The Ground Rules (27 page)

“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.

Just maybe…he loves me too.

I J
ERK
A
WAY
F
ROM
H
IM
, “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 says. 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.

I rest my head against Weston’s chest, tracing circles around his navel with the tip of my finger. I love the dark line trailing from his navel to his pubic bone—he’s ticklish right there, and I can always get him going.

He laughs, pulling my hand away. “Stop it.”

I smile up at him. “You like it.”

“I do,” he admits.

We lie in silence for a while, staring up at the ceiling, both of us lost in thought. I think about the way I’ve behaved—it was atrocious. “I’m sorry about my behavior. I was acting juvenile. It’s just…this is so hard.”

He kisses the top of my head. “I know.”

I hold him tighter, realizing this arrangement is probably not exactly easy for him either.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks.

I look up at him, not sure what he means.

His eyes are dark, and I realize he’s talking about the sex.

“Oh…just a little.”

“I’m so sorry, Mirella.” There’s a foreign emotion in his gaze, something I’ve never seen in his eyes…shame perhaps.

“It’s fine,” I insist. “I could have stopped you, Weston.”

“But…I still shouldn’t have,” he argues, his words soft. “I—”

“I’m fine, Weston. I promise.”

He sighs. “It’s just that,” he says, his words slow, “you drive me mad.”

I look up at him, shocked by his words.

“I’m usually always in control,” he tells me, playing with a strand of my hair. “I crave control. I’m in charge at work, at home, wherever I go, it seems. I have hundreds of employees who do exactly what I tell them to do. I know what to expect from them. I even have a handle on Bridget, believe it or not.”

“Now, that’s hard to believe,” I joke, trying to lighten the mood.

“But…you…you make me feel completely out of control.”

Completely out of control.

That’s what love feels like, I want to tell him.

But I don’t dare say a thing.

I’ve been feeling a little uneasy since my last date with Weston. Memories of that night—the passion, the raw emotion, the confusion and pain on his face, swirl in my head on a maddening, endless loop.

To make matters worse, since school is still out, I find myself without distractions. I take the girls to the park, Gwen’s pool, the library, but still, I am constantly bombarded by thoughts of him. Our last date has affected me more than all the previous ones combined.

I think Gabe has noticed something is wrong, but he hasn’t said a word. I’m pretty sure he knows my mood has something to do with Weston. But since our last fight, we haven’t really talked, we haven’t had sex…we’ve grown apart. I can’t very well tell him my heart is in shatters. I can’t tell him he was right—I
am
in love with another man, a man who doesn’t share my feelings.

And I do still love Gabe.

I’m in love with two men.

I am
royally messed-up.

It’s Wednesday morning, and as I’m dashing out of the house for the girls’ swimming lesson, my cell rings, and I absently pick it up, buckling Claire in her car seat.

It’s Weston. He wants to see me.

“Can we see each other next Friday?”

I ask him why he’s calling me. I tell him he’s breaking the rules. He doesn’t quite seem like himself. I ask him if something’s wrong.

He says he needs to see me.

I’m so curious, I can barely contain myself. I’m as giddy as a schoolgirl. I can barely eat—and
forget
about sleep. I don’t understand why he still has this effect on me, after all these months. I should be over this by now, but just the thought of him…

I wish I had more control over my emotions. I wish I could tell my heart what to feel, order my mind to stop thinking about him endlessly.

He’s still all I can think about.

I decide to go a little sexy tonight—sexy but classy. I slip on a sweet, cream lace dress with a soft flowing skirt. The hem is probably too short for a woman my age, but I’m feeling daring tonight.

Claire strokes the velvety texture of my shoes with the tip of her chubby little finger and says I look pretty. She always loves to watch me get ready. I feel a little twinge of guilt knowing she has no clue I’m about to go out to meet another man. In her perfect little world, there’s just Mommy, Daddy, and Chloe.

I’ve paired the rather innocent dress with a flashy pair of leopard print, peep-toed heels. My hair falls over my shoulders in wavy tendrils, and my eyes are smoky.

Gabe and I are two passing ships in the night. He’s going out tonight too—with Bridget. I watch him fiddle with his phone, standing by the kitchen counter. He looks good in a fitted black top and stylish gray pants. I’ve noticed he’s been dressing a lot better these days.

He turns around and notices me—
definitely
notices me.

“You look amazing,” he says with that devilish grin of his. “You look
hot
.”

“Not so bad yourself,” I reply with a sly smile.

He drops the phone on the counter, makes his way to me, and wraps his arms around my waist.

He slides a hand under the hem of my dress. “Quickie?”

I laugh. I’m almost tempted. We haven’t had sex in forever, and I miss him. “No time…Edward will be here any second.”

“He can wait,” he whispers in my ear.

The man is insatiable.

“You look very nice,” I say, trying to distract him. “Very sexy. Did you go shopping?”

He pulls away and nods, not quite looking at me. I get the sense he doesn’t really want to talk about it. I have a feeling Bridget might have taken him shopping—probably had a little fun with her “boy-toy”—another little Ken doll she can dress up. The thought annoys me a little, and I push it away instantly.

The doorbell chimes.

“Your car is waiting, madam.” Gabe smirks and gives me one last kiss on the cheek.

The drive to the city seems long tonight, too long. It’s the same duration as always, but the anticipation of seeing Weston makes me impatient.

And after what seems like an endless trek, we finally get there.

Edward opens the door for me as he always does. I take his hand and thank him. And then, I turn to see Weston waiting for me, standing tall in a sleek charcoal suit and bright pink shirt.

He’s splendid…as always.

He smiles at me. It’s that special smile, my favorite—the one he gives me just before he has his wicked way with me. God…I
love
that smile.

“You look
amazing
,” he whispers as he kisses my cheek.

“You too,” I say in a barely audible voice, my heart stammering. Geez…it’s been barely five seconds, and he already has me flustered.

We eat at a French restaurant on the fortieth floor of the Chicago Stock Exchange. This doesn’t surprise me in the least, with Weston’s obsession with sky high views.