I smile.

I've always considered myself an old soul. No one has ever noticed before. No one has ever really noticed me before. For some reason I can't seem to quite understand, Weston gets me.

And I get him.

We eat at The Signature Room at the 95th-it's sleek and contemporary. I'm not sure what I would call the decor, but it almost feels like modern art deco to me-glowing, cubist, hanging light fixtures abound.

As we take a seat next to the window, looking down at the fantastic views of the city, it occurs to me that I never truly appreciated the beauty of Chicago before I knew Weston.

"You're making me love this city, more and more every day," I tell him as the server pours our wine.

"It's a beautiful city."

Sitting across him by the window, up high, looking down at the landscape filled with tall buildings, I get a sense of dej-vu.

"You like to eat up high," I point out, enjoying a sip of my wine.

He laughs. "I do. I love to see a sea of buildings beneath me."

"Well, you are an architect. Makes sense that you would love buildings."

"Sitting up high like this...feels amazing to me."

"Sitting across from you like this, feels amazing to me," I say light-heartedly.

He smiles at me-that bright charming grin. And I have to remind myself not to let myself fall.

Because I could really fall hard.

We share a nice meal. I enjoy the salmon, and Weston has the New York strip. We share the French crpes for dessert-the most fantastic peach and blueberry crpes I've ever had. Our conversation is light, mostly about the city and our work. I've noticed Weston often shies away from more intimate subjects, and I fully respect that-he wants to keep a certain distance between us, and I think we're both better off for it.

Edward brings us to a secret destination. I laugh at Weston when he refuses to tell me where we're going. It seems he's always playing games, teasing. He likes to keep me on my toes. And I love that about him.

I stare at my fabulous sparkly shoes, which are surprisingly comfortable, as I hold Weston's hand.

"Thank you so much for the dress. I love it."

"I thought you'd like it. It's very feminine. Just like you."

"But you shouldn't have, Weston. You're not supposed to offer me gifts."

"You deserve it," he insists, squeezing my hand. "It really isn't a big deal, Mirella."

I try to justify it to myself. It's not a big deal. It's just a dress. It's not like he's bought me a car.

"Did you pick it out?"

He laughs. "Well, I did have a little help from Anette. I dragged her to an auction. She was leaning toward a silky sleek dress. But I saw this one, and I knew it was you."

I smile at the thought of him picking out my dress-it's so erotic.

"How do you know Anette?" I ask, curious. "She...uh...knows about us?"

"She's a dear friend of my mother's. I've known her forever. She used to look after me occasionally."

"Does she know...you and Bridget...about your lifestyle?"

"She does. She's a very modern, liberal woman. She's one of the few people who knows, in fact." He pulls my hand to his mouth and kisses it. "And the little girl in the polka-dot dress," he adds. "That's her granddaughter."

"She was cute," I say. "And her mother was so elegant."

"I think it runs in the family. Anika's just like Anette."

I purse my lips, curious. "You and Anika?"

"No...she's always been like a sister."

I breathe a sigh of relief, not sure why I even care about his past. I suppose I don't like the idea of yet another woman in his life. I have enough with one woman to contend with.

"Do you see your mother often?" I ask, not sure if he wants to talk about his mother.

"No. She's back in London these days," he says without emotion. And I let it go.

I rest my eyes on him...he's splendid in his tux. And I suddenly wish we had more privacy.

When Edward opens the car door for me, and I set my eyes on the majestic historical building with the large arched windows, I instantly recognize where we are-he's taken me to the symphony.

"You'd said you've never been."

"I did say that," I confirm, hiking up my dress-there's no way I'm letting it drag on the concrete.

Weston leads me to the first row on the first balcony. I am absolutely stunned by the beauty of Orchestra Hall-the light open s.p.a.ce, warm sparking glow of lights, and arches surrounding us. I marvel at the incredible architectural details.

The concert is wonderful, the music reaching deep to my very bones, it seems. The orchestra members seem so small-streaks of black, working in perfect unison. Weston's fingers are intertwined in mine, our hands resting on the fabric of my dress. He holds my hand throughout and squeezes it occasionally. I smile at him, enjoying the sight of him lost in something so wonderful.

I plop my rear down on the bed, my beautiful dress floating around me, and I slip off my sparkly shoes. "So, Weston," I say, with a coy smile. "When do I get my much antic.i.p.ated foot ma.s.sage?"

