Adore (Spiral of Bliss #4)

by Nina Lane

  Dean doesn’t look terribly mollified. I can see him bristling with the urge to argue, but to his credit, he only gives me a grudging nod.

  “I’m watching you, Mrs. West,” he mutters. “And I’ll give you this one, but it’s clear you haven’t yet learned your lesson.”

  “Maybe I need a time out.” I slide my hand down his muscular torso. “A big, thick, long time out…”

  Renewed heat flares in his eyes as he lowers his head to slant his mouth across mine. Cinnamon, sugar, apples, and Dean. Again, I let the rest of the world fall away.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ‡

  DEAN

  There’s one thing better than a good plan. A good plan that works.

  And though I haven’t yet devised a plan for getting Liv to let me buy the birthday party truck, my other plans are working out very well. So well, in fact, that I divide my time during the next few days between fielding ideas from architects and seismologists about how to stabilize the monastery and thinking of ways to keep my wife hot and needy. This is not, as it turns out, nearly as much of a disconnect as one would imagine.

  I plan another erotic encounter, breaking up the day by calling Liv a couple of times and warning her not to touch herself. I swear, the order alone gets her going, like she’s been told she can’t have a bite of a fresh-baked cookie—tempting, mouth-watering, and off-limits.

  “Are you in your office?” I ask, lowering my voice an octave.

  “Yes.” The word comes out on a breathless sigh that makes my dick twitch. “Are you?”

  “Uh huh. Door’s locked?”

  “Just a sec.” A pause fills the line before she says, “It is now. I’m working on payroll.”

  I can see her sitting at her desk¸ her eyes starting to darken with need, her skin flushed and lips parted. She’s wearing a purple Wonderland Café apron, but beneath that her nipples are pressing against her white shirt, and any minute now she’ll start to squirm…

  “Unbutton your shirt,” I tell her.

  There’s a rustling noise beneath the sound of her breath. “All the way?”

  “Just enough so you can reach into your bra and fondle your breasts.”

  “God, Dean.”

  “Do it.”

  A small moan escapes her, followed by heavy silence.

  “You’d better not be touching your pussy,” I remark.

  “I’m… I’m not. But I want to so badly.” She pulls in a breath. “We’re working with this band called Slice of Pie for the festival, and I was listening to some of their songs earlier so we could come up with a playlist and—”

  “You’re really not allowed to talk about work.”

  “No, this isn’t about work… I mean, I was listening to this song about cherry pie, in the sky, hoping it will drop from high, juicy and hot, gimme a lot… and oh my God, Dean, it’s so wrong but I was getting incredibly aroused thinking of baking you a cherry pie and imagining what you’d do with all that sweet, drippy filling…”

  Hmm. Now I know what she’s baking for me this weekend.

  “And what were you imagining?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “What would I do with the cherry pie filling?”

  “You’d spread it over my nipples and lick it off,” Liv says breathlessly. “And you’d feed me the gooey cherries with your fingers and make me suck them clean. And you’d scoop up spoonfuls and eat them, then kiss me all sticky and hot while you pushed your cock into my pussy… oh…”

  I give a muffled laugh, rubbing the front of my pants. Doesn’t take much from my wife to get me hard. Just picturing her with pie filling smeared over her round tits, her lips glossy with cherry juice…

  Ah, fuck. My dick is starting to throb.

  “Take off your panties,” I tell Liv.

  “What?”

  “Reach under your skirt and strip off your panties. Now.”

  Her breath catches. There’s a rustling noise on the other end of the phone before Liv’s voice comes through again.

  “Okay,” she says. “They’re off.”

  “Now go back to work.”

  “Without any underwear?” She sounds faintly shocked, as if her customers will somehow know she’s naked under her skirt.

