The Ground Rules: Undone (32 page)

I’d almost forgotten all about the beautiful curves of his back and ass.

Oh hell.

I think I’ve read the same sentence five times.

I put my book down on the night table. Who am I kidding? I’m done reading for the night.

I catch a quick glimpse of my name inked over his hip bone and he’s off into the shower. I wonder if he did that on purpose; left the door open like that, giving me a glimpse. I wouldn’t put it past him.

The sneaky bastard.

I hear the water run and I lay down across the bed, stretching my legs. I close my eyes and imagine him naked in the shower. He sweeps his hand over his head as the water cascades over him. I smile and arch my back at the vision.

How did we get here?

He’s my husband, for crying out loud.

I am lusting after my own husband. How very odd and kinda hot.

This is the night, I decide. I need to make the first move. This isn’t the way the story typically goes with us two, he’s usually always all over me. It seems I never get the chance to make the first move. Which is what is strange. It makes me doubt myself. What if he doesn’t want me anymore? Why has he not put the moves on me? But he did seem to want me the last time we found ourselves on this bed. Perhaps he’s still waiting.

But seriously, haven’t we waited long enough?

I hear the water turn off and I feel my body stand to attention, in anticipation. I hike up the skirt of my slip a little. I want to show him more. I want to show him all of me, but this will have to do for now because I don’t want to come on too strong. I want to be demure. Well, as demure as I can be when all I want is him all over me…naked preferably.

He saunters out of the bathroom, a white towel wrapped around his hips, another one in his hand, rubbing at his head, drying his crazy curly locks. He smiles as he makes his way out.

I really don’t think he was trying to turn me on. He was really just having a shower.

Damn him
.

I sit up straight on the bed. “Gabe,” I call out, my heart hammering in my chest.

A beat later, he’s at my doorway again. For a second or two, I try to devise a strategy. Do I go with the direct approach and ask him to come and fuck me?

Can’t quite do that.

I blow out a breath and tilt my head in a come-hither pose. But I don’t think I’m very good at come-hither poses because he just cocks his head and looks at me weird.

I am
so
not good at this.

“Do you want to talk?” I venture with a little smile.

A slow grin stretches across his face. Yes. He knows me well. He knows what I want. I can see it in his expression, in his playful smile.

And I know he’s going to make me work for it. This is a side of Gabe I don’t get to see often, playing hard to get looks so good on him. I’d kick him if I didn’t want him so much.

He ventures a step or two into the bedroom. “What would you like to talk about?” he asks, that mischievous smile still plastered all over his face.

“Uh,” I stammer a bit, struggling to come up with a subject of conversation. “Uh… faucets. We should discuss faucets.”

His face breaks into a smile as he takes a seat at the edge of the bed, close, close enough to tease. “Sure.”

My gaze lingers on the inked curves of his shoulder and travels to the silver chain and the cross falling on his chest. “Uh…what kind were you thinking of?”

He scratches his week-old beard. “Chrome or brushed nickel?” he asks as he leans back on his arms. His arm brushes against my leg. Just.

“Nickel is nice,” I say, pulling my knees up, making my slip ride up higher…accidently…on purpose.

His gaze lingers under my slip. I know he can see my panties. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Um...” he stammers, “brushed nickel is uh… sleek…cool. Chrome is more…” he pauses to catch his breath, “…traditional. I like chrome and how it reflects like…”

I smile. “Like a mirror?”

He clears his throat, his gaze still on my panties. “Exactly.”

I twirl a lock of my hair and tilt my head. “And there’s also black.”

“Uh…” he says absent-mindedly. “There’s that.”

I slip a hand under my slip, the material silky on my hand. “Do you want something sleek and straight, modern?” I ask, pulling at my panties. “Or something curvy?”

He swallows. Hard. “Definitely something curvy.”

I pull the pink cotton panties over my knees, ever so slowly. “Then it’s decided, something curvy and chrome, traditional.”

His gaze meets mine and it’s searing. “Traditional,” he echoes.

I finally pull the panties over my feet and shoot him a smile.

He stares at me, deadly serious, for what seems like an eternity before he whispers, “Come here.”

I slither up to him and he pulls my face to his. As soon as my lips hit his, I can feel it in my sex. It’s always been like this with him. It’s like there’s a super-highway straight from his kiss to the deepest part of me, the part that wants him inside me. I feel the desire throbbing deep.

A groan escapes at the edges of his kiss. I can tell he wants me as much as I want him. And I can tell he’s desperately trying to rein himself in, control himself. I’m sure he doesn’t want to just ravage me after all this time. He wants to handle me gently. But Gabe has never been very good at ‘gently’ — a slam against a wall, a hard rip of the panties, a bite on the fleshy part of the shoulder — unbridled passion, that’s more his speed.

He pulls at my hair, and I feel him losing control and I eat it up. “You want me?” I ask as I pull myself over him, my bare sex straddling the hard length of him — the towel has long slipped off. I want him to tell me how much he craves me.

“God, yeah,” he breathes, his mouth against my breast. He pulls my vintage slip up my torso and tears it off me, ripping the delicate embroidered edge.

He doesn’t apologize. And I couldn’t care less.

He cups both my breasts in his large hands, my nipples hard against his palms. I close my eyes as he takes my breast in his mouth. I trail my hands through his wet hair. He pulls away from me and looks at me with soft eyes. “Are you sure this is okay?”

“It’s okay,” I whisper. “It’s been over six weeks.”

He moans as I take him in my hand and guide him to me.

