by Roya Carmen
It’s an ordinary day at the Keates household, but that’s about to change.
I’m standing over the stove, stirring the vegetables and chicken, and I don’t see Claire sneaking up behind me.
“Mommy, who’s this man?” she asks, her high-pitched six-year old voice carries across the kitchen.
My heart stammers.
I turn around to see her holding a photo of Weston and I—one of the selfies we took at Lincoln Park—the one I printed and kept in my jewelry box, in the bottom slit, along with Weston’s e-mail. I thought I had hidden them so well.
“Claire, what were you doing in my jewelry box?” I hiss. “I’ve told you before not to touch my things.”
The pout makes its appearance, along with the teary eyes—she’s about to cry—I feel horrible. Claire has never taken reprimand very well. I rarely yell or scold her.
“I’m sorry, Claire,” I say, my voice soft.
Gabe dashes into the kitchen. “What is she talking about?”
I take a step back, my back pressed against the stove.
He tears the photo from Claire’s pudgy hand. “Can I see that?” His face falls when he sees it—a close-up of Weston and I, huddled together, smiling brightly at the camera, our features soft, Weston’s eyes a brilliant green.
“What?” is all he says—he’s shattered. “When did you take this?”
“On one of our dates.” I try to sound casual—like the photo doesn’t mean anything at all.
But I think he knows better.
“We went to Lincoln Park, and I brought my camera to shoot photos of the park and we just—”
“Why did you print it?”
“Uh…” I’m without words.
He glares at me. “Why do you keep it in your jewelry box?”
I knew I shouldn’t have printed it. I knew I should have just left the photos on my laptop, hidden carefully in a buried folder.
“You two look…” he trails off. “You look like you’re in love.”
I don’t know what to say.
He darts off upstairs.
“Gabe,” I yell after him, trailing him up the stairs. I know where he’s going.
He turns the corner into our bedroom, into our walk-in closet where I keep my jewelry box.
It sits open on the floor, its contents poured out. Just as I feared, Gabe spots the folded up sheet of paper and grabs it before I can stop him.
“Gabe,” I plead as he unfolds it. “It’s not what you think.”
But it is—it’s exactly what he thinks.
He reads the e-mail from Weston—the one where he asks for a photo of me, and tells me I’m beautiful.
He rakes his hand through his hair, his mouth a hard line. I realize why Weston has these rules in place—no communication, no gifts, and no intimacy.
It all makes sense.
I see pain on his face like I have never seen before. Gabe is always so strong and stoic—he doesn’t wear his emotions on his sleeve—but this…this has cut him.
“You two are in love,” he scoffs. “You’ve gone and fallen for this asshole.” His voice is loud and carries through the house.
“No, I haven’t,” I lie, my eyes tearing up. I can’t tell him how devastatingly messed up I really am. “I haven’t.”
He grabs my wrist. “You’re lying,” he hisses.
I see contempt in his eyes. His grasp on my wrist tightens. He’s hurting me. “Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t love him.”
I know I need to lie. I know telling him the truth could be the end of us—the end of our life as we know it.
“Tell me,” he screams louder, his grasp not yielding.
“Mommy,” Claire whispers, standing near the closet door. She looks afraid and so does Chloe, who stands just behind her.
Gabe finally lets go of me.
I pull my arm to my chest and slump back. “It’s okay girls. Mommy and Daddy were just having a fight…like you girls do all the time.”
Claire rushes up and wraps her arms around me, and Gabe hugs Chloe close against him.
We know we can’t fight in front of them.
Gabe pulls away from me, and he doesn’t ask again.
I think he doesn’t want to know.
That night, I convince myself I don’t love Weston. Sure, I’m obsessed and infatuated with him. I think he’s the most stunning man I’ve ever laid eyes on.
But I don’t love him.