  “Without any underwear.” I lower my voice. “I want you to feel your wet pussy rubbing together with every step. I want you to think about spreading your legs for me, taking my cock in, bending over to show me your pretty, naked ass. I want your nipples to be hard for the rest of the day, so you can imagine me sucking them after I rip your clothes off. I want you to think about how fucking good it’s going to feel when I plunge inside you deep enough to make you scream.”

  No response, aside from her heavy, panting breaths. Finally she whispers, “Okay.”

  Despite my throbbing cock, I can’t help grinning. “Okay.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you, beauty. Don’t you dare put your panties back on.”

  I end the call and spend the next few minutes thinking about medieval arms and armor to get my mind off all the dirty things I want to do to my wife right this second.

  When I have myself under control again, I pull out my cell phone and send Liv a text: Be good, and I’ll fuck you again tonight.

  A response comes a few seconds later: That would be lovely, dear, but I don’t think your wife would approve.

  What the…?

  I check the number and groan. I push the call button, a burn of embarrassment crawling up my chest. “Florence, I’m so sorry.”

  She laughs. “Don’t be. You gave me something to… think about.”

  “This is why I hate texting.”

  “I believe that was called sexting,” she replies. “Not that I know anything about that, although Mr. Jenkins did send me a message about engine drivers the other day.”

  “If he’s hitting on you, let me know and I’ll set him straight.”

  “Actually, if you could give him some pointers, I’d be most grateful,” Florence replies rather wistfully. “I asked him to come over one evening to discuss tie plates, but he refused because he didn’t want to miss the early bird special at the World Buffet.”

  “Does he already have a girlfriend?”

  “Seriously, Dean? You think a man that clueless has a girlfriend? He clearly lost his game along with most of his hair.”

  “So why do you want to go out with him?”

  “He’s a widower who was married for forty-three years,” she replies. “He likes to garden, doesn’t talk too much, and has a hobby to occupy his time so he won’t get on my nerves. Speaking of which, have you contacted engineers about the train restoration yet? Or gotten blueprints?”

  I curse inwardly and scribble a reminder to myself on a notepad.

  “Not yet,” I tell Florence. “I’ll get to it soon.”

  “Let me know as soon as you do,” she replies. “I’ll speak with you later, Dean. Tell Liv she’s a lucky girl, though I’m sure she already knows that.”

  After we say goodbye and end the call, I turn to my computer and hammer out a few emails to railroad associations. I should be working on a paper about feudal social relationships, but I spend two hours looking for information about engine restoration, the details of which I don’t understand anyway.

  By late afternoon, I’m ready to get away from my desk. I grab my duffle bag with the intention of going to the gym. Instead I find myself driving to Archer’s garage.

  He’s crouched beside a Harley, checking the tires. He glances up when my shadow falls over him.

  “Hey, man.” He stands and reaches for a greasy rag. “What’re you doing here?”

  “You want to go out for a beer?”

  “With you?”

  “Yeah, with me.” Discomfort flickers in my chest. “Who else?”

  “Uh, sure.” Archer tosses the rag aside and jerks his thumb toward the office. “Just gotta finish a few things.”

  I follow him into the office a
nd sit on the worn sofa, noticing the half-eaten sub sandwich on the desk.

  “You remember those weird sandwiches you used to like?” I ask. “Swiss cheese and ketchup. Peanut butter and mayo.”

  Archer chuckles, his attention on the computer. “I was a weird kid.”

  “I was a ten-year-old expert on the Crusades and King Arthur,” I remind him. “That didn’t make for great small talk with other kids on the soccer field.”

  “You never had a problem with anyone.”

  Except me.

  The unspoken words hang in the air. Though Archer and I have patched things up, we’ve never talked much about the old slings and arrows that broke apart our relationship in the first place—the fight when I told him our father wasn’t Archer’s real father.

  It’s a memory still corroded with regret. I’ll never know how different things would have been if I hadn’t revealed the secret my mother wanted desperately to keep. If Archer hadn’t discovered he wasn’t a true West.

