Spiral of Bliss 03 Awaken (11 page)

“Ah, fuck, Liv…” His voice is hoarse with desire. “Want you so bad…”

He shifts to lower his mouth to mine again. His cock is rock-hard, pushing against the front of his trousers. Desperate need floods me as he slides two fingers into my body and circles my clit with his thumb.

“Come on, beauty,” he whispers against my mouth, his teeth closing gently on my lower lip.

I’m lost in the swirling, beautiful pleasure of his intoxicating kisses, his body pressed against mine, his fingers stroking me. I tighten my hands on his shirt, letting my head fall back as he eases another finger inside me. One more stroke and sensation bursts through me in an explosion of light, wrenching a cry from my throat.

Dean’s voice is a low rumble against my ear, his muscles taut as he pulls at my panties and unhooks my bra. When I’m naked, his hot gaze moves over my body like the most fervent of touches. He lowers his head, and then he’s kissing me everywhere, his lips gentle on my breasts, down to my belly, his tongue circling my navel as his hands glide over the curves of my waist and hips.

I melt, closing my eyes as sensation washes over my skin. I feel like flowers are blooming inside me, velvety petals stretching and spreading open in the golden warmth of the sun. I tangle one hand into Dean’s hair, brushing it back from his forehead as he moves to press kisses against my other palm, over the pulse beating at my wrist, and up my arm to my shoulder. By the time he reaches my lips again, I’m tingling all over with fresh desire.

“Your turn,” I whisper, pressing on his shoulders to urge him to lie back.

My heart races as I straddle his waist and unfasten his tie, pulling it off with one tug. I yank at his shirt, buttons popping off in my sudden haste to get him naked.

When his shirt is fully open, I sit back and drink in the sight of him, all the gorgeous details I’ve only seen in my dreams for the past few weeks—the slopes of his hard pecs, the ridges of his torso, the line of hair arrowing down and disappearing beneath the waistband of his trousers.

His eyes are hot as he watches me spread my hands over his chest, his muscles rippling with the force of his breath. I trace all the lines of his abdomen, back up to his chest and over his shoulders, reacquainting myself with the map of my husband’s body.

When my core begins to throb again, I move back on his thighs to unfasten his belt and trousers, releasing his thick, erect cock. I close my hand around his smooth shaft, running my fingers over the pulsing veins.

With a groan, Dean grasps my wrist. “Need to be inside you.”

I ease back up the length of his body, pressing my fingers between my thighs, shivering as another explosion rocks my insides. He sheds his clothes and rolls me onto my back again.

“I need you inside me,” I gasp and arch toward him. “Do you have a—”

A faint relief curls through me when he reaches for a condom from his wallet. I want
us
back again before we leave things up to chance, and I want us both to go into our future knowing exactly what we’re doing.

The air around us loosens, releases, as if all the pain of recent months has been a messy, snarled ball of knots that is now, finally, unraveling into silken threads of lust and love. Wrapping us in our own personal intimacy, the place where everything is right.

I roll the condom onto him before he moves between my legs to align our bodies. Anticipation unleashes inside me. I grip his shoulders, weakening with need as his thick erection slides into me. And then, finally, we’re joined together again, a key fitting into a lock, our bodies straining toward each other and our hearts beating in unison.

Our eyes meet, glittering with passion. My soul overflows with an emotion so complex and intricate that the ties holding it together seem both indestructible and as fragile as gossamer.

I pull him toward me, pressing my forehead to his. Our breath mingles between us, hot and rapid. He pulls back and presses forward again, filling me, stretching me.

“Oh…” I run my hands down his back, my whole body vibrating with pleasure. “You feel so good… I’ve missed you so much…”

He lowers his mouth to mine. Our lips crash together in a collision of urgency, muscles tensing and flexing. He braces his hands on either side of my head and thrusts again and again. Intense need takes over, and our world dissolves into a chaos of moans and gasps, the deep push of his cock into my body, the heat flaring through our blood.

I cry out his name, lifting my legs to hug his hips, tightening my inner flesh around his pulsing shaft as bliss cascades through me. I feel the pressure releasing through his body, the delicious increase in the pace of his thrusts, before he presses into me with a heavy groan.

Panting, Dean rolls over and takes me with him, pulling me against his chest. We sink into the exquisite afterglow together, my body pressed to his side, right into the space where I will always fit perfectly.

Since the world will, unfortunately, not stop revolving just because Dean and I are together again, I force myself to wake early the next morning for a shift at the bakery. I stop at home to change and pack a small travel bag, as I have no intention of leaving the cottage for the next couple of days.

Though I’m tired after last night, my body hums with happy energy, and I’m in an excellent, friendly mood as I help customers with their croissant and baguette choices.

Because Dean is… well, Professor West—a man with an ironclad work ethic who values company time—he doesn’t send me any sexy emails or texts while I’m working, though on my break I find a note from him in my satchel:

I smile and send him an email:

Anyone can be passionate, but it takes real lovers to be silly.

—Rose Franken, author and playwright

Anyone can love, but it takes Liv and Dean to love like THIS.

—Olivia West, Dean’s very hot and sexy lady

After I clock out at the bakery, I hurry to the museum in the hopes that I can finish my shift there early. It’s a cool, sunny day, green grass pushing through the melting snow as spring makes its final big push to overtake winter.

