The Ground Rules (9 page)

“Bridget and I don’t like the term ‘swapping.’ We prefer to think of it as a ‘couple exchange.’”

Of course, Bridget and Weston don’t
swap
—they’re much too classy for that.

“But how does that work?” I ask, another million questions working their way into my mind. Where? When? Why?

“Well, I won’t lie. It’s a little complex.”

I wonder if they’ve done this before, if we’re just another notch on their fancy, expensive bed post.

“You’ve done this before? You do this a lot?”

His smile is warm, and he puts his hand on my knee again. “No…not a lot, but yes…we’ve done this before…twice.”

I feel his hand on me. And I almost forget this might be the most horrible idea ever conceived.

“And what happened with those couples?” I ask him. The whole thing suddenly seems very sordid.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice soft. “I’ve scared you.”

“Yes…I’m a little scared,” I admit. “Honestly, Weston…I don’t know what to think.”

“I understand. The concept is completely unfamiliar to you.”

I sit motionless, speechless and stare into his striking eyes. I truly don’t know what to think.

“We don’t take these arrangements lightly, Mirella.” His gaze soft—finally, he’s making eye contact. “They must be approached with caution, and rules and agreements must be in place. Thorough discussion is absolutely necessary.”

My eyes are a little lazy as I listen to his smooth voice. I don’t think I’ve ever been so turned on by a conversation. In fact, I’m positive of it. It seems my whole body is throbbing, hanging on to his every word.

Gabe was right. He wants to fuck me. Most men would stick their hands under my skirt and whisper a few dirty words in my ear. But Weston Hanson is not “most men.” He’s a strange one.

And unfortunately…sexy as hell.

I start to think about the logistics of this whole thing, and suddenly, my questions become more concrete. “Where would we do this? Do we all go out together and split up? At your house?”

He smiles. He seems slightly amused by my questions. His smile irks me—these are legitimate, serious questions.

He scratches his brow. “Well, first, we would schedule individual dates. You would contact my assistant Kathryn, coordinate and schedule a convenient time. She knows Bridget’s and my schedule inside out.”

What?

“Are you kidding me? This is not a dentist appointment, Weston,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

“I’m very well aware of that, Mirella,” he says, his eyes downcast. It seems I’m making this harder than he anticipated.

“Kathryn is quite efficient at what she does. She’ll coordinate and schedule our dates. The meetings will take place in the city…if we…uh…go ahead with the exchange,” he adds quickly, flustered.

Why does he call them “meetings”? Call them what they are, I want to scream—hook-ups, booty calls…whatever.

“Both Bridget and I keep suites in the city.”

How convenient. They both have their own private little shag pads…how quaint. I’m not sure if my disdain is obvious, but I kind of hope it is.

“When scheduling our meetings, Kathryn will take into account our individual schedules, our respective family plans, as well as your menstrual cycle.”

My jaw drops. I want to scream.

He did
not
just say that.

I take a breath and reach for my briefcase. I get up to leave but he stills me with his hand.

“Mirella,” he says softly. “Please let me finish. Let me go through this with you. And then you can decide.”

His eyes. His beautiful eyes do me in every time. I don’t think he realizes the power he has over me.

I stay seated. “Well, I bet that part wasn’t in the job description when Kathryn first applied for the position,” I joke, the sarcasm evident in my voice.

“No, it wasn’t. But she’s great at it. She’s very discreet.”

“Don’t you think it would be less weird if we just all went out and let the chips fall where they may? Play it by ear?”

He sighs. He doesn’t seem to agree. “I know it may seem a little strange to you,” he admits. “We could very well go the traditional route…all go to a club together, get drunk, seduce each other, and we’d probably all end up in each other’s beds,” he adds, a smile curving at the edge of his mouth. “I think that’s how most people do it.”

Yes, that’s how
normal
people do it.

“But that’s not my style,” he says plainly, he eyes fixed on me. “I don’t like chaos, I don’t like uncertainty. I don’t like the unexpected. I feel in control when I can foresee the course of circumstances and specific regulations are in place.”

Are we still talking about sex?

Part of me hopes so.

And part of me is absolutely horrified.

“Don’t you get jealous?” I ask. This question has been on my mind since he uttered the words “open marriage.”

He shakes his head, his mouth a hard line. “No,” he says matter-of-factly. “We don’t.”

I stare at him, speechless.

“If you think you might be jealous, this kind of arrangement is completely unsuited to you,” he adds, his words clipped.

