by Nina Lane
I am on top.
Or, in this case, being on the bottom is just fine with me too. Not even work or a fancy job opening can deter Professor and Mrs. West from getting their groove back, good and hard. With apple pie.
I hum a little tune as I get breakfast ready a few days after our hot kitchen encounter and Dean’s continued lessons, which have me on edge pretty much all the time now. Between that and remembering how it felt to sit on the counter and let him drive into me, my breasts jostling, his cock slamming into me again and again… I shiver. My heart thumps.
Oh, yeah. I still got it. Hot mama. Yummy mummy. MILF.
“B’nana!” Nicholas calls from the table.
My little fantasy breaks apart. “Just a sec.”
I grab a banana and slice it in half, removing the peel as I bring it to the table and set it on Nicholas’s plate. Dean left for campus early this morning, which is sort of a bummer since Nicholas is scheduled for daycare this morning. I could have dropped him off, then come back home and…
“Oat,” Nicholas remarks, digging into his cinnamon oatmeal.
A bolt of embarrassment hits me as I gaze at my beautiful, innocent son.
Good heavens, what kind of mother am I for being anxious to drop my kid at daycare so I can get sexy with my husband?
This isn’t an issue they’ve covered in Mommy and Me class.
I sit down and help Nicholas scrape up the last of his oatmeal before I get us both ready for the day. After running errands in the morning and working the afternoon shift at the café, I grab a takeout salad for dinner and head to City Hall to meet with the festival planning committee.
Things are falling into place, with Edison Power still reviewing my package for a high-level sponsorship, the food vendors secured, and the art booths organized.
I have a short list of things I’m going to ask Dean to help with. I’m happy about the idea that he and I will be doing something together that will benefit the town. We’ve always worked together for each other, our son, our marriage, and we restored the Butterfly House together, but we’ve never worked together for a greater cause, as it were.
It’s close to eight by the time the meeting wraps up, and I drive back to the Butterfly House. The porch lights are on, but the house is dark.
I go inside and turn on the kitchen lights. There’s a white covered box on the central island, with a note beside it.
Beauty’s Orders
Put these on. Come to the bar at the Wildwood Inn and await further instructions.
P.S. Nicholas is with Archer and Kelsey. He has Binky bear, a million building blocks, and a double-chocolate brownie. He might not want to come home.
I smile and pull the lid off the box. Nestled in tissue paper is a black lace baby doll edged with purple ribbon, sheer thigh highs, a black G-string, three-inch black pumps, and… a long beige raincoat.
I stare at the items in confusion for a second before shock hits me.
Omigod. I’m supposed to put these on and go meet Dean at a hotel bar wearing nothing else.
How wrong.
How wicked.
How scandalous.
Excitement ripples down my spine.
I’ve never been scandalous before. Heck, I’ve never even been risqué, unless you count the time Dean and I got hot and heavy on the seventeenth-floor balcony of an LA high-rise. Of course, the chances of anyone seeing us at that height were slim, but still, it was definitely a sexual adventure.
And while Dean’s and my sex life has always—mostly—been fantastically satisfying and explosive, we’ve never swung from the chandeliers, experimented with exotic sex toys, played kinky games…
Well, then. Maybe we should start.
My heartbeat kicks up a notch. I can’t imagine it.
Olivia West—thirty-three years old, the mother of a toddler, a respectable businesswoman and owner of a birthday party café, planner of the Mirror Lake Bicentennial Festival—getting kinky with her husband.
On the other hand… Why not?
Adventure awaits, right? This is certainly an adventure.
I grab the bag and hurry up to the bedroom. I take a quick shower and rub lotion all over my body before slithering into the skimpy panties, black stockings, and baby doll, which pushes my breasts together into a plump, deep cleavage before draping over my hips to the tops of my thighs.
Nice.
I brush my hair until it shines, leaving it loose around my shoulders because that’s the way Dean likes it. I apply more dramatic makeup than usual—smoky eyeshadow, red lipstick, black mascara—and slip into the black heels.
