Spice Box: Sixteen Steamy Stories

by Raine Miller

  “She’s upset that you’re not letting it go.”

  “You think I fucking can?” I hit the button to make the treadmill go faster. “Would you be able to?”

  “She’s not the only one at fault, Dean.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake…” I shut the treadmill off, not wanting to hear what I already know.

  I stalk toward the men’s locker room. She follows.

  “Back off, Kelsey.”

  “No.”

  I shove the door open. She bangs through it after me. A few half-dressed men by their lockers stare at her. One whistles.

  “Hey, lady, this is the men’s locker room,” one of them snaps.

  “Shut up, asshole. You’ve got nothing I haven’t seen.” Kelsey stares him up and down. “And I mean nothing.”

  The others laugh. I go to my locker around the corner, where at least there’s no one else around. Kelsey follows. She’s like a freaking parasite.

  I spin the combination on my locker and wrench it open. “My marriage isn’t your business.”

  “You and Liv are my business because you’re my best friends.” Kelsey steps around to face me. Her mouth is set, her eyes hard with determination. “I know how much she loves you. She wouldn’t have started thinking about a baby otherwise. And if you keep punishing her for one mistake, you’re not only going to make her miserable, you might wreck your whole marriage.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” Anger flares through me, hot and fast. I slam a fist against the locker. “You think I don’t want to forget it, to pretend it never happened? I need a goddamn steak knife to carve the image out of my head. That bastard kissed my wife and she… she fucking liked it.”

  I’m breathing hard. My heart pumps, my blood burns. Kelsey stares at me, her eyes unblinking behind her glasses.

  Before I can react, she grabs the front of my sweaty T-shirt and pushes me back against the locker. Then she presses her mouth hard against mine.

  What the—

  Her lips pry mine open and her tongue pushes inside. She digs her fingers into my shoulders. She slides her body against mine.

  Soft. She’s soft. Thin and wiry, but soft with nice breasts… and Jesus, her nipples are hard and poking against my chest. My cock twitches, swells. She presses closer. She runs her hands across my abdomen, down to my waist, then around to grip my ass.

  Before I can think, I grab her hips and haul her toward me. A moan escapes her throat. I clasp the back of her neck, angle her head to a better position, and kiss her deep.

  She tastes sweet, like apples and sugar. My blood simmers. Her tongue sweeps across my teeth, her breath hot.

  I put my other hand on the small of her back and shove my hips against her, forcing her to feel the full length of my erection. She started it, so now she’ll get all of it.

  She’s not shocked. I should have known she wouldn’t be. Instead she grinds against me and licks my lips and splays her legs over mine. If we weren’t in a men’s locker room, I wouldn’t be surprised if she started stripping.

  I wouldn’t be surprised if I let her.

  Kelsey thrusts her hands into my hair, then pulls her mouth away from mine and steps back.

  We stare at each other, chests heaving. She looks as stunned as I feel. She swipes a hand across her lips.

  “So, uh… sorry,” she mutters.

  “What the hell was that?” My head is spinning. I stare at her mouth, reddened from the pressure of mine.

  Kelsey pulls in a breath. “Was it good?”

  “What?”

  “Was that a good kiss?”

  “You know it was, but what—”

  “Do you get it, Dean?” Kelsey asks. “You can like kissing another person. It’s normal. Hell, it’s human. Just because you’re married doesn’t mean you shut off a natural, biological reaction.”

  “You kissed me to make a point?”

  “I made it, didn’t I?” She steps forward and puts her hand on my chest. Something softens in her sharp eyes. “Look, Dean. Liv may have thought a ten-second kiss was nice, but she loves the hell out of you. That’s why she told you, because she doesn’t want to have any secrets from you. She loves you that much, enough to confess a huge mistake. But you keep punishing her for it, and you’re going to drive her away. Do you get it?”

  Her speech ricochets through my brain. She loves you that much… you’re going to drive her away…

  If six days without Liv makes me feel like this, I can’t imagine what—

  “Yeah.” I force my fists to unclench. “I get it.”

