The Ground Rules: Undone

by Roya Carmen

  He eyes me with a sheepish smile.

  “It’s beautiful. Did you have help?”

  He shakes his head, his hands still in his pockets. “No,” he says. “All me.”

  There’s something very sweet about the space, and it’s not only because it’s a nursery. I can see Weston’s essence in this space; from the clean lines, to the small wooden turtle sculpture on the dresser, to the glass starfish hanging in the window. I take the sculpture in my hand. “Is this yours?”

  He nods. “It belongs to Oliver now.”

  God, the man is killing me.

  He wants this so much. I can see it. I wish I could give this to him. I wish I could give him so much more.

  I inch closer to him, my steps slow. He eyes me, his expression hopeful, but he doesn’t move. I wrap my arms around him. I hadn’t planned to get close to him, but…

  Damn him.

  He stills for a few seconds, and his arms slowly make their way around my waist. As he holds me tighter, my whole body warms. I hold him closer and bury my head in the crook of his neck and breathe in the familiar wonderful earthy scent. I press my lips to his skin. I can feel the beating of his heart there. It beats so fast.

  He’s gotten to me again. He grabs a hold of my heart and renders me senseless. I don’t know what to think anymore. Gabe encouraged me to explore my options, to really think about what I want, who I want to be with. He gave me permission to be with Weston again. I hadn’t planned on being with him again, but every cell in my body wants him. And he and Bridget are also separated.

  “Mirella,” he breathes.

  I kiss his neck softly and I hear his ragged breaths as he leans down to me and trails his mouth along the curve of my cheek. I want him to kiss me. But he doesn’t. He lingers there, his lips soft and warm against my skin.

  I trail my mouth along his jaw, willing him to lose his composure and kiss me. If I don’t make the first move, maybe I can ease some of my guilt for what we’re about to do. I can tell myself I wasn’t the one who started it. I can tell myself he seduced me.

  I told myself I would wait for Gabe, but he said he was giving me time.

  “Mirella,” Weston breathes. “I promised I’d be a gentleman.” The words are hoarse. He’s trying to do the right thing, but I know he doesn’t want to do the right thing. I can feel it in every inch of him, in every ragged breath he takes, in the feel of his touch.

  I swallow hard. “I don’t want you to be a gentleman.” As I say the words, I know they are wrong. I feel myself tumbling, like I have so many times before with him.

  I feel the curve of his lips against my cheek, his hot breath on my skin. “Are you sure?” he asks. He’s giving me the chance to say no because he too, knows this is wrong. But I’m not strong enough to say no.

  “Yes, take me to the master,” I whisper. “Please.”

  He trails a finger softly along the side of my face. “Are you sure?” he asks again. His eyes are dark, his mouth delicious looking. “I swear this was not my intent.”

  “I know.”

  He finally presses his mouth against mine. His hands grab a tight hold of my face. And the kiss I had been longing for, the kiss I didn’t want to admit I wanted, drives me over the edge. I grab a fistful of his shirt. He slides his free hand down my body and pulls me up tight against him, the grasp of his hand hard against my rear. I wrap my legs tightly around him, not wanting to ever let go. He hoists me up tighter against him.

  He carries me to the master — a large dark empty room. The blinds are drawn and the room is completely empty with the exception of a lone king mattress on the floor, wrapped in white linens. He lets me go gently at the end of the mattress. I slide off him, reluctant.

  I know I should go. I know I’m sending the wrong message. He might think I’ve accepted this new life he has planned for us. I want to tell him I haven’t, but I also don’t want to talk anymore. I just want to have him…one last time. Every cell of my being wants him…needs him.

  “One last time,” I whisper.

  His eyes pool with desire and something else I don’t quite recognize. He doesn’t say a word as he trails soft kisses along my collarbone. His hand makes its way under the skirt of my yellow summer dress. “I’ve been dreaming about this,” he whispers.

  I trail my hand along the band of his low-riding jeans, trace a finger down the dark line under his navel, and travel to the ridge of his hip bone. I explore slowly… I don’t want to rush. “What did you see?”