He closes his eyes as I press onto him. He sinks into me very, very slowly. When he opens his beautiful eyes again they get lost in mine. A shiver spreads up my spine as he fills me deep, deeper than anyone ever has. He strokes the side of my hip softly as I push in and off him slowly. He doesn’t move much, still holding on to that reserve of control. He studies me and there’s nothing in his eyes but love.

I lean in and kiss him again, a tender kiss.

And I still press into him.

“I’m not hurting you?” he asks.

I shake my head. “No.”

No. Actually you’re rocking my world.

“Tell me if I’m hurting you.”

I throw my head back and press myself harder into him, wanting him to hit my sweet spot just right. “Don’t be afraid to hurt me,” I whisper, the words jagged, breathless. “You can’t.”

I am ready, so ready
.

My hips bounce back against his. “I know you have this whole new ‘gentle love-making’ thing going,” I whisper against the lobe of his ear, “and I respect that, I really do,” I go on, the words caught between whimpers. “But maybe we can try that another time, because right now I just want to be fucked.”

A hint of a smile curves on his lips and I feel him tense, and after a quick pause, he trails his hand slowly along my side and grabs my rear. Hard. And he doesn’t ask again if he’s hurting me.

And he does what Gabe does best.

He loses all control.

I’m chopping onion and mushrooms for an omelet when my phone rings. I run around the house looking for my purse which isn’t where it’s supposed to be again. When I finally find it, I scrounge for my phone. But it’s too late.

When I finally manage to get my hands on it, I can see Weston has called. I walk back to the kitchen, phone in hand. I’m tempted to ignore his call. I stare at the carton of eggs and the chopped vegetables on the kitchen counter. I need to make breakfast. I pick up the chopping knife, but I can’t focus. I need to stop pretending he doesn’t exist. I need to face him. I wipe my hands with the kitchen towel hanging off the stove, grab my phone, go down the list and press his name.

He answers on the second ring.

“Hello, Mirella,” he says, his words soft. I still love the sound of his voice. Always have. There’s something so soothing about it. He should have been a therapist or a counselor.

I take a seat at the kitchen table, my feet wobbly. “Hello,” I say. The word seems so small, so insignificant when there’s so much I want to say.

“I know you don’t want to be bothered,” he says, “I’ve managed to stay away for a while.”

I smile. “I know. Thank you for respecting my wishes, Weston. It’s nice to hear from you.”

I can almost hear the smile on his face when he says, “It’s so nice to hear your voice too. How have you been?”

“I’ve been good. How about you?” I suspect the loss of Oliver has been as hard on him as it has been on me. Although he didn’t carry the child, he did plan for him, for a new life for us.

“I’ve been better,” he admits. “I’ve missed you. I’d really like to see you.”

My heart sinks. I’ve missed him too.

“Is there any way…” he starts and falters, “any way we could see each other?”

I know I need to face him. To say goodbye. But a part of me is afraid he’ll pull me back in. It seems I’m completely without control when I’m around him.

“Yes,” I tell him. “We should talk.”

“Yes,” he agrees, his voice cheerful. “I also have something for you.”

I shake my head. “No more gifts, Weston.”

He sighs. “I thought I could come to you,” he says. “There’s a hiking trail not too far from your house, the one with the meadow.”

I smile. “I know the one. I’ve never pegged you for the rugged type.”

He laughs. “Well, I’m not really. But the day is beautiful and the colors are just starting to turn,” he points out. “I thought it would be a nice change.”

“It would.”

“What time can I pick you up?” he asks. And it sounds like we’re just going on another date. I hope that’s not what he thinks, because that’s definitely not what we’re doing.

“About two…or I could meet you there.” I venture, not wanting it to look like a date.

“I insist,” he presses on. “I’ll pick you up.”

“Sure,” I say with a heavy heart.

I really hate break-ups.

Gabe digs into his plate. “This omelet is really good.”

“Thanks,” I say, my appetite just about non-existent.

“Yeah, Mom,” Chloe echoes her dad. “I’m glad you remembered to not put mushrooms in mine.”

“How could I forget?”

Gabe downs a sip of orange juice. “So, what’s on the agenda today?”

“Well, I don’t know, but I am going for a hike with a friend at two.”

“Which friend?” Claire pipes up.

I wince a little and look at Gabe. “A friend from Chicago.”

“Do we know her?”

I shake my head and venture another look up at Gabe, who knows who I’m speaking of. “I thought it was time to say goodbye because I’m moving to Phoenix soon.”

Claire drains her small glass of chocolate milk. “Will she miss you?”

I top off her glass. “I think so.”

“As long as she doesn’t follow you to Phoenix,” Gabe chimes in. “I don’t think you should give her a forwarding address.”

Claire looks at me, wide-eyed. “Is she crazy?”

“A little bit,” Gabe says.

“Who is this again?” Chloe asks. “Who are you talking about?”

I sigh. “No one you know.”

I wait for Weston, sitting on the front step, dreading the events ahead. “Let this all be over with soon,” I say to no one in particular. I’m all decked out in my hiking gear: skinny jeans, a cotton t-shirt and hoodie, hiking shoes and a red baseball cap with my pony tail tucked through the hole in the back.

Gabe walks by as he waters the flowers in the front. Claire trails behind him. She’s practically glued to him these days. She’s always been a daddy’s girl, but lately, it’s worse — ever since he left us. I think the poor little thing was left with abandonment issues. “Wow,” he says, “you look hot.”