I go back downstairs to put on the raincoat. As I belt it around my waist, a wave of anxiety crashes over me.
No way. I can’t do this. What if I get a flat tire or a speeding ticket and have to deal with a police officer? Even if I do make it to the bar safely, I can’t sit there in a raincoat, knowing I’m half-naked underneath.
Or can I?
I take a deep breath and check my phone. No message from Dean, but a text from Kelsey appears. N’s playing drums w/Archer. Movie later. He’s having a ball. Enjoy your night w/o worry.
I send her a quick thanks and tuck the phone into my purse. I give myself a firm nod in the mirror. Sure, I’m a mother, a businesswoman, festival coordinator, member of a mom’s group, et cetera… but I’m also a wife.
More specifically, Dean West’s wife.
As I drive downtown to the Wildwood Inn, I remember the storm of emotions rolling through me when Dean and I got married. Excitement, overwhelming love, joy, pride, astonishment—and a deep, abiding certainty that every part of my life had been leading me right to the moment when Dean closed his hand around mine and told me he would never let go.
But I’d already known that. I’d known since the instant his fingers brushed the sleeve of my ratty gray sweatshirt the day we met. Once Professor Dean West takes hold of you, he doesn’t let go.
I pull into the hotel parking lot and spend about five minutes gathering my courage before I get out of the car. It’s a little chilly out, so at least the coat isn’t completely out of place.
I walk to the hotel entrance, making sure my belt is double-knotted and the coat is buttoned up to my neck. The doorman smiles at me and opens the door.
My stomach tightens with nerves. The lobby is hushed and quiet, a few guests sitting in the carpeted area near the oak staircase. Across from the reception desk, voices rise from the bar—an elegant, Old World-style room with stained-glass windows, plush chairs and couches, and glittering lamps.
I am not accustomed to frequenting such stylish places alone—much less wearing nothing but sexy lingerie under my coat—but I straighten my shoulders and enter the bar like I know exactly what I’m doing.
I look around quickly, hoping to spot Dean seated in one of the intimate, shadowed booths or at least waiting for me at the bar. He’s nowhere to be seen.
I glance at my watch. It’s nine-fifteen. Dean didn’t give me a specific time to be here, though I can’t imagine he’d expect it to be much later than this. In our normal routine, we do tend to be in bed by ten… sleeping.
But this is hardly our normal routine.
I walk to the bar, my heels clicking against the hardwood floor. Well-dressed patrons sit at the tables, sipping fancy cocktails, their conversations punctuated by low laughter. I maneuver onto a barstool as the surfer-boy handsome, blond bartender glides over to place a napkin in front of me. He smiles, his teeth as white as peppermints.
“Good evening, miss,” he remarks. “You can leave your coat at the front rack, if you’d like.”
A blush scorches my face.
“That’s okay.” I give him a bright smile. “I’m a bit chilly.”
“A drink to warm you up, then?” he asks, letting his gaze slip over me.
I figure I’d better limit my alcohol intake. Even though I’m not sure what Dean has planned, I do know I want to be entirely lucid for it.
“C
lub soda with lime,” I say. “Or can you make me something without too much alcohol?”
“I can make you anything you want,” the bartender replies with a wink.
I wonder if he’s flirting with me. Wouldn’t that be something?
“Should I surprise you?” he asks.
“Okay. Just not too much alcohol.”
“Are you under twenty-one?”
I laugh. “You’re closer to twenty-one than I am.”
“I don’t know about that.” He leans his elbows on the counter. “I’m going to have to see your ID.”
I shake my head in amusement, thinking he’s joking, but he doesn’t move, his gaze holding mine. With a shrug, I dig into my purse for my wallet and show him my driver’s license.
“Olivia,” he says, studying my license. “Pretty name.”
“And plenty old,” I add.
“Not so much.” He hands my license back. “You’re five years older than me. That doesn’t make you a cougar.”
A bubble of laughter rises into my throat.
