by Roya Carmen
“Oh, was that what the commotion was all about?” Weston says, to no one in particular.
“Yes,” I quickly chime in. “Yes, that was it…the commotion.”
I am so transparent.
Gabe grabs a slice from the loaf of bread, and pops it in the toaster. “Where do you keep your tools?”
Weston fixes him for a second. “I have a few tools in the garage. But not much.”
“You don’t have a toolbox?” Gabe asks as he pours himself a glass of mango juice. “What kind of man doesn’t have a toolbox?”
“The kind of man who pays others to do these menial jobs,” Weston replies, his expression humorless.
“You’re telling me you can’t even hang a picture?” Gabe smirks as he sets the juice carton back in the sleek stainless steel refrigerator. “You are quite the damsel in distress.”
Weston laughs, but not in a “that was so funny, ha-ha” way.
“I’ll have you know I’m not a paper-pusher, Gabe. I have a mind for the concrete, for building. I was scarcely four years old when I devised a wireless communication device, using the junk in my neighbor’s basement workshop, all the while, other children my age were learning their ABCs and soiling their diapers,” he tells him, his tone cool. “I can hang a picture.”
Well that shut Gabe up pretty good, because suddenly, probably for the first time in his life, he’s speechless. I smile inwardly.
Gabe leans against the kitchen island, a scowl on his face. “Well, speaking of workshops…” he finally manages with a strained smile, “I’ll go look in your garage.”
I spot a glare in Weston’s direction as he leaves us.
“Pretentious asshole,” I hear in a whisper as he walks down the hall, but the sound is so faint, I wonder if it’s just my imagination.
Well, well, well. It seems the alpha-male shenanigans I had been expecting have officially started.
I walk over to the refrigerator and grab the carton of juice, busying myself. The last thing I want to do this morning is look at Weston.
“You and Gabe sure had yourselves a good time last night,” Weston says without preamble.
“Uh…” Suddenly, I’m flustered and embarrassed. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, when I was a little buzzed and horny as hell. But now, in the light of day, stone sober, I’m really mortified. “I’m sorry about that,” I say, barely able to look at him. “We didn’t—”
“It’s fine, Mirella,” he says, looking up at me through his dark long lashes. “I didn’t mind.”
His words shock me. There’s heat in his gaze. He’s looking good this morning in a soft gray T-shirt. His hair is mussed up a bit, and he hasn’t shaved yet. He looks carefree. He watches my every move. His eyes are glued to me as I twist the jar of jam open…as I pull a knife out of drawer…as I grab the loaf of bread.
I pull my eyes away from him, my nerves lit up. I can’t quite bring myself to look at him, but I feel his gaze on every inch of my body. My heart pounds in my chest. I want to look up, but I just can’t.
“You wanted me to hear,” he says, his voice soft. It’s not a question but a statement, delivered with one hundred percent conviction.
I blush crimson. Oh, God. I seem to have forgotten a little fact—Weston Hanson is practically psychic. He’s very attuned to people’s behaviors. I’m also convinced he can read my mind. Of course, he knows what I was up to.
He sets down his fork and knife. “And I did hear, you’ll be glad to know. Loud and clear. The acoustics in this place don’t leave much to the imagination.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again. You’d think I could come up with something more substantial to say, but he’s rendered my mind useless.
His eyes fix on me. Not leaving, he drinks the last of his orange juice and gently sets down the glass on the granite counter. A soft clank travels across the kitchen through the eerie silence. Still, his eyes don’t leave me.
He bites his bottom lip like he wants to say something. He seems to be working it out. I don’t take my eyes off him. I want him to say it, whatever it is.
He closes his eyes. “It was extremely arousing,” he says softly, “hearing you with him.”
I drop my knife with a loud clank on the granite counter. Strawberry jam splatters all over; the counter, my white T-shirt, my hands. But oddly enough, none of it seems to land on my piece of toast.
