Spice Box: Sixteen Steamy Stories

by Raine Miller

  He exhaled a deep breath and said, “Okay.”

  She stared at him, momentarily confused. She’d been expecting an argument, not such an easy acquiescence from her very stubborn husband. “Are you really okay, or are you just saying that to appease me?” Because that wasn’t good enough for her and resolved nothing. “Please, tell me what’s going on in your head.”

  He was quiet for so long, she thought he wasn’t going to answer. And then he did.

  “There’s a lot going on in my head,” he finally said. “So much, that I’m not sure where to start.”

  “Just try,” she urged, and reached across the table to him, palm up, offering a gentle, physical touch.

  He slid his hand into hers, the contact between them warm, solid, and intimate. “This past week has been hell,” he admitted gruffly. “And while you going to work goes against my need to take care of you, in every way, I realized after hanging up the phone with you last night just how selfish I was being. You’ve given me so much and have never asked for anything just for yourself, until now. And I reacted defensively, because what you want goes against the man I thought I needed to be.”

  She remained silent, shocked that he’d come to those conclusions, but relieved that he was opening up to her in ways he never had before.

  He swallowed hard and continued. “You know what my childhood was like. You know all the guilt and regrets I have over my mother’s abuse and suicide. You know how much I despised my father and how I hated that he was never man enough to take care of me and my mother. I swore I would never be like him, that I’d always take care of you and the boys and make sure you wanted for nothing.”

  “And we never have,” she said, giving his hand a squeeze, her own heart tightening in her chest at his raw, emotional confession. “You’ve given us a great life, Dean.”

  “I know.” He gave her a slight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “But over the past few months you’ve become this confident, independent woman, and when it comes to you and me together sexually, I fucking love it. Last night, you blew my mind and I’m still reeling, but coming to terms with you being confident and independent and wanting to work, I was struck with this awful fear that if you had a job that was new and exciting, you wouldn’t need me any longer.” He winced, as if he regretted giving her that vulnerable glimpse into his soul.

  She stood up, then sat down on Dean’s lap, wanting to be close to him, wanting him to look directly into her eyes when she laid herself bare for him, too. She framed his face in her hands, knowing with every fiber of her being that her life would cease to exist without this man in it. “I will always need you, Dean,” she said, brushing her thumbs across his cheeks, while his hand slipped into the opening of her robe and tenderly caressed her thigh. “You are my husband, my best friend, my heart and soul. That will never change.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, his big body shuddering in what felt like relief to Jillian.

  “I know you like to be in control of everything, that you like things to be smooth and predictable,” she said, trying to inject a bit of humor into her tone. “This is just one small bump in the road and I’m sure there will be more. We’re going to disagree, and we need to talk it through when that happens. But I really do want this job, and knowing that I have your support means everything to me.”

  “You have it. I swear,” he said, his voice vibrating with sincerity. “I want you to be happy, Jillian. You deserve to be happy, to do what you love, and I’m sorry I was such an ass about it.”

  That’s all she needed to hear to know that she had her husband’s blessing.

  A sexy idea popped into her mind, and she untied her sash as she gave Dean a sly smile. “Yes, you were a bit of an ass,” she teased, and shrugged the robe off her shoulders so it fell down her arms, exposing her breasts and already taut nipples to his heated gaze. “I’m thinking maybe you need to make it up to me, earn my forgiveness, and show me just how contrite and apologetic you are.”

  Clearly up for the challenge, he stood up and hoisted her over his shoulder in his favorite caveman style, then strode to the bedroom, dropped her onto the big, king-sized bed, and proceeded to apologize in the most erotic and creative ways.

  EPILOGUE

  Raina Beck finished helping a customer select a bottle of warming massage oil, that was also cinnamon flavored for added fun, and headed over into the lingerie section of Sugar Spice, where Jillian was perusing the rack of new arrivals.

  “Find anything you like?” Raina asked as the other woman contemplated a leopard print bustier before putting it back on the stand.

