The Ground Rules Part 40

"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 f.u.c.king 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. G.o.d 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 b.u.t.tons one by one, and I almost wish I'd worn a different dress, with a zipper-something easier to take off.

I pull his s.h.i.+rt 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 wh.o.r.e. I want you to admit it."

"You're not my wh.o.r.e, Mirella."

I try to pull away, but he grabs my a.s.s and stills me. "Besides, I haven't heard you complain."

I can tell he just wants to f.u.c.k.

"But that's what it feels like, Weston. Like I'm your little high-cla.s.s escort. You don't love me."

"You're not my wh.o.r.e," 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 prost.i.tute. 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 wh.o.r.e..." 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 wh.o.r.e."

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 wh.o.r.e 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 h.e.l.l, 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 s.h.i.+t-like a wh.o.r.e.

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 s.h.i.+vers 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 s.e.x.

"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 pa.s.sion, 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 s.e.x...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 das.h.i.+ng 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 s.e.xy tonight-s.e.xy but cla.s.sy. 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 pa.s.sing s.h.i.+ps 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.