by Roya Carmen
Suddenly, I’m so easy. I’ve never been easy.
I bite my lip. “Yes.”
Weston kisses me in the elevator, a hungry kiss, but soft. His tongue explores my mouth, and I moan at the sensation. I don’t think there’s anything on earth I enjoy more than his kiss. I could kiss him for hours.
When we’re finally in the privacy of his suite, he presses me against the wall, and pins my arms above my head with a hard grasp. His kiss takes on a whole different dimension—it becomes more aggressive, wilder. He bites my bottom lip—it’s deliciously painful.
“How’s this for properly pinning you against a wall?” he asks me between kisses. He’s pushed all my buttons. I’m just about to explode.
He trails his tongue along my jaw line. “Tell me I’m better than him.”
I want him to kiss me, just like this all night long. I’m torn—I don’t know if I’d rather just make out all night or go all the way.
He pulls at the waistband of my dress pants. “Tell me,” he almost growls.
“You are. You’re amazing.”
“I wish you were mine,” he whispers in my ear. “I could have you anytime.”
I am taken aback by his words. I wish he were mine too. I’ve wished he were mine a thousand times.
I reach for his soft cashmere shirt and pull it over his head, revealing his delicious body. I slide my tongue down his chest to his navel and swirl it around his belly button. He moans, and I love the sound. He’s so delicious—I just want to eat him up.
I pull his belt and reach for his fly.
“You’re eager again, little butterfly,” he says, his voice playful. I free his erection, and take him in my mouth. He groans a little. I revel in the sensation of giving him pleasure.
He drags his fingers in my hair, pulling—the pain deliciously bearable. “That feels amazing,” he breathes, barely audible, “but,” he says, pulling me back up, “I want to be inside you.”
I want that too.
I pull his pants down all the way and slide off his shoes, even his socks. He’s completely naked for me, a specimen of a man. “I like you like that.”
He laughs. “Well, one of us has too much clothing on.” He kneels down and grabs my waist in his arms. He kisses my belly—his lips fall on the soft material of my frilly top.
He undoes my fly in one swift move, and peels my pants down, taking my panties along. He lands a sweet kiss on my curls.
“You don’t need to worry. I’m not jealous. I know this is just sex.”
His hands glide along my legs. He slides off my wedged heels. The feel of his soft hand around the heel of my foot lights me up. I want him so badly.
“I’m just here for a good fuck…”
He smiles up at me—a wicked smile. “At your service…”
I hold his face, the hard angles of his jaw feel solid in my hands. I pull him for one last kiss before I reach for his satchel where he keeps condoms.
I put on the condom, and he tries to assist me, but I bat his hand away. “I’ve got it. I’m in charge of this ride.”
He laughs. “Are you, now?”
I trail my hand across his stomach and push him against the wall. He’s absolutely right…this is just sex. And I should start to act like it. “My turn to be in the driver’s seat.” I smirk.
He’s so much taller than me—I need to stand on the tip of my toes to kiss him. His lips are soft and warm. I reach for his shoulders and push him down. “Slide down…all the way.”
His back glides down the wall. He looks up at me, desire in his eyes.
I kneel down and straddle him.
I rub myself along his shaft—it already feels so good. “I know this isn’t the most comfortable position. But this is about my pleasure tonight. And you’re going to rock my world.”
He laughs a little. “I’m feeling a little used, Mirella.”
“Are you complaining?”
“Never,” he insists, his lids heavy. “Not at all.”
I look straight into his eyes and ease him into me slowly. He closes his eyes, and I close mine. I push into him deeper, and we’re completely connected.
“I love it like this.” I rock back and forth slowly. “You’re so deep inside me.”
He mumbles something unintelligible, nibbling at my ear. He’s hitting just the right spot, and it drives me to ride him harder and faster, my legs rubbing against the scratchy carpet. The floor is so hard, but the resistance is what makes it so damn good.
I ride him intensely, chasing that mind-blowing orgasm I see in my near future.