He kneels at my feet, undoing his bowtie. "I was hoping I'd get to kiss you a little first."

I laugh. "No...I want a foot ma.s.sage first. You're not getting out of this."

He slides his hands under my dress, and drags his soft fingers against the skin of my legs. "You obviously don't know what kind of kiss I had in mind," he says, his grin playful.

I'm officially intrigued.

"What kind of kiss did you have in mind?"

"The naughty kind." His eyes darken.

My stomach flutters. And in a matter of a second or two, I'm fully aroused. I feel the familiar heaviness in my belly and the pressure in my s.e.x. I ache for the feel of his tongue.

His gaze is locked on mine, his eyes intense. He toys with the lace of my panties. "I've never made you climax this way before. Would you like that?" he asks, ever so politely.

I almost want to scream, "Of course I would like that!" but I settle for a quiet yes.

"Lie back," he orders and buries his head under the organza of my dress. He pulls my panties slowly off, and I open up for him and close my eyes.

He holds my thighs softly in his arms, sliding his tongue along the inside of them, up and down slowly. The heat of his mouth comes so close and pulls away, over and over. He's teasing again.

And he's driving me insane. "Weston," I moan. "No games, please."

My body is so aroused, it's almost in pain-I don't care if I have to beg.

The sensation of his warm tongue finally sweeping gently along my lips feels mind-blowing, and I know it won't take me long to come. He licks me in a back and forth motion, teasing me. And I spread my legs wider, pressing my hips into him.

I want more.

"I love the way you taste," he says softly.

I reach for his head under my dress and rub my hands through his hair-it's so soft.

His mouth finally moves up to my c.l.i.t, and his tongue softly swirls around it.

"Harder," I moan, knowing I'm almost there. He builds pressure, and I groan lightly as he brings me closer. I'm louder and louder until I finally explode into his mouth. He carries on until my moans quietly disappear into the stillness of the room.

He drags his face along the length of my thigh and makes a sudden reappearance.

"You enjoyed that immensely." He smirks, looking quite happy with himself. "I gather I didn't do a horrible job."

"You gather right." My body is still limp and numb. I reach for him and bury my face in his chest.

I kiss him, sliding my tongue along his jaw, and I pull him under me.

"Your turn," I whisper, trailing kisses down his neck.

He looks down at me and smiles.

I reach for his belt and undo his pants, freeing him.

I lick circles around his navel, teasing him. I look up at him every now and then-his eyes are closed, and there's just the slightest hint of a smile on his lips-he's clearly enjoying it. I love bringing him pleasure as much as I enjoy my own pleasure.

Finally, I trail down and take him in my mouth. He lets out a soft moan.

And all I want to do is rock his world.

Chapter Sixteen.

I know...how you like to watch.

I SQUEAL AND JERK MY FOOT AWAY. "You're doing a horrible job."

Weston laughs. "It's not my fault you're so ticklish. How can I give you a foot ma.s.sage when you won't let me touch your feet?"

"Just take it more slowly. Don't just pounce like that."

He smirks. "Well, usually, you quite enjoy it when I pounce," he says with a sly smile.

I laugh. "Well, that's another matter entirely."

"I'll be gentle," he promises as he takes my foot in his hands and rubs softly in a slow motion. "I'll stay away from your toes for the time being."

He rubs gently, and it feels so nice. It's wonderful, being here with him. I don't think I will ever tire of it. I can't believe the night we just shared-the dress, the amazing changing room quickie, dinner and the symphony, the best oral s.e.x of my life, and now a foot ma.s.sage!

I lie back on the bed, close my eyes, and decide life couldn't possibly get any better.

"Why did you pull away, Mirella?" he asks, still rubbing my foot. His words are sudden and unexpected.

I lean up on my elbows. He doesn't look up at me-his eyes are still focused on my feet.

"What do you mean?"

"You shut me out for weeks and left me no other choice but to contact you and break the rules."

"I was busy," I say matter-of-factly, knowing very well I'm full of it.

He's certainly not stupid. "Don't lie to me," he pleads. "I know there was more to it than that."

He's right, but I don't want to tell him the truth-the emotions of envy, jealousy, and anger I experience regularly, the way I drive myself crazy thinking about him when he's not with me.

I feel so unhinged.

But I can't tell him all this.

"I needed a break."

It's true-I did need to pull away-for my own sanity.

"A break?" he asks, finally looking up at me. "Why?"

I hesitate before answering, careful not to cross any lines with my reply.