Ground Rules: Rewritten

by Roya Carmen

  He laughs softly. “Soon enough. What have I told you about patience, butterfly?”

  I blow out a breath, my body tense, aching for his touch.

  His intense gaze is still going strong. “But first, I think I owe you something.”

  My body stands to attention, suddenly curious. What could he possibly owe me?

  I watch intently as he walks over to the desk. He presses a button on the iPod player and drags his finger along the display. He smiles as he turns to me.

  The melody is beautiful, haunting.

  And familiar.

  I know this song. It’s the last song on the mixed CD I made him.

  He closes the distance between us slowly. His eyes are black in the darkness of the room. His lips seem so full, begging to be kissed. When he reaches me, I find myself motionless. For some reason I don’t quite understand, I can’t seem to move.

  Weston slides his hand around my hip, his finger gliding easily against the silky fabric of my dress. My body almost explodes. This is the first time he’s really touched me in days.

  His other hand cups my chin. I look up at him, anticipating a kiss. “I believe I owe you a dance,” he says.

  “You do,” I whisper. “It was very hurtful of you, refusing to dance with me.”

  The song echoes against the walls, so crisp, so real—a man begs his lover to stay.

  I press my forehead softly against his chin and we start to move in languid circles. With one hand on my hip and the other on my face, he doesn’t press too close against me, keeping me at bay. I close my eyes, enjoying the beautiful song and the sensation of finally being in his arms.

  He trails his hand to my back. “We’ve never danced before,” he breathes softly. He traces a line down the length of my spine slowly. My skin prickles, erupting in goose bumps. He presses his mouth against my shoulder as his finger travels past the small of my back, dipping sensually low. His hand lingers on the edge of the silky fabric, pooling down over my rear. “This is quite the dress,” he whispers.

  I laugh softly. “I know. I couldn’t even find a bra to wear with it.”

  “I’ve noticed. I’ve been noticing all night. Like I said, your dress has been driving me insane.”

  I realize no man has ever desired me as much as he does, at this moment. Not even Gabe.

  “You want me?” I ask, wanting him to say the words.

  He pulls me closer. And I have my answer. “More than you can imagine,” he breathes.

  And we keep moving in circles.

  He trails his cheek against mine, his lips near my mouth. I like the feel of his hot breath on my skin. I close my eyes as we dance like this for the longest time. My hands delicately rest on his shoulders, the fabric of his dark button up shirt is stiff. His hands are wrapped around my waist. There’s something very chaste, yet very sensual about this dance. We’re barely touching each other, but the air is charged.

  The song comes to an end. We pause in each other’s arms. And then it starts again.

  I want to dance again. And again and again. But he pulls away and turns from me. “Speaking of ridiculously minuscule dresses, I’d be forever grateful if you could take it off,” Weston tells me as he turns off the music. We find ourselves in eerie silence again.

  I’m a little taken aback by his words. I smile, but don’t quite oblige. “But I thought there was to be no funny business this week.”

  I want to play a little.

  He turns back to face me. “Well, that was the plan. But you’ve been driving me absolutely wild all week.”

  Who am I kidding? I want this, so much.

  I reach for the skirt of my dress and pull the slinky fabric over my head, glad to be wearing worthy underwear—see-through fabric, trimmed in black lace. My eyes don’t leave his as I drop the sparkly blue fabric to the floor, feeling slightly vulnerable under his stare. My breasts are bare, my nipples hard.

  He stands still and watches me for the longest time. He watches with the intensity of an animal surveying his prey. “You are beautiful.”

  I expect him to come to me now, but he doesn’t.

  He’s apparently in the mood to tease.

  He walks away from me and sits on the edge of the blue bed, without a word. I wonder if I should go to him. I slip the tip of my index finger in the band of my panties as I consider stripping for him. Perhaps that’s what he wants.

  He shoots me a soft shy smile. “I’d like you to come over here and sit on me.”

  I am so insanely aroused. I would obey any of his commands at this point.

