Spiral of Bliss 01 Arouse (7 page)

Was he the one?

I had no illusions of great love and romance. I never had. My mother’s relationships with men were restless and sometimes violent. I’d learned early on that it was easier not to count on anyone.

But during the past few years, I’d come to certain conclusions about myself and relationships. I wanted to learn how to trust a man. I wanted to know what true, physical pleasure felt like. I wanted to find the courage to be vulnerable on my own terms, as my own choice.

No, I hadn’t expected to find
that
man anytime soon, but I had an unnerving feeling he might be sitting across from me now.

Dean looked up and caught me staring. His gaze held mine. Electricity crackled in the air between us, sparking red and blue. Heat flooded my cheeks.

“Sorry,” I whispered.

Confusion creased his forehead. “For what?”

“For being… weird.”

His smile flashed. “I happen to like weird.”

“Well, then, you hit the jackpot with me,” I muttered.

“I know.”

I glanced at him, arrested by the warmth of his gaze, my blush deepening. A streamer of pleasure mixed with trepidation wound through me.

He nodded toward the menu. “Are you hungry?”

“Very. The grapes I ate at the reception weren’t exactly filling.”

We both ordered spice-crusted salmon with wild rice, and the waiter sent over a sommelier to discuss the wine choices. Dean seemed to know what he was talking about, and they eventually decided that some certain vintage of pinot noir would go well with our meals.

“Where are you from?” I asked when our food arrived.

“Originally California. San Jose area. My parents and sister still live out there.”

“You have one sister?”

“And a brother.” He speared a slice of fish with his fork, his mouth tightening. “I don’t know where he is.” He shook his head as if to dismiss the thought. “You?”

“No brothers or sisters.”

“Where did you grow up?”

I hated that question. I reached for my wineglass in an attempt to stall my answer. “Oh, all over,” I finally said. “We traveled a lot.”

“Was your dad in the military?”

“No. My parents split up when I was seven.” I concentrated on forking up a portion of rice, not wanting to know if he was looking at me with pity.

“And what brought you to Madison?” he asked, almost as if he sensed I didn’t want to go down the path of my childhood.

“I’d been wanting to attend the university,” I explained, “but couldn’t afford the full tuition. My aunt lives up in Pepin County, so I moved to a nearby town and went to a community college while saving my money. Then I got a part-scholarship so I could go to the UW. If everything goes as planned, I should graduate in two years.”

He looked at me, something indefinable passing across his expression. “That’s very admirable.”

I smiled wryly. “It’s why I’m an old undergrad. I didn’t enroll in community college until I was twenty-one, then I took classes part-time for a few years because I had to work.”

“You’re not old.”

“You probably had a master’s degree by the time you were twenty-four.” I reached for my wine again. “Took me a while to get here.”

“But you did.”

“I did.”

We ate in silence for a few minutes, casting occasional glances at each other, the air sparking with heat whenever our eyes met. I liked the way he ate, his movements sharp and precise. I watched the muscles of his throat as he swallowed, the way his hand curled around his fork. The sight of his mouth closing around the rim of his glass sent a rush of arousal through me.

I’d never felt this way before. About anyone.

“So what exactly is it you teach, Professor West?” I asked.

“Mostly medieval archeology and architecture, though that ties into other things. Town planning, political structures, religion. I’m going to France over winter break to do some work on the architecture of Sainte-Chapelle.”

I should have been intimidated by the illustriousness of his work, but he was so matter-of-fact about it that any potential breach between us—a renowned professor and a girl struggling to get a bachelor’s degree—faded into insignificance. And I loved listening to him talk, his smooth baritone voice thudding right up against the walls of my heart.

After dinner, we had coffee and shared a sinfully rich chocolate torte. He took a couple of bites, then sat back and watched me. Warm tension tightened my belly. I swiped a dollop of chocolate from my lower lip.

“You, ah… you look at me a lot,” I remarked.

“You’re very pretty.”

I didn’t know about that, but the compliment poured through me like honey. “I like the way you look too.”

That was an understatement. One glance at him and I went all hot and fluttery inside.

He leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table. Curiosity and heat simmered in his expression.

“What is it about you, Olivia?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Why are you so sweet and determined and guarded all at once?”

“I didn’t know I was all those things.”

“You are. Why?”

I shrugged and sank my fork into the torte again. If I was eating, I couldn’t talk much.

I ate another bite and spoke around the mouthful. “This is really good.”

Dean’s mouth twitched with a smile, but his eyes were still curious as he sat back again. He continued watching me as I polished off the torte and scraped the plate clean.

By the time he paid the bill and retrieved our coats, I’d realized the danger of Professor Dean West. If I let him, he would slide right past all my defenses. No one had ever done that before.

We went outside into the cold. He didn’t touch me. This time, though, I wanted him to. I nudged his elbow. He looked at me, then extended his arm and waited. I moved closer, falling into step beside him as we walked back to State Street.

It felt exactly the way I’d imagined it would, pressed to his side with his body heat flowing into me and his arm strong and tight around my shoulders. I fit against him like a puzzle piece locking into place.

“Where do you live?” he asked.

“Off Dayton Street, not far from the Kohl Center. I walked.”

“Next time I’ll pick you up.”

My pulse leapt at the idea that there would be a
next time
.

“And this time,” Dean said, “I’ll drive you home. I’m parked by the museum.”

When we reached the parking lot, he unlocked the door of a black sedan and ushered me inside before getting into the driver’s seat. I told him my address, and we fell silent on the short ride home. The buildings of downtown passed by in a blur of light and shadows.

When he pulled up in front of my apartment, my damned nerves got tense again. I fumbled around collecting my bag and buttoning my coat.

“So, thank you,” I said. “That was really nice.”

“Yes, it was. Thank you too.”

I took hold of the door handle. “I’ll just…”

“Olivia.”

I turned to face him. His eyes glittered in the light of the streetlamps. He reached out slowly, as if he were trying not to startle a kitten, and curled his hand around my wrist.

His touch spiraled heat into my blood, igniting flashes of unbearably intimate thoughts—me in his arms, his lips sliding over my throat, his hands on my bare breasts. The air grew hot, compressed.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Dean said.

My heart crashed against my chest, and a hard tremble swept through me. I parted my lips to draw in a breath.

“I… okay.”

He leaned across the console and lifted his hands to cup my face. His touch was gentle, still cautious, but the heat brewing in his eyes left me in no doubt as to his desire. We were closer than we’d ever been before, so close that I could see the darker ring of brown surrounding his irises.

For a moment, we just stared at each other. Then his hands tightened on me as he lowered his mouth to mine. And the world fell away the instant our lips touched.

CHAPTER FIVE

August 22

ix days have passed since I mentioned the idea of having a baby. A million thoughts are flying and twisting through my mind, but they don’t have anywhere to go. I’ve never been one for discussing personal details with my few girlfriends, and my mother would dispense lousy advice, even if I did know where she was. Not that I’d ever tell her anything either.

What sucks is that the one person I really want to have a conversation with—the man I’ve always been able to talk to about anything—is unapproachable right now. When he’s even home. He’s not outwardly cold or forbidding, but I sense his reluctance to discuss it further. And truth be told, I’m not all that eager to have a repeat of our previous conversation anyway.

Plus, that
question
(“Because you’re looking for something to do?”) is still running through my mind like a looped tape.

At breakfast, we stick to safe subjects like a news story about an art forgery that we’ve both been following, Dean’s upcoming semester, and my new job at the bookstore.

“Did Kelsey tell you about the banquet?” I ask after refilling our coffee.

“The one on Saturday?” Dean asks, as if he’s got a dozen banquets lined up. “Yeah. She said you don’t mind if I go. Of course, she didn’t ask if
I
mind if I go.”

He sounds a little affronted, which makes me smile. He doesn’t care for academic socializing, but he’s good at it and he’d do anything for Kelsey.

“At least now she’ll owe you one,” I remark.

Dean grunts into his coffee and flips a page of the newspaper. I focus on my own section of the paper, but the lines blur before my eyes.