“My drink?” I ask.
“Yeah, sorry.” He pushes away from the counter. “One low-alcohol surprise cocktail coming up.”
Still smiling, I turn to scan the bar again. The clientele is mostly men, though several women in shiny, sheath dresses and elegant gold jewelry sip martinis and cosmopolitans.
No sign of Dean yet. An older gentleman at a corner table catches my eye and raises his glass.
It takes me a second to realize that—aside from being conspicuous as the only woman in the bar wearing a raincoat—the coat has parted at the fold, exposing a significant length of my stocking-clad leg.
The man’s attention makes me wonder what would have happened if Dean and I had met like this—in a hotel bar with me showing off my assets, rather than outside a university registrar’s office with me picking myself up off the sidewalk.
“Professors have a lot of power,” he said.
I almost smiled. “Even medieval history professors?”
“Especially medieval history professors,” he assured me.
“Knights on horseback and all that?”
A responding smile tugged at his mouth. “And damsels in distress.”
Ours wasn’t a romance of cocktails and silk sheets. Ours was a romance of library call numbers, coffee cake, rainy weekends, history textbooks, and boring foreign films. We might not have happened any other way.
Some things, I think, were clearly meant to be.
A shiver of awareness ripples over my skin.
I glance at the entrance to the bar. My breath catches in my throat. Dean is walking toward me, his stride long and assured, his muscular body sheathed in a navy tailored suit that fits him to perfection.
He’s not just in full professor mode; he’s in full Dean West mode with his perfectly knotted tie and air of complete authority. Other patrons glance at him as he crosses the room. The overhead lights burnish his hair and cast shadows on the masculine planes of his face.
My heart gives a wild, spinning leap. I turn on the barstool to watch him—my breathtakingly beautiful husband who commands attention like a king holding court, but whose eyes remain unwaveringly fixed on me.
Oh, Dean. I’ve missed you.
He stops in front of me and extends his hand. “Dean West.”
I smile. “Well, I know that.”
He raises an eyebrow, his hand still extended.
Oh!
“I’m Olivia… Winter.” I slip my hand into his. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Olivia Winter.” His deep voice envelops my name like dark chocolate spilling over a ripe cherry. “Pretty.”
“Thanks.” I’m getting a little breathless.
Dean’s fingers close around mine in a warm, secure handshake that sends a tingle clear up my arm. The scent of his shaving soap tickles my nose. I slip my hand slowly from his and gesture to the barstool beside me.
“Would you like to sit down?” I ask.
“Only if I can buy you a drink.”
“Okay.” I glance to the other end of the bar, where the bartender is still making my drink. “I just ordered.”
“And so will I.” He sits beside me, his sleeve brushing against mine.
My heart thumps with a slow, heavy beat. A hint of nervous excitement winds through me—as if he really is a strikingly handsome stranger whom I know nothing about except that I’m captivated by his presence.
“May I take your coat?” he asks, slanting his gaze over my body.
“Maybe later.” I give him a sultry, sidelong glance. “Mr. West.”
“You can call me sir.”
Yes, I most certainly can.
“Maybe later,” I murmur. “Sir.”
The bartender returns, faltering slightly when he sees Dean sitting beside me.
“Here you go, miss.” He sets a pretty, pink drink garnished with a cherry in front of me. “Grapefruit juice, sparkling wine, a touch of syrup.”
“Put it on my tab,” Dean says.
“Yes, sir.”
“And I’ll have a scotch on the rocks.”
“Yes, sir.” The bartender hurries to get the drink.
“So.” I shift, letting the raincoat display a bit more of my stocking-clad leg. “What do you do, sir?”
“I’m a venture capitalist and businessman,” he replies. “I own an international conglomerate of companies branded under the name the Beauty Group.”
“I think I’ve heard of that.”
“We have about five hundred companies,” he continues, nodding his thanks as the bartender sets the scotch in front of him. “Travel, multimedia, entertainment, finance, hotels.”