  “So she kissed another guy.” A slight smile curves Kelsey’s lips. “You kissed another woman. Call it even.”

  “Am I supposed to tell her about this?”

  “I’ll talk to her.” Kelsey turns and starts to leave. Then she stops and looks back at me. “For the record, Dean, I didn’t kiss you just to make a point.”

  “Then why?”

  “I always suspected it’d be good with you,” she replies. “Thanks for proving me right.”

  Then with a wink, she heads through the locker room and out the door.

  Fuck.

  Women make me crazy.

  I grab a clean shirt and jeans from my locker and head for the shower.

  It’s snowing when I leave the gym. I toss my duffle in the trunk of Liv’s car and climb into the driver’s seat. I turn on the ignition, then reach down for the lever to push the seat back again. My fingers brush against some cloth.

  I pick up whatever it is and pull it out from under the seat. A crumpled shirt? I unfold it. For a second, I can’t process what I’m looking at. I shake out the material. A surge of red-hot anger floods me.

  It’s a white chef’s jacket. Hidden under the seat of my wife’s car.

  CHAPTER 25

  Olivia

  I’m fixing myself a plate of spaghetti when a loud knock comes at the door. I glance at the clock. Six p.m. Kelsey isn’t home yet, though she told me this morning she was going to the gym and then to run some errands after work.

  I wipe my hands on a towel and go into the foyer. My heart thumps when I peer through the peephole and see Dean standing on the doorstep.

  “Let me in, Olivia.” He sounds as if he’s trying to control his tone of voice.

  Better to deal with this alone than when Kelsey is here. I unlock the deadbolt and open the door. Nervousness floods me at the sight of him—the scowl on his face, the flop of hair over his forehead, the corded muscles of his neck.

  What…

  “Is Kelsey here?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “Good.” He pushes past me, slamming the door behind him before stalking into the living room. The controlled anger radiating from him unnerves me. I know he’s mad, but the past few days should have given him time to calm down.

  “Dean?”

  He turns and tosses a bundle of white material at me. I hadn’t even realized it was clenched in his fist. I catch it.

  My heart plummets. The word Julienne embroidered on the front sears into me, the lingering smells of dill and chocolate clogging my throat. I drop the chef’s jacket at my feet.

  “What the fuck, Liv?” Dean spreads his hands, his eyes flashing. “What was that doing in your car? Under the seat?”

  My stomach pitches, as if I’m standing on the edge of a huge, black abyss. As if I’m about to fall, knowing the descent will be endless.

  “What haven’t you told me?” His voice is tight enough to break.

  “I… I went to…”

  “Is that his?” he snaps.

  “No. I mean, yes, but… God, Dean.” I cover my face with my hands, unable to look at him. I know I can give him nothing but the truth. “I was… I was in Forest Grove one afternoon, picking up some signs for the museum, and I stopped at his restaurant. He showed me around the kitchen, and then he gave me a cooking lesson.”

  I feel like I’ve just said “… and then he gave me an orgasm.”

  I
force myself to lower my hands. Dean hasn’t moved, his gaze dark, his chest heaving with the force of his contained anger.

  Guilt splits my heart in half.

  “It was nothing,” I say, but the words come out weak, as if I’m trying to convince myself as much as him. “I’m sorry.”

  He just stares at me, his hands on his hips. “I remember that day.”

  “What?”

  “When you came back from Forest Grove. You got into the shower with me. Tasted like chocolate. Then you wanted me to fuck you rough.”

  Heat and embarrassment fill my throat. “Dean…”

  “What, Liv? Am I wrong?”

  I shake my head. He’s not wrong. That is exactly what happened. Exactly what I’d wanted.

  “You know…” I swallow hard. “You know you’re the only person I’d ever ask for anything like that.”

  “I knew that once. Before you spent the afternoon with another man, then came home and asked me to fuck you.”

  “For the love of God, Dean. I cooked! I didn’t engage in foreplay.”

