Spice Box: Sixteen Steamy Stories

by Raine Miller

  I was starting to read another article for a political science essay when my cell phone rang. I pressed the button to accept the call.

  “How have the processes of democracy and federalism affected political modernization in Russia?” I asked.

  “Well, if a nation is trying to establish simultaneous democratic and federal structures, it has to build a system of regional support,” Dean said. “That would be difficult in Russia because of its constitutional nature, and there would be a lot of conflict over government policies. And often the benefits of federalism to democracy aren’t apparent until years later.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Why didn’t you walk away?”

  “What?”

  “The day we met,” he said. “Why didn’t you walk away from me after I gave you your stuff back?”

  A sudden memory of that day rolled over me—how I’d wanted to feel his hand close around my arm, the hot pull of attraction I’d felt toward him, the way he’d looked standing on the sidewalk with the sun glinting off his hair.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “You do know. Why?”

  Because I’ve been around in a different way and finally I know when something—when someone—is good. Finally I trust myself.

  “Because I didn’t want to walk away from you.” I folded and unfolded the corner of a notebook. “Because you were handsome and nice and I wanted… more.”

  “So did I.”

  “Did you look for me?” I asked.

  “Almost.”

  “Almost?”

  “I resisted because of the professor-student thing. But when I saw you in Jitter Beans, I knew I was done.”

  I smiled. “Done? Or were you just getting started?”

  “Yeah. That.”

  “So was I.” In more ways than you even know. I paused. “Have you started thinking about me yet?”

  “Uh huh. What’re you wearing?”

  I chuckled, even as heat bloomed in my chest. “Isn’t that a long-distance cliché?”

  “Yes, but I still want to know.”

  I glanced down. “Pajama bottoms and a tank top.”

  “Color?”

  “Navy blue pants. Pink tank top.”

  “Is it tight?”

  “Sort of.” Just the sound of his voice made my nipples tent the cotton material. “What about you?”

  “Boxers and a T-shirt.”

  “Is it tight?”

  “My boxers are.”

  “Oh.” The heat intensified as I imagined him stretched out on his bed, one arm behind his head, his T-shirt riding up to expose the flat, hard planes of his abdomen. A bulge pressing against the front of his boxers.

  “Are you wearing a bra?” he asked.

  “No. And my nipples are hard.”

  His groan made me smile.

  “Are your boxers even tighter now?” I asked.

  “No, because I just took my cock out.”

  A bolt of arousal shot through me so fast I sucked in a breath. “Oh.”

  He gave a muffled laugh. “You have no idea what those little ohs do to me.”

  “So tell me.” Emboldened, I pushed away from the desk and went to lock the door, then lay down on the bed.

  With the distance of miles between us, I didn’t have to worry about losing my nerve in the midst of the crackling heat Dean roused. As much as I craved his touch, his kisses, it would take a little more time before my tension fully waned with the hot physical stuff.

  But just the sound of his voice, rumbling low in my ear… and my lingering inhibitions melted away like ice on heated glass.

  “Every time your breath catches in your throat, I get hard,” Dean said. “Makes me want to know what kind of sounds you’ll make when I’m buried deep inside you.”

  When. Not if.

  I pressed my legs together as explicit images flashed in my mind.

  “It’s going to be good,” I whispered, trailing my hand over the hem of my tank top.

  “It’s going to be fucking explosive.” His voice lowered to a rough growl.

  I shivered and eased my tank top up a few inches. My skin was hot under the glide of my fingertips.

  “What’re you doing now?” Dean asked.

  “Tracing my belly button.”

  His chuckle settled in my blood. “I’m way ahead of you.”

  “What are you doing?” I asked, my heart beginning to throb a heavy, slow beat.

  “Stroking my cock.”

  “Are you completely hard?”

  “As a rock.”

  “Oh.” I closed my eyes and imagined him lying there with his hand wrapped around his erection and his body tensing with lust. I drew my hand up higher beneath my shirt, remembering his touch on my skin.

