by Nina Lane
Not for us, but for him.
I have to disentangle myself from my crying son when I leave him at daycare—a process that brings a lump to my throat and elicits sympathetic murmurs from Christine as she gently separates Nicholas from me.
Just a phase, I tell myself as I drive to the café. Remember, there will come a time when he won’t want you around. A time when he’ll go off to college with a “Bye¸ Mom,” and a quick hug.
I exchange a few texts with Dean during my shift, which makes me feel better, and Christine sends me a few pictures of Nicholas happily playing with some of the other kids.
Still, deciding more time together is a good thing, I pick Nicholas up early from daycare and take him to the children’s museum for a couple of hours, then to the Boxcar Deli for dinner.
As we settle into a booth, I hear a woman say my name. I look up to see Jessica Burke approaching. We greet each other, and she ruffles Nicholas’s hair.
“Can you join us?” I ask her, gesturing to the seat opposite me.
“I’m meeting a friend, but I’m early so I can sit for a few minutes,” she says, sliding into the booth.
“Any word on possible jobs in the area?” I ask.
“No.” She sighs and gives me a rueful smile. “I applied for a visiting professorship in Indiana, so we’ll see what happens. How is Dean’s trip going?”
“Fine, from what he tells me.” I hesitate, then figure she can probably give me a good perspective on this whole assistant director position. “What’s your take on the WHC job opening?”
“It’s fantastic, and a great opportunity for Dean,” she says, accepting a glass of water from a passing server. “He’d have a ton of influence if he were offered and accepted it. He might even be able to get the Youth Experts program started again.”
“What’s the Youth Experts program?”
“It was started as a program for students around the world to get involved with conservation issues,” Jessica explains. “Dozens of students have been interested, but the program hasn’t had a leader so it’s been something of a disorganized mess.”
“And Dean could fix that?”
The answer is obvious, of course. Dean can fix anything.
“Yeah, definitely,” Jessica says, shooting Nicholas a smile as he offers her a slobbery goldfish cracker. “If he were assistant director, he could totally allocate funds and hire someone to organize the Youth Experts program. It would make a huge difference to so many young people, since they’re the ones who will one day be in charge of the sites.”
I’m certain if Dean had the power to hire a leader of the Youth Experts program, that person would be Jessica Burke. And with her looking for a job right now…
She waves at a curly-haired young man who enters the deli.
“Sorry, Liv, I gotta go.” Jessica slides out of the booth. “Let’s have coffee soon, or let me know if you need a babysitter for the cutie over here.”
“I will, thanks.”
We say goodbye, and I turn back to the menu. Knowing that Dean taking the job could also lead to a prominent position for Jessica and opportunities for students around the world is an unexpected thorn in my side.
I shake my head to dislodge the dreaded sense that I could be the one preventing so many opportunities for others because I don’t want anything to change.
I pull a few coloring books out of my bag and turn my attention to Nicholas. Most of the time, I love being alone with Nicholas, except this time I feel Dean’s absence more acutely than I have before. With his new responsibilities over the past couple of years, I’ve gotten used to him being away, but only now do I realize I don’t like being used to a separation from my husband.
Later that night, after Nicholas is asleep, I call Dean. His phone goes to voicemail.
“Hi, it’s me,” I say. “Just wanted to see how things are going. I’m about to go to bed, so I’ll try you again tomorrow.”
As I end the call, I remember when he first went to Italy a few years ago. For the two months he was in Altopascio, we had a standing phone date every night at ten sharp. Not once did either of us miss our nightly calls.
I slide into bed, rolling over to press my face into Dean’s pillow, which I still often do when he’s not here. The faint scent of his shaving soap clings to the cotton.
I inhale deeply and imagine the two of us closing the door of a hotel room and turning toward each other. Shutting the rest of the world out, the way we used to do so often, even in the early part of our relationship when we were utterly captivated by each other.
