He sits there comfortably and kicks off his shoes. I'm just about ready to bolt at this point, but I'm stark naked. I've done my part, and I wonder what he wants from me.

"Come over," I tell him, wanting him all over me.

A wide smile stretches across his face, ever so slowly, doing sinful things to me. He's being playful again. "Open your legs for me. I'd like to see you," he whispers. "If you're comfortable..."

My heart pounds in my chest as I spread my legs for him, very slowly. I spread them wider and wider, surprisingly not feeling exposed at all, but rather extremely aroused.

"Mirella..." he whispers.

I feel like I'm going to die if he doesn't come to me soon.

Finally, he stands and walks slowly over to me, his eyes glued to mine.

He leans over me, and he kisses my neck softly. I close my eyes as he trails his lips down my chest and kisses my breast, licking circles around my nipple but not quite touching it. He's teasing again.

I run my hands through his soft hair, breathing in the wonderful scent of him. I want this moment to last forever.

Finally, he takes my breast in his mouth. My breathing quickens, and I slide my hands against his smooth shoulders. I make my way down and reach for his fly. I want him naked against me.

He stills my hand. "Uh...no," he laughs softly. "We're not doing that, quite yet." His tongue ribbons down my stomach and around my belly b.u.t.ton...and below. I ache for him to venture south and lick me there. He tangles his arms in my legs and kisses the inside of my thighs, his tongue sliding against my skin, along the edge of my curls.

"You...are...such a tease." My words are ragged.

He plants soft kisses on the fleshy part of my thigh. "Just ask," he whispers.

He wants me to beg again.

"Please."

His warm breath lands against my s.e.x, and I feel like I've died and gone to heaven. His tongue slides back and forth against me.

It's so good.

I'm climbing quickly.

I grab a handful of his hair, the soft, thick locks tangled in my fingers, my moans louder and louder.

I'm almost there. I want this to happen. There is no way I can stop him-it just feels too d.a.m.n good.

But then, he pulls away.

I could just kill him.

I lean up on my elbows. "Weston," I cry out.

"I'll bring you there..." he promises with a sly smile, "but I have yet to see every inch of you."

What in the world is he saying? He's seen everything.

He pulls away. His eyes are intense and serious. "I'd like you to kneel for me."

He wants me on all fours.

"But only if you're at ease doing so," he adds.

At this point, I would do anything he asks-I want him so badly. I turn around, do as I'm told, and settle my knees on the soft bed, feeling extremely exposed. Suddenly, I'm in someone else's body-someone bold, s.e.xual.

He stands behind me and trails his fingers softly along my spine, down to the base of my back.

He traces a line to the edge of my crack. "You are a work of art." His fingers dance lightly along my a.s.s, my s.e.x. Neither of us utters a word. I am too aroused to speak. I just want to close my eyes and enjoy his touch. His fingers linger for an eternity, trailing back and forth, nearing, but not quite touching.

I'm not used to this.

Gabe is not like this. His style is fast and furious-he plows on through and hopes I can catch up with him. Weston, on the other hand, likes to take things slowly. He likes to explore. He likes to tease. He likes to hear me beg. I had never realized being with another man could bring such a different experience. And I eat it up. I love being teased, taunted, and brought to the edge of desire. I love being explored and adored and handled softly.

"Touch me, Weston," I finally beg.

His fingers glide between my lips.

And I want him so badly.

"I want you inside me," I say softly. The ragged words escaping from my mouth shock me.

His hand leaves me, and I open my eyes. I tilt my head over my shoulder to look at him. He reaches into his pocket.

I throw my head down, close my eyes and wait for him, my body antic.i.p.ating his. This magnetic pull he has over me is beyond comprehension. I've never seen myself as a very pa.s.sionate person before-I've always been ruled by my good senses, not by l.u.s.t.

He teases me with his shaft. I want to beg him to stop and to enter me-I want him inside me. I bite my bottom lip as I enjoy the feel of him against me.

He finally eases into me, and I want the sensation to go on forever. He moans as he stretches into me. I cry out, knowing I'm going to come, fast and hard. His thrusts are slow and intense, and he moans louder and louder. As he comes, he pushes harder into me and brings me to my own climax.

When I'm finally brought down from the waves of pleasure, I turn to look at him and smile. Thirty seconds-I think that's all there was to it.

He laughs. "In my defense you worked me up quite a bit."

I laugh. "I didn't even touch you."

He kisses the back of my neck. "What can I say," he says softly. "You have extraordinary powers."

He eases out of me, his hands still on my hips. "I'll be back in a moment." And he's gone again.

I bury myself under the covers and wait for him. I definitely don't want a repeat of last time.

I want him to stay.