  His mouth compresses. “Didn’t you?”

  I can’t even respond. He knows better than anyone that foreplay doesn’t have to involve touching. He’s the one who taught me that.

  A sudden sense of foreboding fills me, the precipice beginning to crumble beneath my feet.

  Dean is silent for a long minute. The air between us stretches thin.

  “All right, Liv.” He drags a hand through his hair, his breath expelling in a hard rush. “You can come home. I’ll move out for a while.”

  I stare at him. “Wait… what?”

  Some of the anger drains from him, but his jaw is tight with tension as he meets my eyes.

  “Whatever I’m not giving you is fucking us up,” he says. “If we’re apart, maybe I can figure out what the hell it is.”

  My stomach rolls with queasiness.

  “We’re… separating?” I have to shove the word past the bile rising in my throat. Separating? Us? “Are you punishing me? Is that what this is about?”

  “Why did you leave the other night?” he asks. “Were you punishing me for not telling you about Helen?”

  Was I?

  “What about counseling?” I ask.

  “Would you have told a counselor about this?” He shoves the chef’s jacket with his foot.

  I have no idea. The self-admission makes me sick.

  Dean’s eyes harden. “We need to stop lying to each other before spilling our guts out to a goddamn counselor.”

  “Why do you think separating will help anything?” My fingernails dig into my palms.

  “You said it last month. Being together is lousy right now.”

  “But we can’t work anything out if we’re not together,” I say. “I’m not… I won’t come home unless you’re there.”

  Dean looks at me, his expression unreadable. Then he closes the distance between us. The familiar scent of him, soap and maleness and winter air, floods my senses in a wave. For a second, I think he’s going to touch me, but his hands stay shoved into his pockets. His eyes are shuttered.

  “I don’t want to punish you, Liv. But you were right to leave. We need to be apart.”I feel so brittle, so icy, that I can’t even let the tears fall. I watch through black-edged vision as Dean steps back, his gaze still on me. Then he turns to leave.

  The front door clicks shut with a hollow echo. I can only stand there staring at the empty space my husband’s departure has left.

  A torrent of memories chokes me. Before Dean, I was so alone, tight like a piece of paper crushed into a ball. With him, my entire being smoothed out, all the secrets cocooned in the pleats of my soul finally opening.

  Now I can feel myself crumpling again. Shutting down.

  The nausea surges. I make it to the bathroom before I throw up.

  ***

  Christmas is less than two weeks away. I don’t return home. I can’t stand the thought of being there without Dean.

  I send him an email telling him I’ll stay with Kelsey and that he doesn’t have to leave the apartment. He responds with a short “okay” and tells me he’s had snow tires put on my car and will leave it at Kelsey’s the following day.

  A week passes, slow and sluggish. My heart aches. I try and ignore it by getting out as much as possible—the Historical Society is putting on holiday tours, so I help out with preparations and decorating. I volunteer at the library and have lunch with Allie a few times at Matilda’s Teapot, which is planning to close for good in February.

  Dean and I don’t contact each other. Kelsey says she’s seen him at the university gym several times, but he doesn’t say much to her and declines her offers of racquetball. For once, she hasn’t pushed him to tell her anything else.

  She also told me about their kiss, which was one of the few things in the past two weeks that has made me laugh. I could only imagine Dean’s shocked reaction.

  I work every day at The Happy Booker, but don’t put all my hours on my time card because I don’t want Allie to think she has to pay me when I’m mostly trying to keep myself busy. During the day, interacting with people and working, I’m able to keep my emotions in check.

  But lying in bed alone at night, my mind floods with thoughts and memories of Dean. Several times I find myself reaching for my cell phone, my finger poised over the speed-dial to call him. Somehow I manage to stop myself, even though I want nothing more than to hear his deep voice.

  I miss him, of course. I want things to be the way they once were, when we couldn’t wait to touch each other, when our kisses were so warm and easy, when he’d press his mouth to my temple and pull me into the place by his side where I fit perfectly.