“I see,” I say, looking down at my pencil skirt, and wondering if I could do that…not be jealous.

“This is about sex, Mirella. There’s no room for emotional attachment in these arrangements.”

I lift my gaze to his and study him for a few seconds. Yes, I can see how this would be easy for him—he’s so rigid, pragmatic, distant and cold…almost inhuman.

“The sole purpose of this agreement is mutual sexual gratification,” he says plainly.

His words are so business-like, like he’s in a board meeting, going over the yearly profit predictions.

My heart sinks.

Well…if he’s trying to sell me on this, this is definitely
not
the right approach.

“Please remember, I’m telling you this because I don’t want you to have any illusions, or come into this unprepared for the reality of such a situation,” he explains. “I want you to know exactly what to expect. If you do this, I don’t want you to regret it.”

“How very considerate of you,” I offer, not hiding the sarcasm in my voice.

Yes, it’s decided…I’m definitely
not
doing this.

We sit in silence for what seems like eternity. His gaze studies mine, and I think he understands I don’t want to do this. His hand reaches for my face and cups my cheek. The warmth of his hand on my skin sends shivers through my spine.

“I anticipated this,” he says, his words almost inaudible. “Someone like you…you’re not cut out for this,” he adds as his hand leaves me.

I want his hand on my face again. I want his touch again—it makes me feel so alive.

“I shouldn’t have even asked,” he says, staring down at his shiny black dress shoes.

If his hand on my face can evoke this sensation within me, I can only imagine…I’ve
never
wanted a man this much.

“I want you,” I say, my words soft.

He looks up at me and fixes me without a word for the longest time.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Considering all I’ve just told you?”

“Yes.”

“And you can remain emotionally distant?”

“Yes. I’m very physically attracted to you, Weston. I want to touch you. And I want you to touch me. I want your body against mine. But that’s it.”

He swallows hard—I think I’ve caught him off guard. His gaze is fixed on me, his eyes dark.

“I love my husband. And I don’t want to jeopardize my marriage.”

Gabe.

Oddly enough, I hadn’t been thinking about Gabe.

“You and your husband should discuss this thoroughly.
Must
discuss this thoroughly,” he clarifies. “You must
both
be completely sure you want to do this. And if you both agree, we’ll all meet to go over the details.”

“There’s more?” I almost snap. “I thought we
just
went over the details.”

“Like I’ve mentioned,” a little smile curving on his lip, “it’s quite complicated.”

Yes, I think…that’s the understatement of the year.

The ground rules.

I’
M
S
TANDING
O
N
M
Y
D
OORSTEP
, clutching my briefcase, not really wanting to go in and face Gabe.

I don’t remember how I got here.

The ride from Weston’s office to my house was a complete blur. So many things whirled in my brain on the way over here. How do I tell Gabe about this? Will he want to do this? Or will he want to go beat the life out of Weston? I honestly don’t know how he’ll react.

I hang my jacket and take off my shoes.

Claire runs up to me and gives me a big hug. “We missed you, Mommy.” I’m flattered—I’ve only been gone for a few hours.

“Daddy made us pizza,” Chloe informs me. “He put mushrooms on it, which I told him I didn’t like. But he put them on anyway.”

Gabe is standing, dish cloth in hand, with a curious expression. I know he wants to know everything. “So how did it go? What did he want?”

I close my eyes. I can’t even get into it right now. “Did the girls do their homework yet?”

“Yes,” he almost snaps. I can tell the suspense is killing him.

“Good,” I say. “Listen. I can’t discuss the meeting right now. We’ll put them straight in their pajamas and put on a movie.”

“A movie,” Chloe squeals. “But it’s Tuesday. It’s not movie night.”

I stroke her head, thinking this is definitely no ordinary Tuesday. “It’s your lucky night, I guess.”

“Yay! Yay! Yay!” Both girls squeal and literally jump up and down. Well, at least some of us will be happy at the end of the night.

Gabe looks at me with a quizzical expression. “That serious, huh?”

“You have no idea.”

Gabe stares at me, slack-jawed. “Are you joshing me, Ella?”

We’re sitting on our bed. I’ve locked the door. And I’ve told him all about the meeting and what Weston and Bridget have proposed.

“No, Gabe. This is the real deal.”

He shakes his head. “I can’t believe it.”

I notice he doesn’t seem upset, which is a great relief. Last thing I need is Gabe going over to Weston’s office tomorrow, beating the shit out of him, and getting arrested.