  I feel a pressure deep at my core as I make my way slowly to him—a mix of desire and guilt. We’re not supposed to be doing this. But every cell of me wants him. How can I deny my body this? He’s all I want.

  I walk over to him slowly, unsure.

  A whisper of a smile plays on his lips and he puts his hand on my waist and gently coaxes me around. My back is to him as I settle my rear on his lap.

  He pulls me closer against him with a strong grasp of my hips. “Just like this,” he breathes. His erection presses against my sex as he wraps his arms around me delicately. His body is warm against the coolness of the air conditioning. He feels like heaven.

  He trails his hand against my thigh. “I want to have you the exact same way your husband had you last night.” His words sear. They seem to float in the air, linger. His breathing seems uneven; in tatters, and I know he’s just as aroused as I am.

  He slides his hand along my neck and pulls my hair gently to the side. Warmth washes through me as he kisses the nape of my neck. He reaches for the band of my panties and pulls gently. I shimmy off him an inch to make his job easier, because I definitely want those panties to come off.

  “I want you to make those same soft sounds you made last night,” he says as he tugs the panties off.

  I smile. I didn’t realize I had been making sounds. He cups my breast in his hand, and traces soft circles around my nipple, making me shiver.

  “I want you to dig your nails into your thighs,” he says as he kisses my shoulder, “just like you did last night.”

  He’s moving so very slowly. He’s driving me to insanity.

  “Weston,” I breathe, his name ragged on my tongue. “I’m completely naked, and you’re still fully dressed.” Obviously, there is something very wrong with this equation.

  He trails his finger along the strap of my sparkly, four-inch-heeled sandal. “You’re not quite naked. You still have your shoes on,” he points out. “Keep them on. They’re very sexy,” he adds, trailing soft kisses down my back.

  I reach behind my back, swiftly freeing him from his pants. I want to be with him. I take him in my hands, he’s hot and hard. He pushes me off him as he pulls down his pants, eager. As soon as he’s free, I slide against his shaft, the sounds of my wet sex surprisingly loud in the dead silence of the room.

  “You are drenched,” he breathes.

  I prop myself up on him, just so, and I rock back and forth against him, dangerously close to penetration, already feeling myself near the edge. I don’t think I’ve ever gotten aroused so quickly.

  He moans loudly in my ear, and stills me with his hands. “Please stop. Settle down. I beg you,” he whispers.

  But it feels so good, I don’t want to stop.

  He stills me again. “Stop, Mirella.” His grasp is tighter this time. “I’m serious.”

  Unfortunately, this isn’t an exact re-enactment of last night’s events—Gabe had entered me bare, but Weston doesn’t have that luxury.

  He pulls out a condom from his pocket. I close my eyes as I hear the sounds of him opening the packet.

  Soon.

  He sinks into me slowly, and fills me with a heat I didn’t even think was possible. He thrusts into me softly at first but before long, he presses into me harder and deeper. I can’t get enough of him. I want this to last forever, but I know it won’t. I’m even more aroused than I had been last night, and I know it won’t take m
e long to climax. Together, we recreate the night before, but somehow, it feels even more sensual, more intimate…so very different.

  As I feel myself nearing the edge, my whimpers become louder and louder, echoing off the walls.

  “I love making you feel this way,” he whispers against the nape of my neck. And his words bring me there, where I ache to be.

  Yes.

  As I’m consumed by my climax, he digs his fingers into the flesh of my hips, and sinks his teeth into my shoulder.

  I close my eyes, thinking this is, by far, the best case of déjà vu I’ve ever experienced.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Who were we kidding?

  WE DIDN’T EVEN KISS ONCE, I realize as I gaze down at the slowly diminishing islands of Hawaii. In fact, Weston and I barely touched, barely talked really. It was all about sex. I suppose we are doing well as far as emotional detachment is concerned. It’s what I’ve wanted. It’s what I’ve strived for. So why does the thought depress me so? He’s been listening. He’s remained distant as per my request. I think we’ve almost forgotten we actually care about each other. And this is definitely for the best.