And with those thoughts in my head, I tell Gabe I don’t love Weston. I tell him he’s the only one for me. My words are so convincing—even I believe them. Gabe believes them too—I can see it in his eyes—he seems so relieved. He says he couldn’t bear the thought of me in love with someone else, and he holds me in his arms.
We lie together until we fall asleep.
A little white lie…for my family.
Weston and I sit at a quaint little Italian restaurant—the same spot where our first date took place. My mind is brought back to that steamy quickie we almost had in the washroom. I was so nervous that night.
That night seems so long ago now.
Although the atmosphere is warm and relaxing—red and white checkered table cloths, rustic brick covered walls, and friendly staff—the vibe between Weston and I is anything but. There’s tension between us. It’s not anything he’s said or done, but I can tell something’s bothering him, and I have a pretty good idea what it might be.
For the past two weeks, I’ve been scolding myself for uttering those three little words—how I wish I could go back in time and not tell him I love him. Not only have I broken the rules, I’ve embarrassed myself. But far worse than all that…I’ve betrayed Gabe and the girls.
I’m pretty sure I’m going to hell.
I sink my fork into my pasta, not really wanting to eat it, but shoving it down my throat anyway. Weston eats his homemade lasagna, head down, not uttering a word, avoiding my gaze. He shoots me a closed-lipped smile once in a while, making a conscious effort to be nice.
What have I done? He shouldn’t need to make a conscious effort to be nice to me—he should want to be with me.
I consider apologizing for breaking the rules. I can tell him I was lost in the throes of passion and merely got a little carried away. But mentioning it at all would bring attention to it. I just want to forget the whole thing and pretend it never happened. It seems to be what Weston is doing.
It might just take a little time for us to get back to normal after this little set-back. And then, everything will be perfect again, just as it was.
Despite the tension between us, I can still sense electricity in the air. Although he doesn’t quite look at me, his gaze falls all over me, scattered—on my lips, the cleavage of my tight little black cocktail dress, all the way down to my legs. And despite the fact that I kind of want to crawl under a rock and die, I still crave him, crave his touch—he looks yummy in a soft cashmere gray sweater and fitted black pants. He’s wearing his dark framed glasses tonight—very sexy.
God…I hope he’s not upset enough to not want to have sex—I don’t think I could bear it.
We have tiramisu for dessert and make small chit-chat about the past two weeks. I talk about Chloe’s mishap—we were having dinner at Gabe’s parents, and she was carrying a large bowl of macaroni pasta salad. She managed to trip on her own two feet and the bowl went flying—pasta splattered everywhere, all over everyone.
“There was even a macaroni stuck on Gabe’s dad’s glasses,” I finish, laughing at my own anecdote.
He gives me a tight-lipped smile.
“Well, I guess you had to be there,” I say.
As much as I try to lighten the mood, it seems I just can’t.
I take off my jacket as we enter his hotel suite—I’m a little warm. I’m also a little disappointed—unlike our usual custom, there was no tender hand-holding, no passionate kisses in the elevator. There’s still a great divide between us. I realize it will probably need to be addressed if we�
�re going to be intimate again.
Weston pulls his satchel over his head, drops it on the desk in the entry hall, and sits down on the chair, his elbow propped on the sleek surface. I find myself staring at my surroundings, taking in the clean lines and muted colors and the sleek contemporary furniture.
I can’t quite seem to look at him.
This isn’t how it typically goes—we usually practically attack each other as soon as the suite door closes, ravishing each other, pulling passionately at each other’s clothes, delighting in each other’s taste, smell…touch.
He slumps in his chair. “Mirella,” he sighs. “We need to talk.”
I look down at him. His eyes are full of torment—he looks burdened.
And I know.
I know he’s planning to break up with me.
But he can’t. He just can’t.
What we have is too precious.
I walk seductively to him and shoot him a sly smile. I hike up my little black dress, lift a leg over him and straddle him on the chair. “I don’t want to talk,” I whisper.