I still remember those days so clearly. I woke one morning alone in Dean’s bed, absorbing the warmth still lacing the sheets, the lingering smell of lust. I listened to the sound of the shower and imagined Dean naked under the hot spray, soap sluicing over his muscular body… heat coiled through me as I reached for my robe.
After tugging it on, I went to use the guest bathroom. When I returned, the main bathroom door was half open. Dean was standing at the sink, getting ready to shave, a towel wrapped around his waist. Fragrant steam coated the bathroom and fogged the mirror. I paused in the doorway, allowing my gaze to travel over the contours of his bare shoulders and chest still damp from the shower.
He was such a beautiful man. A shiver ran down my spine as I recalled the previous night when I had traced the slopes of his pectoral muscles, his rigid torso, following that line of hair down to…
“Keep looking at me like that,” Dean said, “and I’ll have you on this counter in two seconds.”
“Promises, promises.” I leaned my shoulder against the doorjamb and continued to watch him.
I had never seen a man shave before. I’d lived my childhood with my mother, and despite her numerous men I’d never become accustomed to their rituals or behaviors. I’d spent so much of my time trying to hide from them that they’d been like alien creatures—vaguely menacing and fearsome.
Dean was the one who proved I had nothing to fear, not from him. He was all warmth, heat, and tenderness.
“How often do you shave?” I asked.
“Once a day at least. Twice if I’m planning to take my lady out.” He took a razor out of a drawer and turned on the water faucet.
“You don’t use an electric razor?” I asked.
“Not a close enough shave.” He rubbed his whiskery jaw. “Prefer it the old-fashioned way. Soap, not cream, and a good double-edge razor.”
“Soap?”
“With a brush.” He extended a small bowl with a disk of soap and a shaving brush.
I took them both and swirled the brush into the soap, creating a frothy lather. The spicy scent rose to my nose, filling me with memories of that scent clinging to Dean’s skin.
“Can I put it on you?” I asked.
“Sure.”
I stepped closer and reached up to slide the brush over his jaw. Before I could, he took hold of my waist and lifted me onto the counter beside the sink. My heart thumped at our nearness. Dean slid his hands to my thighs, the heat of his palms burning through my cotton bathrobe. He pushed my knees apart so he could move into the juncture of my thighs.
“I thought you wanted to shave.” I was close enough now that I could see the water still beading on his chest and shoulders.
“I do.” He took hold of my hand and lifted the brush toward his face. “But I did say I would have you on the counter.”
My breath caught in my throat as I stroked the soap-covered brush over his cheek and down to the underside of his chin. I swirled the brush into the soap again and covered the other side of his face and around his mouth. With my finger, I wiped away the excess soap from his lips. By the time I was finished, my pulse was pounding.
Dean reached beside me and picked up the razor. I eased to the side so he could see himself in the mirror. He took my hand again and closed my fingers around the razor handle.
“Dean, I can’t…”
“I trust you,” he said.
I looked at him
for a moment, struck by the intense light in his eyes. It had taken me a long time to realize trust didn’t come any more easily to him than it did to me. But every time we were together, it felt like an undeniable acknowledgment we’d both crossed that barrier. I knew everything we did together, every act in which we engaged, would serve to either strengthen our trust in each other or prove that it was warranted.
Dean brought the razor to his face, his hand still clasped around mine. “Sideburns first. Downward stroke.”
I smothered the worry about nicking him as I positioned the razor and drew it downward. It was a rather thrilling sensation to slide the sharp blade over his face, whisking away the lather and stubble and leaving a smooth patch of skin.
Dean took his hand from mine. I rinsed the razor and lifted it to his jaw again, using my other hand to pull his skin taut before I positioned the blade.
“Okay?” I whispered.
He nodded, his gaze on my face as I stroked the razor down to his cheek. The air between us was still fragrant and steamy from the shower. I rinsed the razor between each stroke, shaving each of his sideburns, then his cheeks, wiping away traces of soap with a towel.