As he gets up from his stool, he smiles, a slow wicked grin. He sweeps past me to drop his dirty dishes in the sink as he shoots me a sly look, cool as a cucumber. He smiles again as he leaves me in an absolute fumbling mess.
The girls went shopping with Gwen today. Claire is absolutely giddy as she shows us everything she got—a tiny stuffed tiger with big dark eyes, markers that smell like fruit, and cute butterfly earrings.
She pulls out a pencil from its case. “This one smells like strawberry. It smells so good. I wish you could smell it.”
“Me too.” Her adorable face on my tiny phone screen is not enough. “I can’t wait to see you and your sister again and give you both big hugs.”
“Me too,” Gabe tells her. “I miss you so much Claire-Bear.”
“Me too,” she says with a pout. “We’re having fun but we miss you so much.”
My heart breaks. I swallow a lump in my throat. “What’s Chloe doing?” I ask. “Can you go get her?”
“Sure.” The phone image bounces around—blurs of the staircase, the walls and the ceilings of Gwen’s beautiful house.
We’ve seen each other every day. But it’s not enough.
We desperately need to hold them too.
I sit on the edge of the steps leading to the pool, and hold the snorkeling mask in my hands, absolutely terrified. I’ve told everyone I don’t snorkel, but nobody wants to listen.
I’m a great swimmer. I’m not sure what it is about snorkeling. I get claustrophobic as soon as I put on the mask and I panic. For some reason, the idea of breathing through a tube terrifies me. I’m fully aware this is mostly related to my anxiety issues. I should really see a therapist. But that’s another problem for another day.
I just don’t understand why I can’t just lay on the beach when everyone else goes snorkeling. I’m cool with that.
But Weston isn’t. He really wants me to go snorkeling with him. He insists I can’t miss some of the best coral life in the world, the magic of the under-the-sea world he loves so much. And a huge part of me wants to share that with him.
Which is why, I’m sitting here, in my black tankini, dreading the next few minutes.
Weston joins me at the edge of the pool. “Would you give me those?”
I quickly oblige, and hand him the snorkeling mask. He dips it into the water. “You need to go in and get your hair wet.”
This, I don’t mind. I sink into the water and float, the temperature just right. I swim a few circles while Weston fiddles with the mask, and adjusts the band.
I reluctantly make my way back to the steps. “Have you ever given a snorkeling lesson?” I ask him, my voice a little flirty. I figure if I’m going to do something I clearly don’t want to do, I might as well have a little fun doing it.
But he’s all business. “I’ve taught my kids. They love it.”
I sit next to him, bracing myself. I remind myself this is just a pool. He adjusts the mask on my head, pulling and tugging. It hurts a little but I don’t whine. I don’t want to be a baby. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of that soon enough.
So far, so good.
“Now, I’ll stick this in your mouth, and you just relax and breathe.”
“That’s what he said,” I joke.
He smiles. God, I love his smile.
As soon as the hard plastic tube is in my mouth, I try to relax. But I just can’t. I pull out the mouth piece almost instantly. “I can’t do it. It freaks me out.”
He rolls his eyes, clearly annoyed. “You’re not even in the water yet.”
“I know. I’m hopeless. I’m tellin
g you, it’s a real phobia.”
He sighs as he takes my hand and pulls me waist deep into the pool.
“Put the tube in your mouth this instant. And lie face down in the water for five seconds.”
Sheesh, bossy.
With all the will I have, I hold my breath, stick the mouthpiece in and lay in the water. But I’m barely in the water for a few seconds, and I start to panic again. I pull the tube out as soon as I surface. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
He wipes a hand against his brow, a huge frown on his face. “This is absolutely ridiculous, Mirella.”
“I know.” I’m so sorry to disappoint him. I’m so upset with myself. I could just kick myself. I really wanted to do this. I pull the mask over my forehead. “I’m sorry.”
He takes my hand. “The problem is anxiety,” he says, his voice soft. “I know what you’re feeling. I’ve been there. I’ve had anxiety issues too.”
