by Roya Carmen
Just great.
“We’ll play later,” I insist, not letting my disappointment show.
And I take my husband’s hand and head out the door, along with my two grumpy daughters.
Luckily, the girls and I are able to steal a moment to play with the doll house when Gabe is making dinner.
Gabe kindly brought it up to the guestroom, where it lives, on a solid mahogany desk. It’s perfect there, and can serve as entertainment for our occasional guests. He didn’t ask too many questions. Just, “What’s with the doll house?” I told him Weston had seen me admiring it at F.A.O. Schwarz.
The girls tackle the box of furnishings with zest. I tell them to be very careful with the delicate pieces. We find another box nestled within the furnishings box. There’s a Post-it note attached with Weston’s handwriting; I would recognize it anywhere.
You will need these to play. Have fun!
I rip the box open with gusto and discover five beautiful wooden movable figurines crafted with such detail, I almost want to set them on a shelf and never play with them, for fear of breaking them. But the girls would absolutely not have that.
“It’s a whole family,” Claire tells us as her little pudgy hands clutch the mommy. She sets them carefully on the floor, side by side. The daddy first, followed by the mommy, the little girl, the little boy, and finally, the baby.
“They need a dog,” she announces, “I’ve got just the one.”
I study the beautiful yellow house. And I smile yet again.
I reach for one of the vintage slips hanging in my closet, still thinking about him. Ever since opening that box this morning, I haven’t been able to get him out of my mind. I’ve wanted to call him to thank him, but ultimately decided not to. This day is about Gabe and me and the girls. About my family.
Gabe has promised a special “end of day birthday present”—I have a pretty good idea where the night is heading. The girls are tucked in, already asleep, exhausted from the day. And part of me is just as exhausted as them and wants to go straight to sleep.
I get out of my khaki shorts and T-shirt, and slip on the silky pink slip over my white cotton panties, letting my hair fall back over my shoulders, in long loose curls.
I eye the rainbow of colors hanging from the steel horizontal pole—each single dress tells a story. I trail my finger along the organza of the vintage pink dress I wore when I first met him, the dress which changed my life. My hand travels over to my wedding dress, cream lace, vintage inspired. Gabe and I were so beautiful that day. I look at the tiny waist and doubt it will ever fit me again. I long for the missing dress, the beautiful Jeanne Lanvin I burned, it would have been the most beautiful in my closet, it would have told the most sensual story. I spot the silky black cocktail dress with the pearl buttons at the back. I count each of them carefully, trailing my thumb against their smooth, hard surface. Twelve. Weston was right. That he would remember such a detail baffles me.
I really want to call him.
“What’s keeping you?” Gabe calls out. He’s still waiting for me, to give me my “present.”
I flash him a sly smile as I saunter into the bedroom.
His gaze sweeps over my pink laced trimmed vintage slip. “I like that,” he says. “But I was expecting you to wear the teddy I got you,” he tells me as he inches closer to me.
“I will. But I need to wash it first.”
He smiles, pulling me to him. “Can’t wait.”
His large body presses against me, pushes me toward the bed, ever so slightly, until I feel the edge of the mattress. I fall back, and pull him right on top of me. He kisses me and hikes up the skirt of my slip.
His hand doesn’t take long to reach my rear. “First thing’s first. These panties have to go.”
I laugh. I’m not quite sure what he has in mind, but it’s obviously of a sexual nature.
He pulls off my panties. “What’s your pleasure?” he asks with a sly smile. “What can I do for you?”
I smile. But I don’t say a word. I still have a very hard time asking for what I want. Weston was right, it’s something he’d told me, the first time we had sex.
Gabe slithers up my body, and kisses my neck. “Would you like to get fucked?” he breathes in my ear.
So crude, so Gabe.
His mouth lingers on my ear and he bites gently on my lobe. His hand cups my sex, bringing on a swift pressure deep inside. “Or would you like to get eaten out? Because I’d be happy to do either.”
