this today. I don’t have the strength.
“I’m sorry, Weston. I should probably go now. Thanks for the CD.”
“But Mirella.”
“I’m sorry,” I say one last time before I press ‘end call’. I can tell myself a lot of things, but I can’t tell myself God wanted this for me.
I run up the stairs, my cell still in hand. I play the CD again, from the beginning, and fall in a heap on the purple bed. He calls me again but I let it go to my voicemail. I can’t talk to him…shouldn’t talk to him.
The first song starts, its sweet melody fills the whimsical room. The pressure in me eases. My phone rings again and I put it on vibrate.