“You have?”
“Yes, and what you must remember is it’s all in your head. It’s your own concoction, derived from your cumulative obsessive thoughts, which feed off each other and become stronger and stronger. You’ve told yourself certain things so many years, you’ve come to truly believe them, and they have become your concrete reality.”
Geez, he sounds like a therapist. “Uh…English please, Professor Scarlett?” I joke.
“What I’m saying is you need to get a handle on your thoughts. You need to banish the bad ones.”
I dry myself with one of the gigantic blue, perfectly fluffy towels. The towels here are so classy and absolutely awe-inspiring. Back home, our towels are pitiful—thin, ripped, with various designs of princesses, tacky beach scenes and that ghastly bikini-clad cartoon lady. “But how do I do that?”
He takes my hand. “Come with me.”
I trail behind him, suddenly intrigued and excited. Where is he taking me?
We make our way to the pool washroom—a small intimate two-piece with whimsical, almost childlike art of palm trees. It’s just the two of us. Gabe and Bridget are playing tennis. Yes, there’s also a tennis court on the property, of course.
Weston’s looking very sexy with a towel hanging low on his hips, still holding on to that blasted snorkeling gear. “So…”
I smile playfully at him. We’re in this tiny washroom, just us two. I think back to our first date and my thoughts are no longer about snorkeling lessons.
“You need to shift the focus of your thoughts,” he says, all smiles.
He’s feeling playful suddenly.
I like that.
He sets his hands on his hips and bites his bottom lip. “What I’ve learned in my therapy sessions is that you need to focus your energy, your thoughts.”
Yes, focus.
“You can achieve so much when you control your mind,” he goes on, so pragmatically, but yet he grins, still. “You can ease anxieties and phobias, even reduce physical pain.”
“I wish you’d told me that before I had my girls,” I joke, “Talk about pain.”
He smiles at me. “Yes, it can be helpful with labor and delivery.”
I’m quite intrigued. “So how do I do it?”
He inches closer to me. “I want to show you how the brain works,” he says as he grabs my wrist.
He wraps his mouth around my arm. It’s kind of incredibly arousing.
Focus already.
And then…he bites. Hard.
The pain sears through me, shocking my senses. Instinctually, I jerk my arm away. “What the hell are you doing?” I’m starting to seriously wonder about him.
“I’m sorry,” he offers, a huge grin on his face. “Did that hurt?”
“Yeah, it hurt like hell. It’s still throbbing,” I add, staring down at my arm. “You left teeth marks!” I yell, showing him my marked arm.
“Give me your other arm,” he says.
“Uh…I don’t think so.”
“Trust me,” he says, his voice soft. “It won’t hurt as much this time.”
“You’re going to do it again?”
This is all kinds of weird, I can’t help but I think. But I’m intrigued.
“The problem was you were focused on that part of your body. As soon, as I put my mouth there, all your energy was directed in that one spot, anticipating sensation. This time, you’re going to focus on another part of your body.”
Interesting. I’m not sure where he’s going with this, but I play along.
“Dig your nails into your thigh, and focus on that pain,” he says.
I cock a brow, still not quite sure.
Okay.
I close my eyes, slightly aroused by this whole process. I do as I’m told and dig my nails into my flesh.
He bites down on my arm. I feel the pain of his bite but it’s not as bad as the first time.
“How was that? Not quite as painful, right?”
“But you didn’t bite down as hard.”
“But I did, if not harder.”
“Wow,” I say as I look down at the teeth marks on my left arm. “I guess it really works.”
“It does. And it works for anxiety too.”
“Show me.” I’m a true believer now.
“The problem with your snorkeling issues is your focus,” he tells me, his hand on my hip. His hand on me is kind of distracting, but I try to concentrate.
“Breathing is obviously a natural state. It’s something we do every second of the day, without thinking about it. The problem is when you start actually thinking about it.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, all ears.
