Wesley: Okay, I can abide by your rules. Now can I list mine?
Me: I’m listening…
Wesley: I don’t want you talking to Liam. If you’re with me, you don’t need to be chums with your ex.
I’m naïve to think his rules wouldn’t include Liam. Letting out a sigh, I shuffle and lay on my side, staring out the window while thinking about Liam. I hurt him, no doubt, and there will be no chance he’ll talk to me any time soon. By the time he gets over this, me, we can be friends. By then, hopefully, Wesley won’t care anymore.
Me: What else?
Wesley: That’s it. I’m not going to be the second man in your life. Been there, done that. If you’re going to be with me, it’s only me.
Me: Fine, are we done?
Wesley: Yes… better now?
Me: Goodnight.
Wesley: Goodnight… girlfriend.
I place my cell on the nightstand then pull the sheet over me.
Wesley Rich—my boyfriend.
The whole idea seems outrageous.
Yet, that wave, full in its glory, washes over me and just like that, my entire body aches for him.
I only want him.
And that thought alone terrifies and excites me.
There will be no turning back.
I am his.
Chapter Fifteen
The house is located on a quiet street in Bel Air.
I’ve never seen a house this huge, sprawling across several acres, appearing like a luxurious castle rather than a home. On the ride over, Wesley speaks briefly about his mother, married to husband number six, a man who invented some digital device that’s used on planes, hence the wealth. If I think Emerson’s home is big, this is on another level.
The community is gated, and even after we pass the security check, there is another large wrought-iron gate that has two men manning the entrance. Wesley is fidgeting, pulling out a cigarette in the car. I’m not fond of his smoking, and my girlfriend duties may not include nagging. I decide, for now, I will keep my mouth shut.
My focus is on my dress. I’m extremely uncomfortable. There is way too much boob showing. The black bodice is low-cut, draping down my chest and matches with a sheer skirt. The lady in the store said it accentuated my wide hips. It isn’t the most awful comment she made after I got the Julia Roberts’ treatment à la Pretty Woman.
“Did I tell you how sexy you look tonight?” He leans into me, running his tongue down the middle of my exposed chest. “You taste just as nice.”
I want him inside of me. I’ve never felt this sexual attraction to a man who makes me so irrational.
Do people have sex in cars with drivers just doing their own things? God, how I want to answer my own question.
My lips make their way to his, and with the click of my seat belt, I remove it and straddle him. I grind myself against his crotch, watching that devilish smile playing on his lips. Our kisses become deep, my desperate moans escaping into his mouth as our bodies heat up.
“You need to stop, or we’ll never get out of this car.”
“So what?” I clasp his face, bringing it close to me so I can taste him again. I hate the smell of cigarettes. I want to tell him that. And despite my disgust for nicotine, I’m becoming addicted to the taste of him.
I clear my thoughts, though with much difficulty, and then, a slap of reality knocks me fierce. “It’s too much. It’s not me.”