  Gabe leans back in his seat, iPod in hand, ear buds in ears, looking as relaxed as ever, not a care in the world. He is so laid-back. Why can’t I be more like him? Here I am rehashing every moment, every word, second-guessing everything. I feel so guilty. I wasn’t supposed to have sex with Weston this week, and I just couldn’t help myself. The pull was just too strong.

  I am such a little tramp.

  And it was premeditated too. As much as I’d like to tell myself it was all in the heat of the moment, in the heat of passion, it wasn’t. I knew what I was doing when I put that trampy little dress on, when I was dancing for him, I knew…

  I knew he would want to fuck me.

  And I wanted him to, so badly.

  I need to tell Gabe.

  I take a calming breath and nudge him in the ribs. He looks at me with a curious expression and takes out his ear buds. “What?”

  I wince a little. “I need to tell you something.”

  He sits up to attention. “What?”

  I bite my lip, not wanting to confess. “I…I slept with Weston,” I tell him, my words an incoherent jumble, “uh…yesterday, one time, on the last night, just the once.”

  He looks away. And I know I’ve gone and done it. But then he shoots me a soft smile.

  I’m shocked by his reaction. “Why are you not more upset? I had sex with him,” I whisper, cringing a little. “And it was forbidden.”

  He bites his lip. “Bridget and I…we did too,” he confesses.

  I gasp. “What?”

  When? Where? That night at the club? Or probably when they were “playing tennis.”

  I jerk away, turning my head to the window. Now I’m the one who’s upset. “You horny bastard.”

  He laughs. “I’m sorry. It was her, she can be very pushy.”

  I glare at him without a word.

  Tramp.

  “C’mon, Ella,” he says with a sly grin. “Who were we kidding? We all knew it was going to happen. We were practically glued together in a kick-ass villa in Hawaii, for a week, for Christ’s sake. What did you expect?”

  I’m upset, but he’s right in a sense—the man makes a very good point.

  My mouth still hangs open when the flight attendant greets us with a friendly smile, and asks us if we’d like refreshments.

  Chloe holds me in a vice-grip. There’s no way she’s letting go. “I’ve missed you so much, Mommy.”

  I squeeze her and kiss the top of her head. “Me too.”

  Claire has climbed up on her dad like a little monkey and she doesn’t seem to have any intention of letting go either.

  It’s weird, we have never all been separated like this for so long.

  “Good trip?” Gwen ventures, a naughty twinkle in her eye.

  A smile stretches across my face as I think back to the night on the ugly palm-tree covered slipper chair. And the night on the blue bed. I clear my throat. “Um…yes…we had so much fun. We went snorkeling. Can you believe it?”

  “Uh-huh,” she says with a cocked brow. “What else did you all do?” she asks with a not-so-subtle smile.

  I glance over at Gabe, the huge mischievous grin on his face says it all. Damn him. He and Gwen are obviously having a between-the-lines conversation—a naughty conversation.

  Thankfully, the girls have no clue.

  Chapter Twenty

  You were lovely tonight…

  I SMOOTH DOWN THE SKIRT of my red dress. “You come here a lot?” I venture, tentative. I’m not sure I really want to know.

  Weston leans back in his chair, nursing a scotch. “Occasionally. I like to come here to unwind.” He’s looking rather dashing tonight, decked out in a sleek gray suit and bright orange shirt. He stands out amongst the crowd—mostly middle-aged, paunchy balding men in bland suits.

  “That’s interesting,” I say with a sly smile. “I’m more partial to reading a good book. But I suppose we all have our hobbies.”

  He laughs and his eyes linger on me for a while. His lingering gaze makes me a little uncomfortable, but I’m plenty ill at ease already, being the only woman who’s not dancing or serving drinks.

  “Honestly,” he goes on, “I don’t have much time for hobbies. I don’t make it here often.”

  I turn my gaze from him. There is something mesmerizing about watching the woman move; her movements languid, the long sheer white scarf swaying in the air, forming beautiful shapes. It’s quite beautiful…it’s art. But I know the pretty white dress will soon come off.

  “I came here often after we ended things,” he tells me.