As I approach the Historical Museum, I see Florence Wickham getting out of a car parked in front of the building.

A member of the Historical Society’s board of directors, Florence is a white-haired, elegant lady in her seventies wearing a belted camelhair coat and delicate, diamond jewelry. She sees me and waves. I walk over to greet her.

I’ve been a little embarrassed around Florence ever since she caught me and Dean getting hot and heavy in a coat closet at the Historical Society’s holiday party last December, but she seemed more envious than horrified by the act. I suppose the fact that she left us alone to finish indicated her tacit approval of our sexy escapade.

“Hello, Florence.” I take her elbow to help her step over a slushy puddle by the curb. “Looks like spring is finally in the air.”

“Nice, isn’t it, dear?” She glances behind me. “Is your husband with you?”

“No, he’s working at the moment.”

“Oh. What a shame.”

“Indeed it is.”

I hold open the museum door for her and follow her inside. We walk past the exhibition rooms to the Historical Society offices at the back of the building.

“Is there a board meeting today?” I ask Florence, as we take off our coats and hang them on a rack in the hallway.

“Monday morning.” Florence pats her hair into place. “We’re discussing the fate of the Butterfly House, that old place over on Monarch Lane. It’s in such an ideal location by the mountains, both overlooking the lake and close to town, that developers have been trying to purchase the land. Of course that means they would demolish the house.”

“That would be terrible.”

“Yes, it would,” Florence says. “We’ve managed to prevent that so far because the house is historically important. It was bequeathed to the Society years ago, but unfortunately we can’t afford to do anything with it.”

She waves me into one of the offices, where a drafting table is covered with blueprints and photographs.

I pick up a black-and-white photo of the grand, old Butterfly House. It looks to be primarily an American Queen Anne-style building with a large front porch, decorated spandrels, and overhanging eaves. There’s a balcony on the second floor, bay windows, and a polygonal tower rising from the front that makes it look like a fairytale castle.

“When was it built?” I ask.

“In 1890,” Florence replies. “It was a beautiful place in its heyday.”

“What’s going to happen to it now?”

“We’re starting a fund-raising campaign to try and restore it,” Florence explains. “We thought we could open it for tours and such, but we’re in a bind because of zoning laws. Also there’s quite a bit of resistance to the idea of a site open to the public, since it’s close to a residential neighborhood.”

I pick up another recent photo of the Butterfly House that shows the extent of its disrepair—the front steps are decayed and overgrown with weeds, the door and porch scarred by graffiti, the windows boarded up, the shingles broken.

I’m suddenly reminded of a children’s book I once read at Allie’s store—
The Little House,
about a lovely cottage that began falling apart when no one was left to take care of it. And though I have a ton of stuff to do for the Wonderland Café, I find myself asking Florence if I can help.

“Oh, we would love to have your help, Olivia,” she replies. “There’s so much to do with researching the historical value of the home. Samantha told me you’re writing the exhibition brochure, so perhaps you’d like to work on something about the Butterfly House’s history?”

I agree, thinking I can do the work at home in the evenings. Florence and I spend the next hour going over all the photographs and documents that the Society has already collected pertaining to the house’s history.

After I finish my museum shift, I finally get back to the Firefly Cottage close to three. I find Dean sitting out on the porch overlooking the lake.

My heart just
sings
at the sight of him, all rugged and handsome in faded jeans fitted to his long legs and a worn T-shirt beneath a long-sleeved flannel shirt. He extends his arms. I sit in his lap and burrow right up against him like a cat curling into its favorite patch of sunlight.

“Good day?” he asks, brushing his lips across my hair.

“Mmm. No work tomorrow, though, and Monday’s my day off. I’m all yours for the next two days.”

“You’re all mine for the next two millennia.”

He leans in to kiss me, and I lose myself easily in the moment. A light rain drives us back inside, which is entirely fine with both of us as we spend the rest of the afternoon watching a movie, making love, and reading. We order room service for dinner, though by the time we get to dessert, I’m starting to yawn.

“Long week,” I say apologetically, as Dean nods toward the huge bed and tells me to call it an early night.

I crawl under the covers and fall asleep, waking only when Dean climbs in next to me a few hours later. I tuck myself against his side. After so much time away from my husband, just sleeping beside his strong body is arousing. My subconscious soon spins and twirls with a resurgence of hot dreams, mostly involving Dean in the guise of a sexy warrior intent upon ravishing me.

Heat slides through my body. I shift, imagining him all rough and commanding, fondling my breasts, his cock hard. I dream of straddling his thigh and writhing against him. In the fog of sleep, I hear myself moaning, feel his fingers rubbing my damp cleft, his breath on my neck. And though reality with my husband is always better than my dreams, I wake all warm and loose, even a little sweaty.

Leaving Dean to sleep, I take a shower and wrap myself in one of the fluffy hotel bathrobes before grabbing my brush and going back out to stand in front of the mirror over the dresser.

“What were you dreaming about?”

My brush tangles in my wet hair. I yank it out and turn to stare at Dean. He’s lounging on the bed wearing only a pair of pajama bottoms and a rather smug expression.