“You’re going to put the mask on, and breathe through the tube. And instead of focusing on your breathing, you’ll focus on another part of your body.”
“Which part?” I ask, eager.
“You’ll see,” he says with a playful smile. “This kind of exercise is usually done with imagery, and you will have to do that when you’re snorkeling. But for right now, I want to try something a little more fun.”
I smile and wonder what he has in mind.
He places the mask on my head, adjusting it just so, pulling at my wet hair slightly. He then places the mouthpiece in my mouth.
I instantly reach for it, itching to rip it out of my mouth.
He stills my hand. “Don’t you dare.”
I start to panic. My breathing speeds. I feel suffocated.
“I’m going to stroke your thigh and you’re going to focus on the sensation of that, on how good it feels.”
Well, this approach I kind of like.
The tip of his fingers trail along my thigh and my attention is instantly drawn to that spot, to his touch.
“Feels good?”
I nod. Yes, it does. It’s very nice. But I still feel a little panicked.
He trails his fingers along the soft flesh on the inside of my thigh and he presses me slowly against the wall. The tiles are cold on my back, but I don’t care. I open my legs up for him, just a little.
I look at him through the thick clear plastic of my mask and he’s smiling. He wears a mischievous expression. He wants to play.
He grabs my thigh and props it up against him, touching me with his free hand. He’s arousing me and I’ve all but forgotten about the snorkeling gear, and how ridiculous I must look in it.
He trails his fingers higher, along the edge of my sex, close but not close enough. He teases me.
I close my eyes and lean my head back against the hard wall. I have completely forgotten about the gear on my head.
He sweeps his hand over my suit bottom, along my sex and it feels absolutely amazing. I ache for him to touch me closer, deeper.
“You’re doing well,” he says, his voice silky-smooth.
This is such a turn-on.
I moan through my tube, the sound slightly strange.
Then he trails his hand along the band of my bottoms, back and forth as he teases me. I am definitely focused now. His touch is the only thing in the world at this moment.
He slowly presses his warm hand between my legs, pressing it against my sex.
Oh my.
I’m breathing hard but I no longer feel suffocated.
He moves his fingers against me in an ever increasing tempo and pressure.
My mask is getting very foggy. I reach for the tube. I want it off.
“Keep the tube in or I’m not bringing you to climax,” he scolds.
I can keep the tube in. No problem.
I stand back against the wall, enjoying his touch. But he pulls away and sets my leg free. He slides my bottoms down dragging them slowly along my legs, and over my feet. I ache for him to touch me again.
His skilled fingers trace a line along my leg and make their way back to my sweet spot and I open up for him. He pushes his fingers into me, and slips them out to rub my clit, driving me absolutely wild. All the while, he has an expression of pure enjoyment on his face. He loves this almost as much as I do. Or maybe he finds it all amusing. I really don’t care. It just feels so good.
Finally he hits just the right spot, and rubs me fast and hard, into the most mind blowing climax.
When I finally reach the moment of bliss I had been aching for, I moan loudly into the tube, thinking this is one of those very memorable orgasms, one I’ll certainly never forget.
Brought back down to earth, my body feels heavy, spent. I don’t even bother taking off the mask, or the tube.
“Well,” he whispers in my ear. “That was a good five minutes with the gear on, and you’re still alive. Proof you can breathe with it on.”
I finally remove the tube and mask. “You’re naughty. I thought we weren’t supposed to fool around on this trip.”
“Well,” he says with a sly smile, “this was all in the name of science, for your therapy. To help you overcome your phobia.”
“Yes, my phobia,” I tease. “You enjoyed it. I could see it all over your face.”
He laughs. “You could see through that foggy mask?”
I nod, awkwardly searching for my bottoms. “We better go. We wouldn’t want to get caught.”
“Yes, time for part two of the lesson,” he adds, bouncing off me.
I shoot him a sly smile. “Something tells me part two won’t be nearly as fun as part one.”