  I feel the vibration if his lips against my neck as he laughs. “You mostly, naked. I have memorized every detail down to the last freckle,” he says softly. “It’s almost real when I think about you.”

  I close my eyes. “I think about you too.” I pull off his t-shirt slowly. “I never felt right about our last time together,” I confess.

  He pulls off my cotton panties slowly — they’re nothing fancy, just plain white cotton briefs. They fall slowly in a heap around my ankles. “Yes,” he breathes. “I think we can do better than a quick dry hump against a door.”

  I sigh as he trails a finger along my ass. “I can’t remember the last time we made love on a bed.”

  “New York,” he whispers as he slides his hand softly across my belly, “when we made this little guy.”

  My insides feel heavy as I pull him hard against me. “I want you.”

  I don’t want a fast-slam against the mattress. I want a slow dance. I want to drink in every moment, every touch and every kiss.

  This is our last time. I wonder if he knows this too. I don’t think he does. I haven’t been very clear. I know I should really be honest.

  “Weston,” I start off but he completely pulls me off course when he trails his soft hands up my torso and pulls off the yellow cotton fabric. As my dress falls to the floor, he smiles his trademark way-too-sexy-should-be-illegal smile.

  He traces the laced edge of my bra cup with the tip of his finger so delicately, like an artist putting the finishing touches on a prized sculpture. “This needs to come off too.” He presses his mouth on mine again, and I find myself on the tip of my toes, wanting to be taller, wanting to be eye to eye with him. He trails his hands around my body, working the clasp of my bra loose with ease. He peels my white bra off slowly, sliding the thin straps over my shoulders and letting it fall to join the dress on the floor. He pulls his mouth from mine to take me in. He stares at me with wonder and I all but forget what I was going to say.

  He trails his finger along the edge of my breast. “You are precious. You are my princess.”

  I smile, wanting him to stop staring at me, and just take me. He has no idea how ready I am for him. “I thought I was your eager little butterfly.”

  He laughs. His laughter is so soft, I can barely hear it. “That too,” he says. “But you’re being rather tame tonight, very patient,” he adds. “I’m impressed.”

  I can tell he’s enjoying every second of this. He loves the dance. I love the dance too but…

  He is driving me literally insane, yet again.

  I pull him closer. “I’m trying very hard,” I tell him, my voice silky, playful, “but I’m struggling, to tell you the truth.”

  He smiles as he pulls off his vintage t-shirt in one swift move. And I don’t take even a second to take him in. I just want to taste. He lets out a groan as I trail my tongue along his lower abs. I undo his fly and pull it all down, the jeans, the boxers, not wasting a single second. He’s just as ready as I am.

  He pulls me up back to him and bites at my bottom lip. He whispers into my mouth, his breath hot. “I want to make love to you.” The words are muffled but I hear them. “No more fucking, Mirella.”

  The room seems to spin as I catch my breath.

  No more fucking.

  He lowers me gently to the cloud of a mattress on the floor. The sheets are cold and crisp on my back, but the heat of his large body as he presses against me warms me instantly. Our mouths meet and our tongues tangle, a soft
wet mess. They pull apart only to explore, every inch of skin. And then, they meet again in a frenzy. When he finally sinks into me, it feels like I’ve been waiting for this moment forever.

  And I try to savor every second.

  This is our last time.

  He presses into me softly at first, his kiss tender. Soft moans escape from my mouth, my body overwhelmed by the sensation of him. He pulls his mouth from mine to look at me. It feels so intimate. He likes to see me, hear me, feel me. I can barely look back, under the intensity of his stare. But soon, as he presses into me softly, over and over, as the pleasure grows and the tension builds, I feel my body tense, getting antsy…wanting more.

  More.

  I look into his eyes. “H-harder,” I plead, the word escaping in a wail.

  His eyes seem so dark when he says, “I don’t want to hurt…”

  “You won’t.”

  He pushes into me harder, and I cling hard, legs wrapped tightly around him. “Harder,” I keep crying. I hate sounding so desperate, like an animal in heat. But every cell of me wants him to make me come. His body is sticky and hot, the muscles of his arms hard against the palm of my hands. I throw my head back as he pulls at my hair, losing control.