  Jillian smiled at her as she shuffled through a few more items. “The problem is, there’s too much to like, which is a good thing. I’m looking for something a little different than everything I already have . . .” Her words trailed off, and her eyes lit up as she lifted a hanger displaying a sexy red ensemble that consisted of a demi bra, a short flirty skirt that was only a few inches of fabric that would barely cover her bottom, and a matching lace thong, along with a garter belt and thigh-high stockings.

  “I think this is it,” Jillian announced with a succinct nod of her head.

  “If Dean comes home to find you wearing that outfit, I think all bets are off,” Raina teased her friend.

  “That’s what I’m counting on, and I think he’ll really like the short little skirt, too.” She handed the hanger to Raina. “I’ll take it, along with one of those feather ticklers you have on display, the one with the soft ostrich feathers.”

  “You got it.” Raina selected a tickler with deep red feathers to match the outfit, and met Raina up at the front counter. She rang in her purchases and asked, “How are you enjoying working with Stephanie?”

  “I absolutely love it. I couldn’t be happier,” Jillian said, her expression reflecting her newfound joy. “I’m helping her design those fantasy suites at the hotel, and tomorrow I have a consultation with a woman who wants to redecorate her bedroom in a sexier version theme of The Secret Garden.”

  “Sounds like a fun project.” Raina swiped Jillian’s credit card to process the sale. The two of them had become good friends, and because she knew Jillian’s husband had been so opposed to his wife taking a job, Raina couldn’t help but wonder how that was going. “Is everything still good with Dean and you working?”

  “He’s getting used to it and adjusting. I make sure I always make time for just the two of us, and it keeps him happy.”

  “Men really are such basic creatures,” Raina said with a laugh. “Keep them plied with food and sex and they’re happy, content and satisfied.”

  Jillian lifted a curious brow. “Speaking of men and sex . . . when are you going to indulge a little?”

  Raina shrugged as she wrapped her ensemble in pink tissue and tucked it into a bag. “I think all the good guys are taken, and besides, you know how I feel about dating customers.” She’d learned long ago not to mix business with pleasure, for various reasons. “And then there’s the men that find out I own a sex boutique, and decide I’m fair game.”

  “Maybe you need hot anonymous sex,” Jillian suggested with a naughty twinkle in her eye.

  “It’s been a long, dry spell and the idea is definitely tempting,” Raina replied, only half-joking. Vibrators and sex toys did the job as far as getting her off, but it couldn’t replace the feel or pleasure of a strong, powerful, virile man thrusting deep inside of her. And yes, she missed that.

  Jillian bit her bottom lip for a second before reaching into her purse and pulling out a white envelope. “You’ve done a lot for me, and I want to do something for you for a change. Take this, and indulge yourself.” She pushed the envelope across the counter to Raina.

  Frowning, Raina picked it up and read the word, Welcome, embossed in black across the front. “What is this?”

  “An invitation to The Players Club.”

  THE END

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  Turn the page to read Arouse by USA Today bestselling author Nina Lane or return to the TABLE OF CONTENTS.

  Arouse by Nina Lane

  “Give me a kiss, beauty,” he says.

  He is Professor Dean West, a sexy, brilliant scholar of medieval history and the love of my life. He is my white knight, my lover, my best friend, the keeper of my dark secrets. He taught me the meaning of both love and erotic pleasure. He has slayed monsters for me and alongside me. He knows he has all of me.

  And then...I discover that I don’t have all of him.

  Turn the page for Arouse by USA Today bestselling author Nina Lane or return to the TABLE OF CONTENTS.

  I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

  —Pablo Neruda

  Part I

  CHAPTER 1

  Olivia

  He didn’t touch me. He could have—he had the perfect reason to—but he didn’t. Instead he bent to collect my papers before the breeze could whisk them away. Instead he picked up my satchel from the sidewalk and asked if I was okay. Instead he stood between me and the busy street while I brushed the dirt from my palms and tried to swallow the knot of frustration stuck in my throat.

  Instead he just waited. I had the strange thought that he would wait forever.