  “Are you on the bed?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Naked?”

  “No.”

  “Pull your shirt up.”

  A shudder rippled through me as I eased the hem of my shirt up over my bare breasts, a rush of cool air tickling the tight crests.

  “Rub them,” he said. “Pinch your nipples.”

  I cupped one breast in my hand and squeezed the nipple lightly between my thumb and forefinger. A shock of pleasure traveled clear down to my sex.

  “Are you still stroking yourself?” I whispered, my mind awash with images of him stretched out on the bed, massaging his cock while thinking about me.

  “Yes.” His breath escaped on a hiss. “I’m so hard it hurts.”

  “Are you close?”

  “I could come any second, but I won’t. You need to tell me more first.”

  I pressed my breasts together and squirmed, heat sliding through my veins.

  “What do you want to know?” I asked.

  “How wet are you?”

  “I’m…”

  “Touch yourself and tell me.”

  I couldn’t help the flush sweeping me from head to toe. My heart pounded hard. I wiggled my pants down until the elastic was around my thighs, then curled my fingers against my sex.

  “How wet are you?” he repeated.

  I dipped into my cleft, trailing my finger down one side and up the other, then circling my clit. The light contact blazed across my nerves.

  “Very wet,” I breathed. “I wish you could touch me.”

  He groaned. “Tell me what you look like.”

  I shifted up onto one elbow. “I’m… my shirt is up around my breasts, and my nipples are so hard… and my pants are down around my thighs, so I can’t really spread my legs too wide…”

  “Oh, fuck, Liv. Keep going.”

  I swallowed hard. Sweat broke out on my forehead as I swept a hand over my belly again. “But I can edge my fingers far enough in to tickle my clit…”

  “Do it now.”

  I did, unable to prevent a moan when I pressed the pulsing knot. “God, Dean, I’m so turned on…”

  “Bring yourself off. Tell me how you do it.”

  “I… I like to put two fingers on either side… like that… and keep the heel of my hand against my clit… then push a finger slowly inside…”

  “You’re tight, aren’t you?” His voice was raw. “I’m going to slide into you like a glove.”

  My breath stopped at the idea of him filling me, stretching me. I squeezed my inner flesh around my finger, wishing it was his big, thick length. My clit throbbed against my hand. The sound of our breathing, heavy and hot, filled my head.

  “What do you want, Liv?” he whispered, low and guttural.

  “I want…” I arched my body, loving the taut anticipation, the promise of release. I pushed my finger farther into my channel and moaned. “I want to come.”

  “Tell me what else you want.”

  “Oh…” I pushed my hips up farther and pressed my hand against my clit. My blood streamed like melted honey through my veins. Fantasies flooded my mind—everything I’d imagined and dreamed about since meeting him.

&n
bsp; “I want you to touch me,” I gasped, working my hand faster between my legs. “I want you to lick my breasts and rub my clit. I want to watch you stroke yourself. I want to feel you, hard and throbbing, and I want you to thrust deep inside me and make me come all over your cock… oh!”

  An explosion of shudders rained through me at the same instant Dean’s rough grunt echoed in my head. I bit my lip to prevent myself from crying out, even as the vibrations peaked with a hard surge.

  Panting, I fell backward onto the pillows, running a hand over my half-naked body. “I’m… wow.”

  His chuckle rumbled in my ear. “You are wow, indeed.”

  I sucked in a breath and closed my eyes. “Did you come hard?”

  “Christ, Liv. Fucking rocket.”

  I shuddered as the picture flashed before me—him all sweaty and breathing hard, still sliding his fist loosely over his damp shaft, trails of semen pooling on his stomach.

  “One day will you do that while I watch?” I asked.

  “The second you ask, I’ll have my cock in hand.”

  “The second I ask?”

  “The nanosecond you ask. In fact, you don’t even need to ask. Just bat your eyelashes at me, and I’ll take my prick out.”