He comes back, a plush towel wrapped around his waist. He is magnificent, and I just want to rip that towel off.

He lies next to me, pulling the covers over both of us.

"You were great," I tell him, remembering all the sensations he's brought on in me.

"It's easy to be great with you."

I trail my finger along his smooth chest, tracing circles around his nipple, and venturing further south. "You have a great body." I slide my finger all the way to his belly b.u.t.ton. "How do you manage that?"

His smile is bashful. "I train religiously. Two hours a day, five days a week," he says matter-of-factly, like this isn't completely impressive.

"Wow. That's a lot of training. When do you find the time?" I ask, suddenly a little self-conscious about my complete lack of exercise.

"I work out from five thirty to seven thirty, Monday to Friday."

"In the morning?" I blurt out. "When do you sleep?"

"I sleep six hours a night. That's pretty standard I think," he says, his hand against mine, his thumb playing with my fingers.

I realize we are so completely different. "You are very regimented."

"It's what feels most comfortable to me. I like to follow a set schedule. I like to know what's coming."

I smile at him. He's such a nerd. A really hot nerd.

"What do you do at work all day?" I ask, wanting to learn more about this beautiful nerd.

"Ahhh..." He lets out a sigh. "A lot of meetings with suppliers and engineers, conference calls, meetings out of town occasionally, site visits, and quality control," he explains, looking half-exhausted. "But thankfully, I have a few men to cover most of it. I delegate a lot."

"You basically tell people what to do all day," I tease.

"I suppose you could put it that way."

"I tell people what to do all day too. But they're all five years old, and they never listen to me."

He laughs, fine lines edging the corners of his eyes.

"I guess what I do isn't very exciting and important compared to you. Gabe likes to say I get paid to make zoo animals out of toilet paper cardboard rolls all day."

I think this is kind of funny, but Weston doesn't seem to agree-his smile has completely faded.

He studies me for a second with a serious expression. "You shouldn't say that," he chastises me, trailing his finger along my hairline. "Your vocation is most likely a lot more important than mine. You are molding the minds of our future leaders. You probably spend more time with these children than their own parents. Do you realize just how pliable the human brain is at that age? How much it takes in? How much your presence in their lives will affect who they become?"

I'd never thought about it like that.

"Don't sell yourself short, Mirella." I don't think I've ever seen him look more serious. "What you do is very important."

"Oh...okay," I say, sheepish. "I'll try to remember that."

"You do that," he says, kissing the tip of my nose.

I kind of like when he does that. He seems obsessed with my nose. It's sweet.

"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Kiss my nose and stuff?"

He smiles, staring at my nose for what seems like an eternity. I almost start to feel insecure-I don't exactly have the daintiest of noses.

"It's that adorable freckle right here," he taps it with the tip of his finger, "I love it."

I laugh out loud. "I hate it. I've always hated it," I confess. "I hate them all. But that one...it's the biggest. And smack in the middle of my nose. I hate it the most."

"I think every single freckle on your face is exactly where it belongs. Especially that one."

I think I'm going to melt.

And I guess he can see right through me because the next second, he tells me he has to go.

I sit up on the bed, wrapped up in the crisp white sheets. "My five minutes are up?"

"Something like that," he says, dropping his towel-accidently, on purpose, I'm not sure-what a tease. I peep at the sleek hard lines of his naked body as he makes his way to the en suite, wishing we could have another go.

d.a.m.n...this is like the same movie playing all over again. I went to the city, h.e.l.l-bent on breaking up with Weston and ending this once and for all. And now I find myself standing on my doorstep, staring down at the potted geraniums, not wanting to go in and face my husband. Because I certainly don't want to admit what I've just done...again!

I suck in a breath, and I slowly turn the doork.n.o.b. My fingers seem to be made of lead-they feel so heavy.

As soon as I get in, Claire runs up to me and hugs my hips tightly. "Missed you," she says, and her sweet little voice brings out emotion in me. Gabe comes out of the den, papers in hand, and as soon as his gaze meets mine, he knows-it's as if we communicate telepathically-I suppose that's a result of almost twenty years together. But surprisingly, he doesn't seem angry. He simply walks up to me, gives me a big bear hug, and rests his chin on the top of my head. "You've changed your mind?"

I can barely croak out the word when I say, "Y-Yes."

Chapter Fourteen.

We don't belong to each other...

"HE ASKED YOU TO DO WHAT?" Gwen asks, a little too loudly. We are at our Sat.u.r.day painting cla.s.s and I'm recounting my latest meeting with Weston for her.

"Shush," I whisper, finger over mouth, looking over at Cecilia who seems completely focused on her task, meticulously adding crimson red to a bouquet of tulips with the tip of her paintbrush.

But I know better. I know she's listening.

She's always listening.