  ***

  August 7

  Adhesive sandcastles, flip-flops, and smiling suns cover the windows of the shops lining Avalon Street. The bed-and-breakfasts are filled with guests, and boats dot Mirror Lake like stars in the sky. University students crowd the coffeehouses, and both tourists and locals stroll through downtown with ice-cream cones or sodas in hand. Children, skin browned from the sun, scurry along the paths leading to the shore.

  “Sorry, miss.” The shaggy-haired fellow at the outdoor drink stand gives me a smile of apology. “We’re out of lemonade.”

  Of course they are.

  I push a damp tendril of hair away from my forehead and look at the chalkboard menu again.

  The sun has started to set, but it’s still roasting out. My pantyhose are shrink-wrapped to my body, and the elastic band is gouging my waist. My toes ache from being crammed into heels all day. And though I refuse to look, I’m quite certain there are sweat stains under the arms of my silk blouse.

  “Okay. An iced tea, then.” I push two dollars at the guy and take the plastic cup, poking a straw into the hole. I don’t much like iced tea, but the cup is cold and wet, and the liquid feels good going down my dry throat.

  I scan for an outdoor table, but they’re all filled with clusters of people enjoying their drinks.

  I grab my paper bag of groceries, pull up my satchel strap, and trudge down the sun-baked street, feeling like a bone-weary schoolmarm amidst the happy, relaxed summer crowd. My ponytail slips farther from the loose clasp, welding more strands of hair to my neck.

  Home. Our small, two-bedroom apartment sits above a row of shops overlooking Avalon Street. The sight of the wrought-iron balcony, laden with plants in fat, colorful pots, elicits a welcome sense of relief.

  I increase my pace despite the blister forming on my heel. The minute I step into the building foyer, I drop the bag, kick off my shoes, and sink onto the bottom step of the stairs. I suck in another mouthful of iced tea. Sweat trickles down my spine.

  “Hey, beauty.”

  The deep, masculine voice resounds inside me. I look up at the top of the stairs where Dean is standing. His dark hair is messy from him dragging his hand through it, his shirt is wrinkled, and the sleeves are pushed up to his elbows. His tie is unknotted and loose, the buttons of his collar unfastened to expose the tanned V of his throat.

  Warmth, both spicy and sweet, curls through me at the sight of him. Dean’s seamless combination of Brilliant Professor and Hot Hunk never fails to quicken my blood.

  “Hi.” I duck my head and sip the iced tea.

  “Thought you were working late.” He descends the stairs to where I’m sitting and picks up my satchel.

  “Yeah, well.” A lump forms in my throat. “I got fired.”

  Jesus, Liv. Don’t cry.

  “Fired?” Dean drops the satchel and sits beside me on the step. He reaches out to brush my hair away from my sticky neck. “What happened?”

  “A screw-up with the printer for tonight’s opening. They got the names of a couple of the big donors wrong, even though I emailed them the information twice and sent a hard copy. Mr. Hammond blamed me anyway.”

  I hate sounding like a victim, even if that is the truth.

  “That’s not right, Liv. Wrongful termination is—”

  I wave my hand to stop him. “Forget it, Dean. It wasn’t that great a job. Hammond was always complaining that I made too many mistakes. Which I did not.”

  “Want me to go beat him up?”

  “Kind of.” My white knight…

  “C’mere.” He slides an arm around me and pulls me closer.

  Even though I’m hot and gross and probably smelly, I burrow against him with a sigh. Just the feel of his strong chest beneath my cheek is soothing.

  When he eases the clasp out of my long hair and finger-combs the tangles, then moves his hand up to knead the muscles of my nape, I think I could quite happily sit there for the next hour or three.

  “I offered to try and fix the problem, but he told me to pack up and go,” I say.

  “Their loss.” He brushes his lips against my temple. A tingle sweeps clear down to my toes. “Besides you said the artwork was crap anyway.”