  I giggled. “Better make sure we’re not in public, then.”

  “I’ll make sure.”

  We both fell silent as our breathing finally slowed. I rolled onto my side, pushing my hair away from my face, the phone still close to my ear.

  “Hey,” I whispered. “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “Waiting for me.”

  “Waiting has never been so hot.” He paused. “Thanks for trusting me.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  CHAPTER 19

  November 6

  “How was it?” Dean looks at me from over the top of the sports magazine he’s reading.

  I drop my travel bag on the floor and shrug out of my coat. “Fine. Aunt Stella says hello. She sent you a pound cake.”

  I pull the brick-hard cake from my bag and put it on the counter, then go into the bedroom to shower and change. My few days with Stella and Henry provided no sudden insights into how to save my relationship with Dean, but the brief separation from him did make it a little easier to breathe.

  I helped Stella around the house and in the garden, ate at the town’s diner, went to the farmer’s market and a couple of garage sales. The weather was unseasonably mild, so I took a few long walks and drove into the countryside. I even baked an apple pie, which actually turned out pretty good.

  It was a simple few days, and I’m glad I went—even if the big, ugly questions loomed up again the moment I stepped into the apartment. Even if Dean and I still don’t know how to tackle them.

  He gets up from the sofa and looks at his watch. “I’m meeting someone for lunch, then I have lectures, office hours, and a late seminar.”

  “Who are you meeting for lunch?”

  “A guy who’s thinking of applying to the doctoral program. Why?”

  “Just wondering.”

  It’s back again—this tight, persistent tension in my chest. Did I want to know if he was meeting Maggie Hamilton? Would I care if he was?

  No. And no.

  Maggie Hamilton is no threat to our marriage. Neither is Tyler Wilkes. The danger lies solely between me and my husband.

  Dean changes into a suit and tie and heads out after giving me a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. After he leaves, I spend the afternoon doing laundry and cleaning, mostly to occupy my time.

  It’s Tuesday. I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to miss cooking class, but… yeah. Not the most favorable of circumstances.

  Dean’s not home from work by six-thirty, so I finally decide to attend class. I should set things straight with Tyler anyway. I’m the first one there, which is good, and I walk to the instructor’s station.

  Tyler glances up and gives me an uneasy smile. “Hi, Liv. I… uh, I wasn’t sure you’d show up.”

  “Why?”

  “You know, because of what happened.”

  “I told you I’d come back,” I remind him. “Did you think I’d be too ashamed and change my mind?”

  “Well, no.” He scratches his head. “Um, just that it’d be like this. You know, awkward. I’m really sorry. It was a mistake. I never meant for that to happen.”

  I sigh. “Look, never mind. I just wanted to tell you I’m not mad. I don’t blame you. And you’re right, it was a mistake. We’re both just going to forget it now, okay?”

  “Yeah, okay. Sure.” He looks a little disappointed, but makes no further remark.

  I head to my station to get organized for the evening. The other students file in, and we exchange greetings and small talk until the clock strikes seven.

  Tyler calls for our attention and discusses the various cuts of pork, then demonstrates how to butterfly the tenderloin and prepare it with roasted apples and onions.

  We watch attentively and take notes, then start on our own preparations when he’s finished. I put out my bowls and wash the apples. Just as I’m taking the knife from a drawer, I look up to see Dean walk into the room.

  I drop the knife with a clatter. My heart hammers.

  This can’t be good.

  Dean catches my eye. He looks handsome as the devil—his navy suit impeccable, without a single crease, his tie perfectly knotted, his dark hair brushed away from his forehead. Aside from his five o’clock shadow, you’d never know he just spent an entire afternoon in meetings and teaching classes on Gothic architecture.

  He comes toward me, his long stride and air of confident authority drawing the attention of the other students. “Hello, Liv.”

  “Dean.” I wipe my clammy hands on my apron. “What are you doing here?”

  He scans the room, his eyes growing cold.

  Shit.