All I really wanted was a nice back massage, but his words, his touch have sent me on a whole other quest.
But I’m still speechless.
He smiles at me, knowing what I want. If I’d wanted the sex, I would already be freeing him from his pants.
He slides slowly back down my body and his large rough hands pry my legs apart. With a touch of his fingers, he parts my lips and his mouth lands on my sex.
I close my eyes.
So far…thirty-six is not too shabby.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
…but you’ll always be mine.
WESTON SINKS HIS TEETH into the gourmet hot dog I bought him from a street vendor. I watch him eat it for a second. I like seeing him like this; casual, without the crisp suit, the cuff links, the driver. It’s just us two, enjoying the nice day.
“I’m glad I could buy you dinner for once,” I tell him between bites of my hot dog. “It’s a nice change.”
He gulps a drink of his cola and smiles at me. “I like this,” he says, looking off into the distance at the myriad of people walking by; young families, couples, groups of teenagers with questionable fashion choices.
“Me too. You know, I don’t need all the fancy stuff; the dinners, the trips. That’s not why I’m with you.”
He shoots me a sly smile and his eyes seem to gleam a little. “It’s my particularly excellent skills in…”
I laugh. “Hell, yeah. But it’s not just that.”
“I know, it’s for my charming personality. I’ve been told I can be quite addictive.”
I smile at him. I love him when he’s playful like this. “And who told you this?”
He smiles and leans in closer. “You,” he whispers against my ear. “And you should know…the feeling is mutual.”
I smile and I want to kiss him, but he and I have never been ones for public displays. “Do you want to go to the antique market?” I ask, not knowing if he likes them or not. I certainly do. Gabe usually complains when I try to drag him to one. He calls them a “bunch of junk.”
He smiles, and looks up at the sky. “Let me see, I can take you back to my place and have you naked in under a minute,” he says, with a put-on pensive expression. “Or I can trek through a hodgepodge of knickknacks, dusty furniture, and scary looking dolls, what essentially boils down to a collection of abandoned treasures from grandmothers of Chicago.”
I give him a half-smile, half-shrug with a side of glare. “A simple no would have sufficed.”
He smiles and grabs my waist. “I would love to.”
I’m surprised. “Really?”
He nods and I hug him tightly.
The place is dead-quiet. We’re not even sure where the owners are.
“There’s not a single piece of dusty furniture in the place,” I point out, looking at the glossy oak floors and meticulously organized booths. The place smells more like “cozy coffee shop” and less “Grandma’s attic,” which is great. Sure enough, I spot a coffee shop in the corner and eye the window; pastries and cupcakes. But unfortunately, there’s no one at the counter.
“Look, we can even have dessert here.”
“Later,” he says and grabs my hand, lacing his fingers in mine.
We walk leisurely past the booths, occasionally stopping here and there when something catches our eye. Weston holds a large orange blown-glass bowl—very seventies. “My mother had one exactly like this.”
I smile at him. “Feeling nostalgic?”
He shakes
his head and sets the bowl back on the shelf, delicately…the same way he handles me.
“That’s what I like about antique markets,” I tell him. “It takes me back.”
He laughs. “Well, I don’t really want to be taken back. I really have no desire to go back in time.”
My finger traces the edge of a framed oil painting, and I look up at him. “I do.”
He ponders me for a second, not moving. “You’re telling me if you could go back in time, you would?”
“Yes.”
“But you would veer in a completely different direction. You are aware of that, right?”
A whimsical jewelry box catches my eyes, and I pick it up to inspect it. “Yes, I am.”
“Are you not happy with your life?”
I can’t quite look at him. I focus my attention on the jewelry box. I turn the knob at the back to hear the music. I don’t want to tell him the truth.
“Are you not happy?” he asks again, his voice muddled by the melody from the jewelry box.
“I am happy,” I tell him.