A slow smile stretches across his face. “They really don’t strike me as the foursome type,” he says. “They’re so conservative. And he seems so uptight.”

“I know. He
is
uptight. God, you should see his office. And it’s not a foursome…it’s a ‘couple exchange.’” I cringe a little—I’m starting to sound like Weston.

“Call it what you want, but it’s kind of hot.”

I smile. “Is it?”

“I’m hard just thinking about it, babe.”

Well, of course you are.

I laugh a little, not sure if he’s joking or not. “You’re hard thinking about you and her having sex.”

He stretches his long body on the bed, shirtless and looking impossibly sexy. Bridget wants him, and she hasn’t even seen him naked—she’ll go absolutely crazy when she sees his tattoos. “Sex. Exactly. That’s exactly what it would be, wouldn’t it, Ella?” he asks, his voice softer than usual. “Like Weston told you…it’s just sex.”

I can sense Gabe is very interested in this proposal. Part of me is shocked, and part of me isn’t shocked at all. Who could blame him? Weston dangles a mighty fine carrot—I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman more beautiful than Bridget. Ordinarily, I would be insanely jealous at the thought. But my desire to be with Weston has rendered me temporarily blind…and possibly mad.

“How would you feel, knowing I was intimate with another man?” I ask him. “I’ve only ever been yours.” This is a big deal for me. Gabe is the only one I’ve ever been with. He had been with two girls before me. But I was still a virgin when we met.

He’s quiet. He seems to be pondering my question with great intensity. “I’d be jealous, I won’t lie,” he admits. “But if it’s just sex. Then, that’s all it is.”

“Of course you’d be jealous. That’s what concerns me. Right now this isn’t real. It’s easy to say ‘it’s just sex.’”

He winces a little but doesn’t say a word. I’ve given him something to think about.

“Wouldn’t you be worried I’d fall in love with him?” I venture. “You know how sentimental I am.”

“C’mon, the man’s like a robot.” He scowls. “To be honest, I have a really hard time picturing you two even having sex. I mean…that’s why the whole thing shocks me.”

I don’t respond, but his words cut a little. He doesn’t know Weston—he shouldn’t say these things.

“You seriously want to be with him?” he asks. “I know the man looks like a
GQ
cover, but personality has to count for something too, doesn’t it?” he asks me, not waiting for an answer. “I didn’t think you were the type to fall for someone purely on looks.”

I want to tell him I’m not. I want to tell him he doesn’t know him. I want to tell him Weston is a sensitive, sweet, introverted, creative, cerebral man who seems to be lost in his own little world—and that’s the part I find most incredibly sexy. But I don’t say any of these things.

“Well, like we said, it’s just about sex, isn’t it,” I say, trying to convince myself.

“You want to do this?” he asks.

I so badly want to do this. But I’m so scared. But if Gabe is willing to do this, maybe I shouldn’t worry so much. Maybe I should loosen up and just go for it, live a little for once. But I worry that we’re not thinking straight. We can’t possibly put our marriage in jeopardy because of lust. He’s says it’s cool now, but how will he feel when he knows I’ve been intimate with someone else? And how will I feel, knowing he’s been with Bridget? He doesn’t realize what he’s saying. I want to tell him all this, but I’m afraid he’ll change his mind if I do. And I don’t want that because I crave Weston so badly. I am out of my mind.

“Only if you do,” I finally manage, the words small.

We spend almost two hours discussing the issue and what it would mean for us, for our relationship, for our family. And we somehow convince ourselves it might even improve our relationship, particularly our sex life, pointing out that ever since we’ve met Weston and Bridget, we’ve been boinking like bunnies. We convince ourselves of all this and completely disregard all the possible risks, because of only one thing—we’re aroused by the idea.

We’re horny…it’s that simple.

That night, we make love, or rather, we have sex.

Because that’s exactly what it is. Gabe and I rarely make love anymore. We mostly have sex, and I suppose I don’t mind it either since I always climax. Sometimes we cuddle afterward, and that’s probably my favorite part.

Tonight, we cuddle.

Weston has asked me to contact him directly on his mobile after I’ve spoken with Gabe. My fingers are shaking a little as I dial his number. As his cell rings, I hope to get him on the phone because there’s no way I can leave a message about this.

What am I going to say?

Weston, Mirella here. Gabe and I have discussed your proposal. And the answer is yes. You have the official go to do with me what you will.

But seriously, I really don’t want to leave a message. My legs are a little wobbly, and I take a seat in the desk chair. And thankfully, on the fourth ring, he answers.