  When you ended things, I almost want to remind him.

  He doesn’t quite look at me. His gaze studies the woman in front of us. “Trying to distract myself, I suppose. I thought looking at beautiful woman would help me forget. Remind me there are others.”

  The white dress has disappeared, discarded on the floor, under the blue cast of the lights above. She moves slowly, swaying her hips in circles, her long black hair glides over her back like silk, her perfect round breasts are on full display. She moves her body sensually around the glittery pole. The music is soft jazz, not your traditional loud pop rock. Somehow, it’s not crass at all. Nothing like the strip bars I’ve been to before.

  The girl doesn’t seem cheap. I wonder about her. Perhaps she’s a single mother supporting a child, perhaps she’s putting herself through law school, through medical school. Not everyone has the world delivered to them on a gilded platter. Some of us have no parents, no help. I know the feeling, I was on my own. I paid for my own education, buried in school debt for years.

  She dances for all these men, in nothing but a minuscule slip of a thong and glittery stilettos. And she knows she is beautiful, she is desired. I wonder what it would feel like to be up there. I would want it to be just Weston sitting there in his fabulous gray suit, his beautiful green eyes fixed on me, watching me. All the other men would magically disappear. I get aroused by the idea, and realize I’m turned on.

  Weston shifts in his seat and brings his glass to his mouth. “You enjoy watching her dance?” he asks, his tone smooth as velvet.

  I smile, not quite looking at him. “You enjoy watching her. You seem to enjoy watching women dance.”

  He laughs. “I do. I loved watching you at that bar in Hawaii. You’re an amazing dancer.”

  I smile, brought back to that night. I feel myself getting aroused by the memory. I look away, and try to focus on the dancer. “She’s beautiful,” I say, my words small.

  “Does this excite you?”

  Well, if I wasn’t excited before, I sure am now, with his intense eyes glued to me, probing me.

  He drains his glass and sets it on the small table. “You’re not answering any of my questions,” he says as he rests a hand on my thigh, over the silk fabric, nothing too scandalous or inappropriate,
ever-always the gentleman.

  Sometimes, I wish he wasn’t quite so…

  I venture a sip of my martini and I shoot him a playful smile. “Maybe I like to watch just as much as you do.”

  He smiles. “I sincerely doubt that.” I swear a smile like his should be illegal. It’s no different than booze, robbing me of my faculties and common sense. When he smiles at me like that, my spine turns to mush.

  “I enjoy her. She’s beautiful,” I finally admit, not quite looking at him.

  “Yes. They’re all exquisite,” he says matter-of-factly. “One could venture they’re even more beautiful than you.”

  I laugh, a little taken aback by his bluntness. “Geez, way to stroke a girl’s ego, Weston.”

  He leans into me, his face about an inch from mine. “I apologize. They may be gorgeous in the classic sense, flawless, but they’re not nearly as beautiful as you are to me.”

  I smile. That’s better.

  He inches even closer, his mouth warm against the shell of my ear. “Not a single one of them is as sweet as you, or as kind, or as funny. Not one of them has your big soulful brown eyes, and your adorable gap-toothed smile.” The tip of his finger lightly touches the edge of my jaw. Just. And then he pulls away again. “And let’s not forget those wicked sexy freckles of yours.”

  I smile. “Maybe they have freckles hidden under their spray tans,” I joke.

  “What I’m saying is,” he says with so much emotion, “not a single one of them is you.”

  I sit motionless, without words. I stare straight ahead at the dancer who is completely nude now. He seems to always have a way of arousing me with nothing but words.

  He trails his finger up my knee. “I realized a while ago there is no one else like you, and there never will be,” he says. He seems fully consumed, yet his hand still rests chastely over the fabric of my dress. I want to beg him to explore. I swear, one day, his reserved manner will be the end of me. “I realized no one will ever replace you,” he goes on. “And that’s when I knew I needed you. I needed to have you again. Or I would possibly go mad.”

  His words affect me, physically. I feel an intense heat at my core. It spreads, languidly, up my spine, to my neck, and down below.