“Mirella…” he breathes.
“Take me there,” I beg, my teeth trailing along his jawbone. I can feel myself so near, and I can tell it’s going to be explosive.
“Kiss me,” he pleads. “I want to be kissing you when you get there.”
He holds my face in his hands. My lips search for his, and our tongues tangle.
He pushes harder into me and finally brings me to the edge.
I moan into his mouth.
The waves of ecstasy hit me, and it’s so good, it’s almost painful. He moans into my mouth loudly, reaching his own climax. His fingers dig into the flesh of my cheeks, but the pain feels wonderful.
I will never get enough of this.
I bury my face in the crook of his neck, trying to catch my breath. My legs hurt like crazy, and I’m sure he’s completely uncomfortable too.
“Are you all right?” I ask, slightly embarrassed.
“Glorious,” he replies with a hint of laughter in his voice. “You like it down and dirty, don’t you?”
“There’s nothing like a good old romp on the floor once in a while.”
He pulls the sweaty strands of hair from my face and kisses the tip of my nose. “You sure gave us quite a workout.”
“I know,” I say, exhausted, lying on him. And as uncomfortable as we are, I don’t ever want to move. “I love the way you make me feel,” I whisper, my face still buried in him.
“Me too, Mirella. Sometimes I feel like I can’t live without it. You’re like a wicked itch I just can’t seem to scratch enough.”
I don’t respond to his words—they’re too powerful.
He couldn’t have said it better.
That’s exactly what this feels like.
We move over to the bed, and Weston insists on taking my top and bra off and having me completely naked in his arms. He kisses my moles and spots—every single one of them—I think he’s obsessed with them. I love it, but I don’t understand. One minute, he’s treating me with such tenderness, and the next, he’s telling me to back off. This push and pull is so confusing.
He nibbles at my hipbone and trails kisses along my side, moving slowly up to my shoulder. “I wonder how many freckles you have. This perfect little mole right here,” he tells me as he kisses it, “I was obsessed with it the first time we met.”
I smile at him. “Really? Why?”
“I don’t know. It just kept disappearing and reappearing, hidden under the strap of your dress. There it was. Or it wasn’t, depending on the way you moved, almost like it was dancing.”
I laugh, thinking he’s completely lost his mind.
He traces circles around the much-loved mole on my shoulder. “You know, it was me…it was me who chose you and Gabe.”
My breath catches.
I look over at him. His eyes are serious. “What do you mean? I thought it was Bridget. She was all over Gabe.”
He nods. “Bridget was the one who chose the first two couples. She’s always initiated the whole thing in the past. But this time, it was me,” he confesses. “I wanted you.”
His words manage to make both my heart warm and my sex heat up—there’s something so erotic about the admission.
“I know I shouldn’t tell you this,” he admits. “But I wanted you to know.”
“When did you know you wanted me?” I ask him, curiosity filling me.
“The first time I saw your s
mile. Before we even sat down together.”
“Wow,” is all I manage to say. I can’t quite believe his words.
“You tried to hide that lovely smile, covering it with your hand. I could tell you weren’t quite at ease with yourself. And I thought that was such a shame.”
“I’ve always hated my smile. I have the hugest gap I’ve ever seen. You could drive a Mack truck through the thing,” I joke. “I don’t understand why you like it so much.”
“Because it’s what makes you beautiful, Mirella. It’s the imperfections that bring character. It’s what makes you interesting to me.”
“That’s easy for you to say, Mr. Perfect,” I argue. “You are the most gorgeous man I’ve ever met. Your teeth are perfect.”
“Please…don’t remind me. Thanks to three years of orthodontics…head gear and everything.”
I laugh. “You wore head gear?”
“Yep. It was horrible. It goes without saying I didn’t have many friends.”
“Poor boy. I’ve been thinking about fixing my smile,” I admit. “The dentist says all I’d need is nine months in those invisible braces, and I’d look like everyone else.”