He takes the box from my hands and sets it on the shelf. He takes my hands in his. “Tell me what’s wrong?”
I bite my lip, working out my answer. “Well, if you must know,” I venture, not quite making eye contact. “If I could, I would go back to that night…the night I met you…and I would go eat elsewhere.”
He doesn’t say a word and pulls away. I turn to look at him. His eyes were so full of life a minute ago, so happy. They’re now completely drained.
Why did I tell him?
“Do you really mean that?” he asks with all the vulnerability of a lost child. “I don’t believe you.”
I take his hand. “You need to understand, Weston,” I try to explain, “before I met you, I was happy. I’ve never wanted for anything. I was fulfilled. Maybe occasionally a little bit bored, but fulfilled. My life was so simple. But now…” I trail off, turning away from him. “Now I want something I can’t have. There’s a constant void in me, an ache. I’ll always want you. And I’ll never have you.”
He grabs my wrist and turns me to face him. “But you do, you have me, Mirella.”
“I don’t. I don’t really have you. We both know we don’t truly have each other. This has always been about sharing. She has you. I’m just borrowing you.”
His eyes grow wide. “What are you saying?”
“Nothing. I’m not saying anything at all,” I tell him, trying to pull away, but he’s not letting me go. “I’m not asking for anything. I’m just stating a truth.”
He takes my face in his hands and closes the distance between us. “God, Mirella, don’t you think I feel the same exact way?” he says, and his lips are on mine. And I just sink into him. The taste of him, I can never get enough of it. I just want to get lost in him. His tongue sweeps against my bottom lip and my hands travel to the skin under his shirt.
I pull away, slightly breathless. “Take me to your place,” I whisper. “And have me naked under a minute.”
He throws me on the bed and pounces. I smile at the sight of him. He’s acting like a horny teenager.
I run my tongue along his jaw. “You promised you’d have me naked in under a minute.”
He laughs, his mouth pressed against my neck. “Well, I better get started quickly then.”
“You better.”
He starts with the buttons of my white see-through blouse. “There are eight blasted buttons on this blouse,” he points out. “These are going to slow me down.”
I undo the fly of my pink capris. “I can help you,” I tell him as I slide my pants under my rear. He works swiftly on the buttons. I make a mental note to stop wearing tops with so many buttons.
He pulls my pants down my legs, leaving trails of kisses along my thighs. “You taste so good. I want to taste you everywhere.”
I close my eyes and arch my back, desperately wanting him to sink his mouth into my sex, panties on and all.
He peels my blouse off and pulls the cup of my bra down, along with my camisole. He takes my breast in his mouth.
“You’re…running…out of time,” I say, my breaths coming in short rasps. “I still have my bra on…camisole and panties.”
He slithers down my body. “Let’s take care of these adorable panties, shall we.” He pulls at the band and I arch for him. He pulls the panties down and blows a hot breath on my sex, such a tease.
He slides down and pulls them over my feet and kisses a toe.
I laugh. “I think your time is up.”
He reaches for my camisole and buries his fingers in it.
I close my eyes, knowing I’ll be almost completely naked in just about five seconds.
But then he jerks back, making me bounce a good two inches off the bed. “Damn it, Mirella.”
I lean up on my elbows, on sudden alert. “What?”
The look of horror on his face will forever be etched in my brain. A look of pure distaste…repulsion even.
He rakes a hand through his hair and turns away. He doesn’t say a word at first. I watch him intently as he makes his way to the desk across from the bed. He doesn’t look at me. I desperately want him to look at me. His shoulders are bent, the beautiful lines of his back stretched across the fabric of his shirt. “Why would you let him do that to you?”
I bring my hand to the black scrolled letters on my hip bone. “He didn’t do anything to—”
“He branded you, Mirella,” he hisses. The books and papers on the desk fly across the room as he jerks round.
I stare down at the crisp white bed cover. “We branded each other.”