  I close my eyes as he brings me there, like I knew he would.

  I cry out into the stillness of the large empty room. And he groans loudly as he catches up to me, the beautiful sound of his climax unheard for the longest time, but so familiar.

  His body trembles against mine as he’s brought down, hot and sweaty. He trails his face against mine and searches for my mouth in the darkness.

  And then, he presses his lips to mine again.

  I’m on the verge of tears when I say goodbye to Edward. And as I make my way up the steps of my house, I’m officially sobbing.

  As soon as Gwen sees me, she wraps me in a big hug. “What happened? Did he hurt you?”

  “No,” I cry. “No, he didn’t hurt me.”

  She jerks away. “Then, what happened?” She almost begs me to tell her when she pleads, “Please tell me, sweetie.”

  I turn away from her. “We…” I can’t say the words out loud. “Are the girls sleeping?”

  “Yes,” she snaps. “Now, tell me what’s wrong?”

  She obviously has no intention of letting this go.

  I walk to the living room and crumble on the sofa, my face buried in my hands. “I just realized something terrible.”

  “What?” she asks as she kneels on the floor, next to me. “What?”

  “As long as Weston exists, as long as he’s alive…as long I’m alive,” I say, the words soft and surprisingly even. “I will always want him.”

  She sighs and takes my hand in hers.

  The tears stream down my face, onto the yellow cotton of my dress, onto her hands, but she doesn’t let go. “As much as I tell myself I won’t be with him again, that I’ll stay away, I just can’t seem to.”

  I try to make her understand. I don’t want her to think I’m just some sex-crazed tramp. “I tried so hard. I was so good.”

  “Oh, sweetie,” she breathes. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

  “I don’t know what to do. I love him, Gwen.”

  She cocks a brow. “Do you really, Mirella?” she says, playing the devil’s advocate. “Or does he just make you hot? Think about it, ‘love’ is a strong word.”

  I shake my head. “I do love him, Gwen,” I try to explain. “Like you love someone who means a lot to you, and it’s not necessarily sexual. But you’re right, every time I see him, I want to jump him.”

  “Do you see yourself growing old with him?” she asks. “Do you want to spend the rest of your life with him?”

  I don’t even need to think about it before I answer. “No, I see myself with Gabe. It’s always been Gabe.”

  Her big bright smile almost blinds me when she says, “Well, then it’s settled. You’ve made your decision.”

  I look up at her, my eyes drenched in tears. “I have?”

  I’m still so confused.

  She bites her lip, her mind at work. “Now you just need to put some distance between you and Weston.”

  “What do you mean? Move?”

  She winces a little. “If that’s what you need to do.”

  I chew my bottom lip, thinking about what Gabe had told me, about the opportunity down south.

  “Don’t leave a forwarding address,” she says. “Change your number, your email.”

  “But he’d find me. And I can’t keep his baby away from him. He has rights.”

  She blows out a huge breath, and stands to her feet “You’re right,” she concedes, trailing circles around the living room. “He does have rights to the child. It’s quite a pickle you’re in.”

  “I-I told you,” I croak out. “It’s hopeless.”

  Weston calls me the next day to let me know he’ll be in Los Angeles on business for a few days. He tells me he’ll miss me and I don’t say a single word. I’m not quite sure what to say. We never talked after we made love. I kind of dashed out of there in a hurry. I told him I needed to get back to the kids. But in reality, I just wanted to avoid the ‘conversation’. I didn’t want to admit I’m not planning to move in with him. Guilt washes over me as I contemplate my actions. I’ve completely deceived him. Sleeping with him was such a bad decision, but I just wanted to be with him one last time. And hell, I’m full of bad decisions lately. I seem to be on a roll. And everyone in my path is getting hurt. I do care about Weston a lot but I need to make a decision — the right decision, for all of us.

  The sky is dark, the darkest shade of grey.

  I am seated at a small round table, my shoulders straight, my back stiff. On the table sits a flickering candle, a bottle of red and two wine glasses. The white linen tablecloth is soiled. My wine glass sits in the middle of a dark red circle. I wonder if I’m the one who has spilled, if the stain is my fault. I’m red-hot, burning up. I look down at my sweltering body, covered in soft yellow silk. I’m not sure if I’m wearing a dress or a slip. My feet are bare, the tips of my toes painted blood-red.