The sudden distance between us is unsettling. Dean and I have always made each other feel good physically, and the fact that almost a week has passed without one of us making a move is… unusual.

I stretch my leg beneath the table and run my foot up to his inner thigh. He glances at me. I wiggle my toes against his crotch.

“Time before work?” I ask.

“Sorry.” He closes the paper. “Couple of meetings this morning.”

“Too bad.” I stare down at my coffee.

“Yeah.” He glances at the clock, then leans across the table to kiss my forehead. “I’ve gotta go to work. I’ll see you later.”

After he leaves, I sit at the table for a few more minutes. I wonder if he’s now worried that I’ll get all upset if he reaches for a condom when we have sex.

I go to put my cup in the sink. Okay, so I didn’t handle that whole “stopping birth control” conversation well at all. But I also don’t quite understand Dean’s evident relief over the negative pregnancy test. Wasn’t he the tiniest bit disappointed?

I head toward the bedroom, then stop in Dean’s office. I go in there to dust and straighten up every now and then, but mostly I leave it alone. Today, though, I look at the stuff on his desk—a stack of printed lectures, photos of Chartres Cathedral, a yellow legal pad covered with notes in his scrawled handwriting. There’s a framed picture of me next to the computer, and a photo of us together is on the bookshelf.

His computer is on, and I scroll through the contents of the hard-drive, then his Internet history. I’ve used his computer before, and neither of us has given it a second thought. Anyway, there’s nothing interesting—lectures, papers, PDF files, email, news websites.

I push away from the desk and go to get dressed. Outside, there’s a sense of late-summer melancholy in the air, as there always is when the tourists leave and take their vacation excitement with them. I drive to the university, a sprawling collection of brick buildings dotting an expanse of grass and trees.

The history department is nestled in a classical-style building at one end of campus. I park in the visitor’s lot and take the worn stone steps leading to the offices. I greet a few staff members and professors whom I’ve met before, then go down the hall to Dean’s office.

Several voices emerge from the open door, and I catch snippets of conversation about city-states,
Beowulf
, some Italian cathedral, and the tapestries of medieval Dominican nuns (really).

“I’ll get that outline to you by the end of the week, Professor West,” a young man says, his voice getting clearer as he moves toward the door.

“Thanks, Sam. And Jessica, send me the list of grad students who have submitted papers for the conference presentations.”

“We’ve gotten a ton of proposals already,” Jessica says. “It’s kind of cool that we’ll be able to pick the cream of the crop. We’ve only sent out two calls for papers so far, and we’ll have more in the spring.”

“King’s students get priority, right?” asks another girl. “For presentations? I want to submit a proposal. It’d be good for my résumé.”

“The most original work gets priority, Maggie,” Dean says. “And most of the proposals are based on theses and dissertations.”

“Well, mine would be too,” Maggie says.

There’s a momentary silence before Jessica says brightly, “I need to get to the library. Thanks for your time, Professor West.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Sam adds.

The door opens farther as the two depart, hefting their backpacks over their shoulders.

“Can’t believe Maggie thinks she can…” Jessica mutters to Sam, her voice becoming inaudible as they pass me and walk down the hall.

I wonder if I should let Dean know I’m here, but then he and the girl Maggie start talking again. Should I leave? The office door is wide open and anyone in the corridor can hear his conversations. Nevertheless, I move a little farther away to try and give them some privacy.

“You need to sharpen your methodology, Maggie, before you submit a proposal,” Dean says, his voice carrying into the hall. “I told you that I’d help you, but you have to narrow your focus first. Have you looked at the bibliography I gave you?”

“Some of it,” the girl replies. “It’s, like, twenty pages long.”

“If you’re interested in Trotula of Salerno, you need to start with medieval women’s history and the history of medicine. After you look at the research, write down some questions you want to tackle and we’ll talk about them.”

She lets out a sigh. “Okay.”

“Okay. Now what about your coursework?”

“Well, because I’m also supposed to take the LSAT next semester, I can’t take Latin because it conflicts with a prep course.”

“What about an independent study?”

There’s more talk about requirements and credits before they leave the office.