He glares at me. “I see, so you both have matching tattoos. How very sweet.”
I don’t say a word, feeling vulnerable. I don’t know what to say.
His eyes are fixed on me. They’re so hard, empty. “You disappoint me, Mirella. I thought you were stronger than that. You are what I’d feared…so weak…so pliable.”
My stomach drops. My heart is numb. How can he treat me with such affection one minute and say these words to me the next?
I’m so confused and so angry.
I rise from the bed and make my way to him. “Gabe and I both wanted to do this,” I snap, closing the distance between us, “to express our devotion to each other, our love for one another. This thing with the four of us, it’s really hard on our marriage.”
His gaze sweeps over me. “Well, you can tell him I got the message,” he says, his words clipped. He wraps an arm around my waist, his grasp tight. “Loud and clear. He owns you. You’re his.”
“He doesn’t own—”
He pulls me to him, and presses his mouth against the shell of my ear. “But whether he likes it or not, I’m part of you. I’m right there in your thoughts, in your heart, under every single inch of your skin.”
I close my eyes.
You are.
I still want him so much.
I pull his face to mine and kiss him, my lips restless. He pulls me to the chair. I straddle him, my sex wet against him. He frees himself and sinks into me. I press into him, my face against his.
I don’t care if we don’t belong to each other. We fit so well together. When I’m with him like this, nothing else matters. My mind tells me to run, but the stroke of his touch renders me completely unresponsive to logic. My body is driven by love…by lust.
As he presses into me and pulls me to him repeatedly, he sucks hard at my neck. I laugh a little and try to pry my head away, but he’s like a leech. Finally he pulls away. “Now I’ve put my mark on you too,” he whispers and kisses me again.
I sink into his kiss.
He pulls his lips from mine, and trails a finger along my cheek. “Your body might be marked as his…but you’ll always be mine.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I can split you in two…
BUT YOU’LL ALWAYS BE MINE.
His words haunt me still. He knows he owns me…heart and soul. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I
am a weak, pliable little girl, yielding to his every whim, grasping on to every sweet nothing he whispers in my ear, like a needy, pathetic, spineless…
If he asked me to give up my marriage for him, would I do it? I tell myself I wouldn’t, but I’ve become just like my mother—fragile, out-of-control, reckless, and so very selfish.
I can’t let him hurt me again. I can’t let him lead me astray. I know I need to end this before it’s too late. I started this up again with such good intentions and it’s all gone so awry, yet again. I just have no control when it comes to this man. I know I need to be stronger than this.
I’ve tried to keep emotions out of it. I’ve tried so hard. This is just sex. Pure and simple. But what happened between the two of us in New York wasn’t just sex. It was so much more. And he’s become completely unhinged, so out of control.
And the scary thing is he’s just as damaged as I am. He wants to own me. He needs me. I used to think it was just about lust, but it’s so much more than that. This obsessive love is not healthy. It’s toxic. It can only do damage, to all four of us, and to our children.
It could destroy us all. I need to end this. While we all still stand a chance.
I’m so thankful Gwen and I made up because I don’t know what I would do without her right now. She squeezes me against her chest as I blubber all over her designer blouse. We’re skipping lunch today—I couldn’t eat a thing anyway. We often sit at this park near the school—no one is ever here on school days. I always worry the dilapidated bench we sit on will crack under the pressure one day. She says it’ll be because of my booty because hers is so much smaller than mine. So not true.
“This thing is sure getting messy, sweetie,” she says as she strokes my hair. “I’m not sure what to tell you.”
“I kn-know,” I say, my voice shaky. “I don’t know why he got so upset.”
“Isn’t it obvious? He’s jealous. He’s jealous of you and Gabe, of what you have.”
“I don’t—”
She grabs my face in her hands. “What you and Gabe have is amazing,” she reminds me. “Soul mates, friends, high school sweethearts, and he still bangs you like nobody’s business.”