  I gaze across the table. Weston is sitting there in an impeccable black suit. His hair is slicked back, parted on the side, his face clean shaven. His eyes are as striking as ever — an even brighter shade of green — like sea glass. He’s clean and so beautiful. Next to him, I feel dirty, soiled. His gaze lingers on me, his eyes travel from my red lips to the swell of my breast. He adores me, desires me…even if I am soiled.

  I pull my gaze away from him and take in my surroundings. We are on a boat; not a yacht, not a cruise boat, but a rather large pirate ship of some kind. The floors are a worn oak.

  The sky is dark, the waves are choppy, yet the boat is perfectly still, the wine glasses steady. The wind is cool and harsh, yet the candle keeps burning bright.

  I want him to come to me, to take me, to make me his. And suddenly, the table between us vanishes, and he is at my feet, kissing my blood-red tipped toes. I crumble to the floor, and bury myself in him. His mouth presses onto mine, his tongue explores, wild, frenzied. I want to drink him in, taste him. His mouth is sweet. I soak in the sugary taste, but soon, it turns metallic, sharp, like blood.

  I sweep my tongue across the edge of his jaw, the texture rough against my lips. I slip off his jacket and shirt with barely a touch. His gentle hands glide against my skin and the soft yellow silk disappears into thin air. I press my naked body against his, and drag my hand over the smooth skin of his rear. He’s nude, but I don’t remember undressing him. Our bodies press together onto the hard oak flooring but it feels like we’re lying on clouds, floating. The sleek tight curves of his body fit perfectly against mine. He takes my breast in his mouth as he sinks into me. His thrusts are forceful, but he doesn’t hurt me. He only pleasures me. The first climax is soft and teasing. He watches me intently, conscious of what his body is doing to mine. The second climax instantly follows, long and intense, the sensation on the verge of pain
, but exquisite nevertheless.

  He rests his head softly against my chest. I want to keep him there forever. I feel languid, satiated.

  A loud scream cuts into the silence — shrill and piercing. I run to the edge of the boat. My feet catch on hundreds of splinters. My feet are bloody. I see him in the distance. The waves crash around him. Gabe calls out my name, “Ella, Ella.” He’s going under, he’s struggling. And I know I need to get to him. The boat is moving fast and I know if I abandon it, I will never see Weston again. Weston begs me not to jump.

  I struggle, torn between the two. My bloody feet start to vanish and I know I must make a decision.

  I whisper ‘I love you’ to Weston and I dive in. The descent is long, and when I finally crash into the waves, the water is unbearably hot, scalding. I swim to him, fighting with every cell of my body to get to him. But the more I swim, the smaller he seems to get. I see him struggling, going under, and coming back up. “Keep fighting!” I call out, “I’ll be there soon.” I keep swimming, but my arms are tired. They feel like they’re wrapped in heavy weights. He gets smaller and smaller…

  And finally, he disappears.

  I weep for him.

  The waves crash around me, become fiercer, higher, and I feel myself being taken under. And I just don’t have the strength to fight anymore.

  Slowly, the world turns black. An excruciating pain overwhelms me. It travels from my lungs to the deepest part of my belly. A thousand stabbing knives.

  I wake up in a sweat, tears streaming down my face. The time on the digital clock is blurry: 2:36 AM. I clutch my pink cotton nightgown, my heart beats so fast. The room is dark and hot.

  I’m in pain. A lot of pain. Deep, below; a wrenching pain. I slip the covers off and swivel my feet around the bed. The carpet is scratchy on the soles of my feet as I make my way to the bathroom. The bright light blinds me when I flick on the switch. I look terrible; dark circles frame my eyes, my hair is plastered against my forehead. The pain is still there. And I know something’s not right. But I don’t want to see. I reach into the cabinet and grab a bottle of Ibuprofen. I’ve tried not to take any kind of medication during this pregnancy, but right now, I just don’t care.