“Mirella,” he sighs, “please don’t.” His heavy lids and shallow breathing betray his words—I know he wants me just as much as I want him.
“Have we ever done it on a chair?” I ask, my voice smooth as velvet.
He shakes his head, and I can see his resolve melting—the desire pooling in his eyes.
I kiss him softly along his jaw. “I think you’re right. I don’t think we have.”
He pushes me away gently. “Mirella, please stop,” he pleads, his voice deeper, more forceful.
I pull at his shirt, my fingers skimming his hot skin. “You want this,” I breathe into his ear.
“Mirella, please,” he says quietly.
I run my hands to the band of his pants and start undoing his belt.
He grabs my wrist. “Mirella,” he snaps.
He doesn’t want me. He wants to be rid of me.
I can feel the tears coming, and I’m powerless to stop them.
The expression of anger on his face seems to melt into one of concern. “Mirella,” he sighs. “Please, don’t cry.” He cups my face in his hands. The gesture is so gentle—I know he still cares.
“I just want to talk for a second. I’m sorry I was a little harsh, but I had to get your attention.”
I nod, the giant lump in my throat preventing me from speaking. It’s inevitable—this needs to happen, regardless of whether I want it to or not.
“I wanted to talk about what happened the last time we were together,” he says, his words measured, “when we were having sex.”
When we were making love.
I nod again, fearing my words might come out all strangled.
His gaze is soft—his eyes are as arresting as ever, which makes this all the more heartbreaking. “Remember what you said to me?” he asks, his gaze fixed on mine.
Of course I remember.
“I told you I loved you,” I say without emotion.
“You did,” he goes on. “And you know why that’s a problem? You are aware of how this arrangement works, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am,” I answer him matter-of-factly. “No emotional commitment. No declarations of love.” I roll my eyes like a teenager. “I just had a temporary moment of insanity…so sue me.” I realize I’m acting quite immature. I’m doing it purposely to push his buttons.
“Mirella,” he says. “Don’t make light of this.”
I look away.
“Look at me,” he snaps.
I don’t look at him, determined to piss him off. He’s being a real jerk.
He grabs my chin roughly and tilts my head to face him. “Look at me.” I’m taken by surprise by his aggression. This isn’t like him—Weston is usually so gentle.
“Regardless of how you might feel about me,” he tells me, his gaze piercing into mine. “I don’t want to hear it.”
My heart sinks—he’s so cold.
“Well, I want to tell you anyway,” I hiss. “You’re an asshole. That’s how I feel about you, you prick.”
His eyes darken, with what…I’m not sure. Anger? Passion? Desire?
“You think you can just bring me to a posh restaurant, drag me to your hotel room, screw me any way you want, and send me on my way in your fancy car, without the slightest of complications,” I scoff. “Well, you’re fucking wrong about that. Life is not that simple.”
“Mirella,” he scolds. “Stop it. You know I can’t stand that kind of language.”
“Oh yes…” I scoff with an exaggerated smirk. “I forgot. Mister Perfect doesn’t like cursing. God forbid—”
He grabs my face and his gorgeous mouth takes mine, scorching my lips. His kiss is greedy. His hands trail from my cheeks to my neck. Our tongues dance wildly, sloppily. He teases and bites my bottom lip. The desire pools inside me. I want him so badly—even if I truly hate him at the moment. His hands travel to my back, he undoes the delicate buttons one by one, and I almost wish I’d worn a different dress, with a zipper—something easier to take off.
I pull his shirt over his head and trail my tongue all over his chest. He’s turned on—his breathing labored and his erection pressing against me. I grind myself against him as I kiss him. It feels so good as I move back and forth, I could just climax like this. I almost want to, then just get up and leave him hanging.
But I also want to kiss every inch of him.
I could just fall into this and enjoy him without a struggle. But I’m just too mad at him.
I’m not done with this fight.
Chapter Twenty
Just maybe…he loves me too.