At my words, his calm expression disappears. He grabs my face. “Tell me you will do no such thing, Mirella,” he pleads. “Promise me.”
My breath catches. His reaction has taken me completely by surprise.
“I…I guess I won’t. I promise,” I stammer, a little rattled. “I think I’ve changed my mind.”
“Good,” he says, releasing my face. “I don’t want you to look like everyone else.”
“I didn’t realize you were so attached to the gap, Weston,” I joke.
“I am. I’m very attached. I like the gap. I’m hopelessly in love with the gap.”
We both laugh, lightening the mood, and he nuzzles his face into the crook of my neck. The moment is just perfect.
“When…did you know…you wanted me?” he asks, his words tentative. “The day I made the proposal?”
“No,” I reply, thinking back to that first meeting at the restaurant and how stunning he was, how beautiful his eyes were—I’d never wanted a man so much.
“When you pinned me down. When you told me all about myself. You barely knew me, but it seemed you knew me better than my own husband.”
“Is that so?” he says, his eyes happy. “I did peg you quite well.”
“You certainly did. It was so damn hot.”
He laughs. “Well, that wasn’t my intention. I wasn’t trying to excite you.”
“Well, you did…in a big way.”
“And I still do, I hope,” he says, wrapping his arm around my waist, pulling me to him. I can feel his erection against me.
I smile at him. “Wow, you’re ready for round two already?”
He kisses my shoulder. “You bet.”
“You think we have time?” I ask. “Our five minutes are already up.”
“Plenty,” he says, and his body is on mine before I can protest.
Chapter Eighteen
You’re not mine. You will never be.
“STOP HOGGING THE BLANKET,” Gabe grumbles.
“I am not hogging the blanket,” I snap. “You’re just so big. You should get your own damn blanket.”
That’s usually how it is on a Saturday night—Gabe and I huddled together on the sofa in the basement rec room, watching a movie and sharing a checkered fleece throw.
We should really get another throw.
But I think we like sharing.
Every once in a while…actually often, Gabe will slide his hand along my thigh under the throw.
That’s the signal.
I usually shoot him a sly smile and make him work for it a little, but I’m always on board. But tonight, I’m still mad at him. I’m not sure if he even knows I’m upset with him, but I’ve been rejecting his advances for the last week or two.
And that’s just not like me.
He sweeps his rough hand along the inside of my thigh—it feels nice. Part of me wants to, but the other part is still livid at him. I grab his hand and pull it away, not quite looking at him.
He’s not happy.
“What is it with you these days?” he snaps. “You’ve pushed me away half a dozen times.”
I don’t want to talk about it. I know I’m being irrational and shouldn’t even be mad at him. But I can’t help it.
I get up from the couch, bowl of popcorn half-eaten, movie half-finished.
“I’m beat. I’m going to bed.”
He grabs my wrist. “No, you’re not. We need to talk.”
I pull away from him and head up the stairs.
He follows me to the bedroom. “Talk to me,” he pleads as we reach the top floor.
“I’m just tired,” I fib as I step out of my yoga pants. “The movie was crap.”
“It was,” he agrees, “but that’s not the problem here. What’s up with you?”
I slip on my silky, yellow summer nightie. “I told you,” I snap. “I’m just tired.”
“It’s more than that.” He scowls. “It’s about him, isn’t it?”
I face the wall door-length mirror, and unclasp my silver hoop earrings. Gabe stands behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. There’s something sensual about our reflection—his large, dark presence against mine, small and light.
I do want him.
He drags his hand under the yellow silk of my slip. “Don’t forget,” he whispers against my ear, “I’m your husband. You’re mine.” He toys with the lace of my panties. “And I should get to make love to you more often than he does.”
I can feel my resolve dissolving as he kisses my shoulder. I know I’m going to give in. But I want to talk to him first. I think he should know what’s bothering me.
I turn to face him. “I’m mad at you,” I finally confess.
He jerks away. “What the heck for?”