“Liv.” Dean looks faintly surprised to see me. The young woman stops just outside the door. She’s a pretty girl with blond hair pulled back by a headband, wearing shorts and a tank top that do justice to her toned figure.

“Maggie, this is my wife Olivia,” Dean says.

“Oh.” The girl blinks at me, then glances back at Dean, as if she’s surprised by the fact that he’s married.

“Liv, this is Maggie Hamilton, one of our grad students,” Dean continues.

Maggie and I shake hands and exchange pleasantries. “What’s your thesis research?” I ask out of politeness rather than genuine interest.

“Well, Professor West suggested something about the perception of women through the writings of Trotula of Salerno.” She shoots him another glance. “Because I’m interested in medieval views of women’s sexuality.”

“Interesting,” I remark.

“Maggie, check with the registrar about those classes and get back to me,” Dean says. “You’ll have to have your thesis proposal approved before next semester, then you can submit a paper for the conference.”

“Okay. Nice meeting you, Mrs. West.” She heads off down the hall.

Dean looks at me. “What’re you doing here?”

“Thought I’d see if you wanted to grab lunch.”

“It’s ten-thirty.”

“Or brunch.”

He frowns, then gestures me into his office and closes the door behind us. “What’s going on?”

I sigh and flop into the chair in front of his desk. I’ve never brought our personal stuff into his workplace. But now I plunge ahead, like a rock rolling downhill.

“I looked at the stuff on your computer this morning,” I admit.

“What for?”

I shrug and chew on my thumbnail, nettled by the sense that there is something I don’t know about him when I thought I knew everything.

“You don’t even look at porn, do you?” I ask.

“Why would I look at porn?”

That makes me laugh. “You don’t know?”

“I’ve got you. I don’t need porn.” He scratches his head, looking baffled. “Where are we going with this? Do you want me to look at porn?”

“No.”

“Do
you
want to look at porn? Because there’s plenty of it, from what I gather.”

I study him for a moment. I don’t care about porn, but I’m curious about what one of us might do if the other one isn’t around sexually, whether because of physical or emotional separation.

Sex has always been a big part of our relationship, both for the usual reasons—pleasure, to connect, because we’re in love—and for intensely personal reasons that belong to us alone.

“Would it bother you if I did look at porn?” I ask.

“No. If you want to, go ahead.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Liv.” Dean gestures to his desk, which is piled with papers. “I’ve got a shitload of work to do. Whatever you’re here about, can we discuss it at home?”

“You haven’t been home much this past week,” I remind him. “And we tried to discuss it, but we never reached any conclusions.”

He folds his arms. “The baby you’re thinking about.”

“And you’re not.”

“Liv, you haven’t even reached a conclusion about what you want. What is there to reach a conclusion about together?”

“How would you have felt if that test was positive?” My heart thumps. He’s watching me, his arms still crossed, his expression wary.

“I don’t know,” he says. “But that’s a pointless speculation.”

“You didn’t even… wonder?”

He shakes his head. My unease deepens.

“Dean, when I told you I didn’t want children, you agreed with me. You said it was fine.”

“It was.”

“But what did
you
want?”

“I wanted what you wanted. I understood.”

“But even when we were dating…” A simmer of tension rises in my chest. “When we fell in love, you didn’t… didn’t ever think of us having children?”

“Why would I when you closed that door?”

“You never wanted to open it? Never pictured yourself as a father or me as…”

My voice fades. We look at each other for a long moment. Something is off. I don’t know what it is. Dean has always moved forward in life, always made things happen. So why hasn’t he ever imagined our marriage as… as
more
?

“Liv.” He slides his warm hand beneath my chin and lifts my face to look at him. “Not having children doesn’t make us any less married. Any less in love. It doesn’t make us any less a family.”

“It doesn’t make us more either, does it?”

He drops his hand to his side and steps back. “I didn’t think either of us needed more.”

“Not more
than
each other,” I say. “More
with
each other.”

“I have more
with you
than I ever thought I would,” he replies, his voice tense. “But if our marriage is suddenly not enough for you, then a baby sure as hell isn’t going to solve anything.”