Beneath my thick robe, my skin was getting damp as I became increasingly aware of Dean’s body between my legs, the movement of his breath, the heat of his skin. I adjusted my legs around his hips and turned to rinse the razor again. As I did, I felt his finger trail down the open V of my robe.
“Dean, I’m holding a sharp blade,” I reminded him, trying to ignore the tickling sensation of his finger over my skin.
“Mmm. Now you’re not only sexy, but dangerous too.”
I shot him a look from beneath my lashes. “If you want me to finish this, you can’t touch me until I’m done. It’s not safe.”
He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. I lathered up the brush again and swept it across his neck. He lifted his chin so I could reach underneath. My hand trembled as I eased the razor over his throat. Slowly I scraped the coarse stubble away. He didn’t touch me, but he shifted his hips closer, and the ridge of his erection brushed my inner thigh.
A few traces of soap lined his neck. I wiped them away with my fingers before setting the razor aside. I studied his face, ensuring I hadn’t left any patches of roughness. He looked gorgeous with his face clean-shaven and his hair still damp, the delicious scent of soap rising from his hot skin.
“Okay.” My heart was thumping slow and heavy. “You’re done.”
Dean slipped his hand beneath my chin, lifting my face toward his.
“I was done the second I first saw you,” he murmured the instant before his lips touched mine.
With a sigh of pleasure, I parted my legs as he deepened the kiss, one hand moving to the nape of my neck. I loved how he gently angled my head, as if he were intent on fitting me against him exactly right and locking our mouths together without a seam. I parted my lips to let him in, heat unspooling inside me as his tongue probed deeper. He slid his hands to the front of my robe and tugged at the lapels.
“You’d better be naked under here,” he warned against my lips.
My pulse throbbed. “I… I have panties on.”
“Not for long, you won’t.”
A moan of lust escaped me as he opened my robe and slipped his hands inside to my breasts. His chest rumbled with a groan. He lifted my breasts, cupped them in his palms, and rubbed his thumbs across my nipples.
I squirmed, aching for him to touch me between my legs. Dean lifted his head and stepped back, pushing the robe off my shoulders. Still loosely belted, it fell around my waist and left me naked from the waist up.
A flush rose to my cheeks as Dean raked his hot gaze over me, lingering on the stiff peaks of my nipples. He reached for the shaving brush again and swirled it into the soap, then brought it to my breasts.
I drew in a breath when the soft, warm bristles touched my nipple. A shiver rocked through me. I watched, mesmerized, as he ran the brush over my breasts, painting them with lather, the white foam slick and shiny against my damp skin.
The sound of our breathing filled the air as he loaded the brush again and painted lather between my breasts, across my chest, down to my belly. The spicy scent filled the air, tinged with the aroma of eucalyptus.
“Too bad it’s not whipped cream,” I remarked, my voice thick with arousal. “So you could lick it off.”
His eyes darkened with heat. “I’ll put that on the list for tomorrow.”
I could hardly wait.
Dean ran the brush in circles over my nipples, the sensation firing electric sparks down to my core. I wiggled closer to him, tightening my knees around his waist, sharply aware of the heavy bulge pressing against the towel.
I trailed my fingers over his washboard torso and down to the front of the towel. His breath escaped on a hiss when I closed my hand around the hard length of his erection.
“Christ, Liv,” he whispered, moving his lips across my cheek to my mouth. “One touch from you, and I want to come like you wouldn’t believe.”
My heart raced. I tightened my grip on his shaft. “If I keep touching you, would you…”
“I’ll do anything you want.” He lifted his head to press kisses over the side of my neck, pushing his hips forward so that his cock slid farther into my fist.
“Anything,” he repeated, running his hands over my slick, lather-coated breasts.
I shuddered, arching my back to press my breasts into his hands, moving my lips closer to his ear.
“Would you come on my pussy?” I whispered boldly.
“Fuck, Liv.” A shudder racked his body, and his shaft pulsed in my hand. “You sure as hell don’t have to ask.”