  Or if he’d known how often I’d wished I was the one with a different father—not because I was ungrateful for what Richard West had done for me, but because I’d never been able to deviate from my set path. Archer had spent his life veering off paths. Making his own.

  “Hey, I was doing some research on the steam locomotive.” Archer pulls a stack of papers out of a drawer. “Looks like I can order the parts from a dealer in Tennessee. He also put me in touch with an engineer who built one of the engines.”

  Relief rises in me as I take the papers. “That’s great, man, thanks. I didn’t know where to start with the engine stuff.”

  I look through the papers as Archer finishes his work, then goes into the other room to change.

  Again, not for the first time, I wonder if things would have been different if my brother had followed his mechanical inclinations toward engineering or a white-collar job that would have made our father proud. Then I think there was probably little Archer could have done to make our father proud—through no fault of his own.

  “Where should we go?” Archer comes out of the backroom, pulling a T-shirt over his head. “I could go for some food too.”

  “Pizza?”

  “Always.”

  We head out to my car, and I drive to a combination pizza parlor and arcade that has both classic and new video games. Wooden tables line the place, filled with teens and older, beer-drinking guys.

  I get us a table, and Archer goes to the counter to order. He returns with two beers and a bag full of tokens.

  “Challenge,” he says, sliding into the booth across from me. “Lowest overall score buys the tokens, pizza, and beer.”

  “Challenge accepted.” I click my bottle against his.

  When the pizza arrives, we divide it up and eat. Thankfully, our conversation isn’t as strained as I’d thought it would be. Archer and I can still talk about sports, cars, politics, and music, even if we have different opinions.

  “Hey, I’m taking Nicholas to the downtown fire truck parade next weekend,” I tell him, reaching for another slice of pizza. “They let the kids sit in the trucks at the end of the parade. You want to go with us?”

  “Sure, but only if I get to turn on the siren.”

  I grin. “I’ll make arrangements.”

  He grabs the jar of pepper flakes and shakes some onto his pizza. “Liv hear anything about the loan for the party truck?”

  I shake my head, still not liking the idea of her tackling a new venture right now—and not liking that I don’t like it. Much as I want to support everything Liv wants to do, I’ll be damned if our marriage is going to get derailed because she can’t keep her mind off one project or another.

  “I have a lead on another pickup they could use,” Archer says. “I’ll check it out before Kelsey and I go to Texas.”

  “Thanks. When do you leave?”

  “After the festival. Liv asked me to help out at the children’s stage, and Kelsey is organizing the art booths. What did you get roped into?”

  “Nothing yet. I’ll probably hang out with Nicholas.” I take another swallow of beer. Don’t know if it’s the alcohol or what, but I say, “So Kelsey said you want to marry her.”

  Archer’s jaw tightens. “Yeah.”

  “She’s independent,” I say. “Likes to run her own show.”

  “You don’t need to tell me anything about my girl,” Archer says. “I know her.”

  “She tell you why she doesn’t want to get married?”

  “Just that everything’s so great… which it is… that she doesn’t want it to change.” Archer shrugs. “Makes no sense. She drives into storms, man. She travels all over the country. Hell, all over the world. She studies tornados, which are always changing.”

  “Maybe that’s it,” I suggest. “When everything else changes, her relationship with you doesn’t. Security, you know?”

  Archer doesn’t respond. A shadow crosses his face, one I recognize all too well. The lingering sense that he’s still not good enough for a woman like Kelsey March.

  “Let’s do it.” Archer pushes his bottle away and grabs the bag of game tokens. “Pac-Man first. You’re going down.”

  We spend the next couple of hours moving from one video game to the next, breaking only for more beer before firing at asteroids, speeding down a NASCAR track, battling street fighters, and dodging Donkey Kong. I keep track of our scores in my notebook, which makes Archer laugh.

  We return to our table to finish the cold pizza. After I tally our scores, I push the notebook across to Archer with a grimace.

  “You win by eight hundred points,” I say. “Centipede put you over the top. I never did like that game.”