“The way you behaved at the planetarium,” I explain. “You and Bridget were shameless.”
He stares up at the ceiling. “Oh…come on.”
“Weston and I were well-behaved. It’s not that hard to show a little self-control.”
“Well, you know me,” he scoffs. “I’m not quite as reserved and tightly-wound as Mr. Stiff-Upper-Lip.”
“Well, I didn’t need to see you all over her,” I insist. “It made me jealous. I don’t like seeing you with her.”
“Do you think I like seeing you with him?” he snaps. “It drove me insane…maybe that’s why I was acting like that. I was trying to make you as jealous as I was.”
I bite my lip. “That’s quite juvenile, Gabe.”
He wraps his arms around my waist again. “I know. It was childish. But it’s because I love you so much. You know it’s just sex with her, right?”
I smile. “Yes.”
“And it’s just sex with you and Weston too,” he says with conviction.
And my heart sinks a little. The truth is I don’t know what it is. All I know is…Gabe is the one I want to be with when I’m ninety and complaining about my aching knees over a cup of herbal tea.
Gabe is the one.
Another adventure. Another night full of surprises.
That’s one of the many things I love about Weston—he always keeps me on my toes. Kathryn’s e-mail was curt—she told me Weston’s car would pick me up at five and asked me to bring a sweater. I wasn’t told anything else. I wasn’t sure what to wear, so I opted for a simple A-line, white, summer cotton dress.
My body is filled with excitement as I fidget on the sleek leather seat of Weston’s town car. Edward’s not driving fast enough tonight it seems—I can’t wait to see Weston, hold his beautiful face in my hands, feel his body against mine.
“Do you have any idea what Weston has planned for us tonight?” I ask Edward, hoping to get some information. But I know Edward enough to know he’s a vault when it comes to these things.
“I know where I’m taking you, but that’s abo
ut it, Mirella.”
“And where are you taking me?” I ask, my voice playful.
He laughs. “Loose lips sink ships, don’t you know.”
I sigh a little as I realize I’m not getting anything out of him. As I look out the window, I notice he’s not taking me downtown as per usual—he’s taking me north of the city.
I try to focus on the direction we’re heading, but all I can think about is Weston. The last time we were together was so perfect—the sex was out of this world. And I just haven’t been able to stop thinking about all the sweet things he told me that night. I wish you were mine, he’d said before we’d made love.
A wicked itch I just can’t seem to scratch, he’d said after. It was me who chose you…
The truth is, I’ve been driving myself absolutely insane, thinking about him, but I just can’t seem to stop.
We finally reach our destination, and I realize I haven’t even noticed how we got there. Edward drops me off in front of a tall, ultra-modern building. I wait for him to open my door since he always insists. At first, it felt odd every time he opened the car door for me, but now we’ve fallen into a routine, and it finally feels normal to me. He smiles at me as I step out. I smile back, a little nervous, my eyes pleading with him to tell me what the heck is going on.
“Just go to the lobby and introduce yourself to the concierge.”
“Thank you, Edward.” I look up at the building—sleek and mirrored, its shape curvy and almost seductive.
As I walk in, I take in the lobby, large and airy—stunning contemporary stainless steel water fountains greet me on either side. My gaze follows the streams of water falling into koi ponds filled with large red fish. I stop—it’s so surprisingly beautiful—the odd combination of ultra-modernism and nature.
A woman at the desk with a short dark bob and cat-eye glasses smiles.
“Hello,” I say, my voice soft. “I’m Mirella Keates.”
“Yes, I’ve been expecting you. Just give me one second, and I’ll contact Mr. Hanson. Please take a seat.”
I sit on the tufted black leather sofa. The glass coffee table is bare, but there are a few glossy magazines laid out on the side table—I don’t think they’ve ever been touched. A glass bowl sits next to them, a goldfish swimming lazily in circles. The sight almost hypnotizes me—sometimes, this is exactly how I feel—like I’m swimming in circles.