“Hello, Mirella,” he says. His voice is soft and almost brings me to my knees.

“Hi, Weston, how are you?” I ask, absentmindedly rearranging the objects on the desk, aligning the keyboard, mouse pad, pens, and papers at perfect angles.

“I’m well. Thank you. And you?”

Are we really doing this formal small-talk?

Aren’t we past that?

My palm is sweaty against the receiver. I don’t think any man has ever made me this nervous—any person, for that matter. “I’m…I’m good, Weston. I wanted to tell you Gabe and I spoke…” For some reason, I can’t bring myself to say the rest.

“And?” he says, his voice hopeful.

“We’d like to meet to go over the details.”

There’s a pause on the line. And I fear he’s changed his mind.

“I’m very glad to hear that, Mirella.” I can almost hear the smile on his face—he sounds happy. “I’ll have Kathryn call you and set up the details.”

I don’t know what to say. It all seems so formal. It shouldn’t be so formal, should it? And for a brief moment, I have my doubts again.

I stare out the window. The kid from next door zooms by on his bike. “I’m looking forward to seeing you,” I say, my words hesitant.

“Me too.”

After a beat, he says, “Well, I should go. I’m in a meeting at the moment. We’ll talk to you shortly.”

“Yes, good-bye,” I say, wondering what the hell just happened.

“Good-bye.”

The line goes dead.

What?

We’re about to have sex, and all he could spare me was ten measly seconds. We’re about to be intimate, to see each other naked, for crying out loud.

This is a big deal.

Well, maybe not for him—he’s done this before. This isn’t a big deal at all for him, I finally realize.

And I almost want to call him again and call the whole thing off.

We meet at an upscale steak house on the following Thursday night.

“This place is impressive,” Gabe says, as we wait on the banquette. The restaurant is very classy—high cathedral ceilings with dark wood beams stretching over us, mahogany wood paneling and rustic brick lining the walls.

Gabe is drawn by the classic details, the fine carpentry. “Apparently, the brick is repurposed from an old bank tower,” he comments.

Gabe and I have dressed conservatively. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror lining the wall across from us and adjust my jacket. I’m happy with my outfit—it is very Jackie-O and classy. I’ve even brought along my sleek mini briefcase.

I really don’t know what the dress protocol is for such an occasion. How do you dress for a meeting going over the fine details of a “couple swap?” Do you dress conservatively or sexy?

When Weston and Bridget come in, all eyes are on them. He’s decked out in his usual tailored suit, and she’s wearing a clingy red dress and black A-line jacket.

Damn, I think, I should have gone with “sexy”—that’s how you dress for such a meeting.

Well, you live, you learn.

These two really stand out in a room, and I suddenly feel a little unworthy.

Bridget greets us with a wide grin and hugs, and for some reason, it doesn’t feel strange at all.

Weston gives us both a tight-lipped smile. And his gaze holds mine for a second—this is where it gets strange. He seems to have a way of making me feel very odd.

“You look very nice,” he offers with a hint of a smile.

I smile at him, not able to form words. And I wonder why he makes me so nervous.

We follow the hostess to a small room off the main dining area—it’s dark, it’s cozy and most importantly…private.

The server pours water, and we order drinks. I order a martini, and boy, do I need it. I almost want to order two. And I don’t even usually drink.

Bridget hangs her chic purse on the table with some kind of fancy purse hook contraption. “How hungry are you two?”

“Not at all,” I say. I am so nervous…I really couldn’t eat a thing.

“I’m not too hungry either,” Gabe says. It’s shocking—Gabe is always hungry, especially when it comes to steak.

“We thought we would discuss the details before dinner and get all the formalities out of the way,” Bridget suggests.

That’s a great idea. Yes, let’s get this out of the way, and I might be able to breathe again.

“We could order some appetizers if you wish,” Weston offers.

“No thanks, we’re fine,” I say, looking over at Gabe who nods in agreement.

We seem to all want to get this over with. I hadn’t imagined this would feel so strange. Suddenly, I want to make a break for it. I don’t want to do this anymore. This is just too damn weird. I lace my trembling hand in Gabe’s, hoping he’ll look at me and be able to read my mind and get us the hell out of here.

Drinks are served, and Weston asks the server to give us a long moment. “We’ll need about twenty minutes,” he tells her.

“Yes, Mr. Hanson,” the server replies with complete obedience. I have a feeling he’s been here before. Who knows…maybe he owns the place?