  Tyler is looking at us from his station. After a heartbeat, he approaches.

  “Can I help you, sir?” he asks Dean politely.

  “Dean West.” Dislike and intimidation radiate from Dean. He sizes Tyler up in one glance and clearly finds him lacking. “Olivia’s husband.”

  “Oh.” A crimson flush crawls up Tyler’s neck to his cheeks. He’s sweating a little from standing over a hot stove, and he wipes his forehead with his sleeve before responding. “Uh, good to meet you. I’m Tyler Wilkes. Liv is… um, she’s doing great.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  I wince. “Dean, what are you doing here?”

  “Thought I’d sit in on class, see how things go.”

  “I’m not sure that’s—” Tyler begins.

  “You don’t mind.” Dean looks Tyler hard in the eye. “Do you?”

  Embarrassment heats my face. Dean is taller than Tyler, and he’s looking down at the poor guy as if daring him to say yes, he does mind. Tyler swallows. A bead of sweat drips down his temple.

  “Dean, that’s really not—” I begin.

  “I’ll sit over there.” Dean nods toward several chairs placed against the wall. “Go on with your lesson, Chef Wilkes.”

  “Er… okay.” After hesitating, Tyler steps back and glances at me. I try to give him a reassuring smile, which I’m certain comes out more like a grimace.

  The other students return to their preparations, their initial curiosity waning as they learn who Dean is and the apparently uninteresting reason for his visit. He sits down, his arms crossed and his gaze level on me.

  Focus, Liv.

  I turn back to my work. My hands are shaking, but after a few minutes I calm down and get my ingredients in order.

  I know Dean will not cause a scene. He’s here to stake some sort of manly claim, to intimidate Tyler, but he’ll be civilized about it.

  Sort of.

  I slice several apples and onions, retrieve olive oil and mustard from the pantry, get the pans heating. I even start to feel a twinge of pride at the knowledge that Dean is
watching me, especially after his nasty remark that I could end up like my mother, who had no viable skills of her own.

  Now I know how to prep a kitchen, how to season and cook different cuts of meat, how to make stock. I know about fresh herbs, sauces, acidity, various salts, and flavor profiles. I know how to cut vegetables and the best purposes for different knives, pans, and pots. Hell, I even know how to carve a whole chicken.

  Hah. Take that, Mr. Medieval History Professor.

  The pork tenderloin is thick and need to be cut, so I take out the slicing knife with a flourish.

  “How’s it going, Liv?”

  Tyler stops uncertainly in front of me. It would seem strange to the other students if he ignored me, so I know he’s here for appearances rather than any real interest in how I’m doing. In fact, he looks as if he’d rather be anywhere but at my station.

  “Uh, just fine, thanks.” I give him a weak smile and turn my attention back to the pork.

  “Your pan is too hot.” Tyler comes around to lower the heat under my skillet. “And your butter is going to burn if you don’t add oil to it.”

  “Right. Sorry.” I flip the meat over and start to saw it in half, which I know is the wrong technique but I’m getting nervous again. I can feel Dean’s hostile stare burning into Tyler.

  “Wait.” Tyler steps closer. “Let the knife do the work, Liv. When you’re doing a butterfly cut, keep the knife parallel to the cutting board.”

  He reaches out to put his hand over mine on the knife handle. I jerk away. My breath catches in my throat. Tyler drops his hand to his side and steps back.

  “Well, you remember how I did it, right?” he asks.

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “Okay. Stay focused.”

  He moves on to Charlotte’s station. I wipe my hand on my apron and grasp the knife. A sudden flash of that night, that kiss, makes my chest tighten with dismay.

  I don’t know why I kissed Tyler. I’ve never wanted to look at another man since I met Dean. And not only did I let myself kiss Tyler, I actually liked it.

  I glance at Dean. He’s watching me, his arms still crossed, his expression unreadable.

  I don’t know if he’s forgiven me. I don’t know if I’ve forgiven him. I certainly haven’t forgiven myself.