  “It was.” I take another sip of tea. “Bunch of junk glued onto canvases. I could make us a fortune doing that. Hell, maybe I will. Olivia West, the Dumpster-diving artist.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  “Ah, well. Mr. Hammond was kind of a creep anyway.”

  “What do you mean?” Tension ripples through Dean’s solid frame. “Did he—?”

  “No, no. I mean creep as in oily. Groveling to the customers, you know, like a medieval surfer.”

  “Serf.” Dean tweaks my nose.

  “I know.” I grin at him and push to standing.

  Dean picks up my satchel and the wrinkled grocery bag. I grab my shoes and trudge after him into our apartment. My anxiety settles a little more as soon as I close the door behind us.

  The windows are shut and the air conditioner is running, so it’s cool and quiet inside. When we first moved in, I put pale blue curtains on the windows, which complement the navy sofa and striped pillows. With the cream-colored walls, blue-and-white quilts, and wood trim, our apartment has the feel of an open, airy beach house.

  I toss my shoes in the front closet and go into the bedroom to peel off my clothes. I take a quick and lovely cool shower, then dress in yoga pants and a T-shirt.

  The knots in my shoulders loosen. Being at home always makes me feel better. I love our pillowy bed with the thick, flowered comforter, the tiny kitchen with the white wooden table I sanded and repainted myself, the living-room shelves stuffed with books, the curved balcony overlooking Avalon Street.

  I towel-dry my hair and grab a brush to work out the tangles. My hair is straight as straw, but long, thick, and a deep brown that matches my eyes (“the color of coffee with cream,” Dean told me during one of his more poetic moments). I don’t bother drying it further, but leave it loose because I know that’s the way he likes it.

  After heading to the kitchen, I lean against the doorjamb and watch Dean set out plates for dinner. He’s changed into jeans that hug his long legs and a T-shirt emblazoned with a San Francisco Giants logo.

  My husband is a handsome man, built like an athlete rather than a scholar. Nine years older than I am, he’s tall with hard muscles and broad shoulders, his dark brown hair threaded with a few distinguished strands of gray.

  He has beautiful eyes, chocolate-brown and framed with thick lashes that offset the strength of his cheekbones and jaw. He also has a great deal of
self-confidence and dignity, which show in his straight posture and in the measured way he speaks.

  No wonder, considering the man’s impressive pedigree. Bachelor’s degree from Yale, PhD from Harvard, postdocs at the University of Wisconsin and UPenn, fellowship at the Getty Institute, guest lectures at European universities.

  Two years ago he was offered a tenure-track position at King’s University, a private, prestigious university in Mirror Lake. He’s spearheading a new Medieval Studies program, which is the reason King’s enticed him to their faculty with a top-level salary and promises of project funding.

  I wasn’t remotely surprised by how much they wanted him.

  Dean glances up and smiles. My heart gives a pleasant thump. When he looks at me like that, his eyes creased with warmth, all his illustrious distinctions fall away and he’s only the man who loves and wants me.

  “How was your day, professor?” I ask, moving in for a proper hug. “Did you finish your paper on the medieval sins of passion?”

  He kisses the top of my head. “Excavation and archeology of a town originated by a castle of the Teutonic Order.”

  Of course.

  I tighten my arms around his waist. “Mmm. Dirty talk.”

  “Urban hierarchy.” He slides a big hand down to squeeze my rear. He could say anything in that deep voice of his and I’d go all fluttery inside. “Vernacular architecture. Topographical analysis. Flexible growth.”

  He bends to nuzzle my throat, his stubble scraping my skin rather deliciously, then slides his mouth up to capture my lips.

  Ah, good. His kisses are always so good. He cups a hand behind my neck to angle my head so he can fit his mouth across mine. Arousal blooms inside me swift and hard, banishing my earlier frustration as I part my lips underneath his and accept the hot sweep of his tongue.

  With a mutter of pleasure, he slides his other hand to the small of my back and pulls me closer. I press my palm against his flat belly, easing my fingers into the waistband of his jeans. When I start to explore farther down, he catches my wrist and gives a husky laugh.