  “Excuses, excuses.” Archer tears the page out of the notebook and puts it in his pocket. “Souvenir. I can’t remember the last time I beat you at a game, so I’ll take what I can get.”

  We clink our bottles. I glance at my watch.

  “I should go in about half an hour,” I say. “I told Liv I’d be home by nine. She took Nicholas to a kids’ concert at the museum.”

  “So how’s it been?” Archer asks, chewing on a stale crust of pizza. “Parenting.”

  I wonder if he wants me to tell him it’s incredible, phenomenal, all that I dreamed it would be. In some ways, it is. In other ways, not so much.

  I pick at the label on my beer bottle and don’t answer.

  “Dean?”

  “Sometimes it’s great,” I finally admit. “Other times it’s tough. Or it’s even great and tough at the same time.”

  Archer remains silent, like he’s waiting for me to continue.

  “I mean, Nicholas is amazing,” I say. “And Liv is an incredible mother. It’s fucking insane how much I love them. There’s stuff that’s beyond anything, like Nicholas saying Daddy for the first time or taking his first steps, or watching him laugh. Times like that I feel like even if I had a million hearts, it still wouldn’t be enough.”

  I continue picking at the label. The noise of the video games drifts from the arcade.

  “But?” Archer asks.

  “Man, it’s rough sometimes.” I shake my head. “When he’s tired or cranky and can’t tell you what he wants. Or when Liv and I can’t do things the way we used to. Or when Nicholas won’t sleep. One time last year he got sick overnight, like burning up with a fever and having trouble breathing, and he ended up in ICU.

  “Longest night of my life. I started imagining what might happen to him, and I wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. It was so fucking terrifying. Then when we knew he’d be okay, I almost hit the floor with relief.”

  I concentrate on peeling the label off the bottle, not sure where this is all coming from, but not regretting that I’m telling my brother.

  “I fell in love with Liv fast,” I say. “Hard too, like bam. And I figured that was enough, like I didn’t need or want anything else for the rest of my life. I’d won the lottery. All I needed was her.

  “Then we had Nicholas,
and suddenly there are two people in the world I can’t protect from everything bad. I can’t fix all their problems, right all the wrongs done to them, always make it better. And no matter how often I tell myself it’s not rational to want all that, I still do. I always will. But I have to live with the fact that I can’t. And that sucks, man.”

  I sit back, sweeping the litter of paper on the table into a pile. Then I shake my head, embarrassed by the confession.

  “You remember when Liv had the miscarriage?” Archer asks. “And you had it in your head I’d upset her in some way?”

  Shame scorches my chest. “I remember. Sorry, man. I was messed up.”

  “Yeah. But I got it. Why you’d think that, I mean. Why you expected me to screw up or didn’t trust me. I worked hard at baiting you my whole life. I wanted you to think the worst of me because it was what I thought of myself. Until I met Kelsey.”

  I glance at him. He’s staring at his bottle, his forehead creased.

  “It’s the same thing,” he says. “I thought she was all I’d need. But I want more. I want to give her everything, you know?”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  “But what do you do when the woman you love doesn’t want everything?” Archer asks.

  “You wait.”

  “Wait?”

  “Until she’s ready.”

  “Well, how do you know how long that’ll be?”

  “You don’t, man,” I say. “But you wait anyway. You wait for as long as it takes because you know there’s no other choice.”

  I get up from the booth and take out my wallet, dropping a few bills onto the table.

  “And I promise you, Archer,” I say. “The wait will give you the biggest damned prize of your life. And you’ll know you’d do it again, a thousand times over. You’d wait longer than an eternity for her. That’s how worth it she is.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ‡

  OLIVIA

  Yes!

  I’m making a comeback, baby. I’m like Cher in the 1990s. I’m Martha Stewart after she got out of prison, and Justin Timberlake after he left NSYNC. I’m the Boston Red Sox in the ninth inning of the 2004 World Series.