  I dream about us too, those hot, sexy dreams I used to have after I’d first met him. Except this time I know the breathless truth of those fantasies—I know exactly how his hands feel on my breasts, the taste of his skin, the way his cock pulses heavy and smooth in my palm. I know how our bodies arch together, how his fingers dig into my hips, how his breath heats my neck and his chest rubs against mine.

  I wake in the predawn hours, restless and throbbing, and press my fingers between my legs to bring myself to a sharp, hard orgasm. Just as I used to do early on, before the days when I would roll over in bed and encounter his warm, muscular body.

  Then I would slide my hand over his chest and down to his half-erect cock, stroke him into full readiness before he was even fully awake. Then I’d move my leg over his thighs to straddle him and ease his shaft into me with one slow glide.

  Then I would thrust up and down, arching my body, squeezing and pressing his cock, until his groan broke through the air and his hands clutched my bottom and we both spiraled over the edge in a collision of bliss.

  I want him so badly I ache. And worse, I have no idea what will happen now. I don’t know if he’s going to call me, if I should call him, if he thinks we’re done for good. I don’t know how either of us plans to spend Christmas.

  “You want to come with me to visit my mother for Christmas?” Kelsey asks one morning at breakfast as she peers at me over her coffee cup.

  I must look awful for her to be gazing at me with such sympathy.

  “No, thanks.”

  “She’ll go all Russian Betty Crocker on you and spoil you rotten with her blinchiki or tea cookies or whatever,” Kelsey cajoles.

  I smile. “No, really, but thanks.”

  “What’s Professor Marvel doing?”

  “I don’t know.” I wonder if Dean will visit his parents in California, but I doubt he’d go with this mess still piled up between us. God knows he’d never explain any of it to his family.

  After Kelsey heads off to work, I clean the house and do a load of laundry. I have a day off from both the museum and the bookstore, which means hours of blankness stretch out in front of me.

  I drive downtown and park the car. I cast a glance at our apartment as I walk along the snow-encrusted sidewalks bordering Avalon Street
. The curtains of our living room are pulled shut, no light shining behind them. The plants on the balcony are withered and frozen, ice piling over the potted soil.

  I see Dean as he’s entering a coffeehouse on the corner. My heart jolts at the sight of his tall, familiar figure clad in a black peacoat, his hair ruffled by the cold wind, a scarf winding around his throat.

  I watch him through the window as he approaches the counter to order a coffee, then walks to a table where a young, pretty redhead is waiting.

  My chest tightens as I recognize his graduate student, Jessica. She smiles at him in greeting and gestures to a chair, and they sit there conversing for a few minutes.

  Jealousy surges through me. He’s mine, I think, even as the deepest corner of my soul—the one that knows, even now, the truth of my husband—remembers that Dean would never betray me.

  My trust is confirmed when two young men and another woman approach Dean, balancing coffees as they unload their backpacks and laptops onto the table. Soon they’re all immersed in a discussion, exchanging books and papers and scribbling notes into their notebooks.

  Part of me wants Dean to look up and see me standing here. I imagine this great, romantic movie moment when our eyes meet and he pushes his chair back and runs out to haul me into his arms.

  But he doesn’t. He’s busy talking with his students about their essays and research. He leans forward, listens, looks each person in the eye when he’s speaking. I can almost hear the steady, measured cadence of his voice, underscored by confidence and authority. Even outside of class, he’ll take the time to meet with a group of students and provide whatever help they need. His dedication is boundless.

  Just one of the many reasons I will always be in love with him.

  ***

  The week before Christmas, I arrive at the Epicurean cooking class half an hour before the last class starts. Tyler Wilkes is at his station, getting everything ready for tonight’s demonstration. I watch him for a moment, noticing the confidence of his movements, the way he organizes his knives and pans with purpose. He makes it all seem so easy.

  “What’s on the menu, Chef?” I ask.

  His head jerks up at the sound of my voice. “Liv!”

  “Hi, Tyler.”