I JERK AWAY FROM HIM, “You like that, sir? You’re getting your money’s worth?” I ask him, my eyes threatening to go farther.
“Stop it,” he whispers.
“Well, that’s what I am. Your whore. I want you to admit it.”
“You’re not my whore, Mirella.”
I try to pull away, but he grabs my ass and stills me. “Besides, I haven’t heard you complain.”
I can tell he just wants to fuck.
“But that’s what it feels like, Weston. Like I’m your little high-class escort. You don’t love me.”
“You’re not my whore,” he snaps.
“I am,” I go on, determined to anger him. “You screw me, and then you practically throw me away.”
“I’m always good to you,” he argues. “You know I don’t treat you like a prostitute. You can’t say that.”
“You pretend to be good, but you’re not,” I scoff. “You’re a user.”
He closes his eyes and sucks in a deep breath. I’m afraid I’ve gone too far.
“You want me to treat you like a whore…” he scoffs, his mouth a hard line. His eyes are dark—they almost seem foreign.
He stands up and pushes me off him in one swift move. I tumble to the ground. He looks down at me. “I can treat you like a whore.”
My heart pounds.
He rubs the back of his neck as he makes his way to the bedroom. “Take off your dress.”
I’m stuck, still frozen from the shock of being tossed to the floor.
I stand and do as I’m told. The little black dress pools to the floor. I step out of it and follow him to the bedroom. When I make my way there, he walks toward me, his gaze piercing. “Take it all off.”
He stands over me as I undress, watching me. He’s treating me like a whore and for some reason, it’s arousing me—this is a different version of Weston. He watches me, his gaze intense as I take off my bra and peel off my panties.
His eyes are glued to me as I stand next to him naked, feeling vulnerable. He doesn’t say a word for the longest time. He seems to be contemplating his next move. His expression hasn’t changed—it’s still a strange mix of anger and desire.
He undoes his belt, walks toward the bed and reaches into the nightstand, where he keeps condoms. “Get on the bed.”
I can’t believe myself when I do as he sa
ys. The rational me would grab my clothing, tell him to go to hell, and run to the bathroom. But this version of me is someone different—someone desperate, desperate to not love him. Maybe if I let him degrade me, he’ll become a different person in my eyes, and he’ll lose hold of my heart.
“On your knees,” he whispers—there’s a softness in his gaze—a flicker of the Weston I know.
I do as I’m told and kneel on all fours.
He grabs me tightly by the hips, and his fingers dig into my flesh. He’s rough, and I’m not quite ready for him. But I don’t make a sound. He pushes into me hard, and there’s discomfort, but it dulls with every thrust.
I want this.
I’ve asked for this. I don’t want him to be gentle, whisper sweet nothings in my ear, and make me fall in love with him. I want him to treat me like shit—like a whore.
Then…maybe I can get over him.
But…
Weston is Weston.
His pace slows, and he trails his finger softly along my spine. “I’m sorry, Mirella,” he says softly. “I shouldn’t treat you this way.” He leans down against me and kisses my back, just between my shoulder blades. “I can’t do it.”
Heavy tears trail down my cheeks as a realization dawns on me.
I’m in love with this man—there’s no escaping it. Nothing we can do will change that. I will probably always love him.
He pulls away.
“No,” I say. “I want you this way…here.”
He leans back over me and wraps his arms softly around my stomach. His touch warms me and makes me feel safe. He pulls my hips hard against him as he presses into me, and he starts off slowly.
He feels wonderful.
I close my eyes and enjoy him. He drops kisses on my back every once in a while, sending shivers through me.
“Harder,” I breathe. I want to climax.
His pace intensifies, and he stretches deeper into me, reaching my G spot—I let out a whimper—the feeling is mind-blowing. He grabs my hips tightly and groans into my ear. I moan louder and louder, guiding him. He pushes into me, faster and harder.
And before long, he makes me come.