I shifted, releasing him momentarily to push the towel off him. The sight of his big, erect cock sticking straight out from his groin elicited a hot throb of longing. I licked my lips and wrapped my fingers around his erection.
We both watched as I stroked my hand up and down his shaft. As much as I loved the feeling of him inside me, on top of me, driving both our pleasures, now I wanted to be the one in control. I wanted him helpless at my touch.
I used my other hand to scoop up a handful of shaving lather from my breasts, then spread it over his erection and continued to work my hand up and down. A groan rumbled through his chest as he pushed his hips forward again, fucking my fist. He gripped my hips, lowering his head to my neck again and licking a path from my collarbone to my shoulder.
“You make me crazy,” he said, his breath hot against my skin. He moved his hands to my breasts, rubbing and stroking them. “You’re so damn sexy and so fucking sweet. Whenever I look at you, half the time I can’t decide if I want to hug you or rip off your clothes and pound into you until you scream.”
Heat fired through my blood. “You… you could do both.”
His husky laugh vibrated against my shoulder. “Then I will. Indefinitely.”
My heart thumped at his use of the word indefinitely. Now that we were together, that word had never sounded more powerful and significant.
Dean lifted his head to look at me. “Did I say something wrong?”
I loved that he was concerned, even with both of us half-naked and me still stroking his hard cock. I leaned forward and pressed my lips against his neck.
“No,” I assured him. “You never say anything wrong, Dean. You say everything right.”
In response, he glided his hands over my slick breasts again and down to unfasten the loose knot of my belt. After pushing it open, he rubbed me through my panties. I gasped, squirming closer to encourage him to press harder, my grip on his erection loosening.
“Look at that,” he murmured, his gaze on the cotton stretched over my sex. “So hot and wet you’re soaked right through your panties.”
A shudder rocked me. “God, Dean.”
He shot me a wicked smile. “Why is that, beauty?”
“Because of you,” I whispered, faintly aware I was no longer exactly in control. If I ev
er was to begin with.
Dean grasped the waistband of my panties, and I obediently lifted my hips so he could pull them off. He tossed them on the floor and put his hands on my inner thighs, pressing them farther apart.
A waft of still-steamy air brushed my folds. I shivered again. My gaze went to Dean’s cock, and I tensed with the eager expectation that he would position himself between my legs and thrust into me. Instead he reached for the shaving brush again.
My breath stuttered in my throat. I watched as he rinsed the brush in warm water, then brought it between my legs. The instant the wet bristles touched my folds, I gasped.
“Oh, God…”
He cupped my chin again and captured my mouth in a hot, deep kiss as he swirled the shaving brush over my cleft. Urgency built inside me with volcanic force. The coarse, soft bristles rubbed with delicious friction against my clit, the traces of soap still left on the brush making my sensitive flesh tingle with heat. I gripped Dean’s biceps and moaned against his mouth.
He lifted his head, his eyes dark with lust. Without a word, he adjusted the brush, and then I felt the smooth, wooden handle press against the opening of my body. I gasped, my gaze flying to Dean’s. Sweat glistened on his cheekbones, beads of water still coating his chest.
I shifted forward, easing myself onto the wooden handle, feeling it slide against my inner flesh. It wasn’t long, but it was wide at the base with a shaft that narrowed before flaring into a thick knob in the middle. By the time I’d wiggled myself up to that point, my entire body was throbbing with need. I clenched around the handle and leaned my forehead on Dean’s chest.
“Dean.” A strain threaded my voice.
He edged his fingers into my pussy and rubbed my clit. I closed my eyes as tension coiled through me, heightened by the shaft pressing inside me. Two strokes of Dean’s adept fingers and I came with a shriek, vibrating around the brush handle as if it were his erection.
Before the tingles had begun to ebb, Dean pulled the handle from me and set the brush aside. He took my hand and guided it back to his cock, now damp and slick with fluids.