“Impressive,” I remark. “You must be quite wealthy.”
He shrugs, like he can’t be bothered to consider his billions-of-dollars net worth.
“And you?” he asks. “What do you do, Miss Winter?”
“I’m an actress.”
“Really?” He turns to face me, resting an elbow on the bar. “Stage or screen?”
“Stage, of course.” I toss my hair back over my shoulder. “Movies are so pedestrian. Stage acting is so much more intimate and challenging. There’s no room for error when you’re on stage in front of a live audience.”
“Hmm. A risk-taker, are you?”
“Under the right circumstances, I can be.”
“Interesting.” Dean puts his warm hand beneath my chin, turning my face toward his. “And what are the right circumstances?”
“Maybe…” I glance up at him from beneath my eyelashes. “You, Mr. West.”
“Ah.” He brushes his thumb across my lips, his eyes gleaming with something dark and dangerous. “Right or wrong, make no mistake, Miss Winter. I’m not a circumstance.”
“What are you, then?”
“I’m your goddamned destiny.”
He lowers his mouth to mine. All the breath escapes my lungs. But instead of the hot, hard kiss I’d been expecting—anticipating—his lips are gentle, caressing, a tease rather than an onslaught.
And yet the effect on me is devastating—my blood goes into full boil, heat pooling in my lower body. By the time Dean lifts his head and eases away from me, I’m dizzy with longing.
“Another drink?” The bartender’s voice slices through my haze as he plunks a bowl of salted nuts in front of us.
“Not for me.” Dean glances at me, his expression simmering with heat. “Miss Winter?”’
“No.” I pull in a breath. “No, thank you.”
The bartender nods and walks to the other end of the bar to assist another customer. Dean puts his hand on my thigh beneath the counter and finds the opening of my coat. His fingers brush against my leg, his touch sending heat shooting across my skin.
“So why the raincoat?” he asks, gliding his fingers discreetly up and down my leg. “Is that part of the risk-taking?”
“I… I just came from the theater,” I reply, making an effort not to squirm on the bar
stool. “I’m still in costume.”
“What kind of costume?”
“One I can’t show a stranger.”
“Too sexy?” He moves his hand up my thigh far enough to reach the edge of my stocking.
My breath shortens. Dean slips his fingers into my stocking. His eyes darken with growing heat.
“Too… slutty,” I murmur.
“Tell me,” he orders, easing off the barstool to stand beside me, blocking me from view of the rest of the room.
“It’s a black lace baby doll with purple ruffles,” I whisper, tensing a little when his hand glides toward my inner thigh. “It’s… well, it’s a little tight around my breasts, but I kind of like that because it feels really good on my nipples. And I’m wearing a flimsy little G-string, and thigh-high stockings.”
“Hmm.” A faint growl rumbles in his chest. “What role were you playing?”
“The wife of a medieval history professor who acts out all her husband’s dirty fantasies. It’s called The Secret Life of Professor West. You should come see it sometime.”
“Maybe I will.” Amusement sparks beneath the heat in Dean’s eyes as he slips his hand between my thighs, urging them slightly apart.
A gasp catches in my throat. I curl my hand around his wrist, glancing nervously past his shoulder to see if anyone notices exactly what we’re doing over here.
“You shouldn’t do that, sir,” I say.
“I’ll stop if you unbutton your coat and show me your breasts.”
Oh my God. Desire bolts through me, centering in my core. I swallow, tightening my grip on his wrist.
“I don’t think I can do that.”
“Not all the way. Just a little.”
He nudges his groin against my thigh. He’s already half-hard. I almost moan aloud, suppressing the urge to slide my hand down the front of his gorgeous suit and cup his growing erection in my hand.
I glance around again to make sure no one else is paying attention to us, then I quickly unfasten a few buttons of the coat to reveal the V of my cleavage. Shielding me with his body, Dean gazes at my breasts with hot appreciation before pressing his mouth close to my ear.
“Are your nipples hard?” he asks, his voice echoing deep inside my blood.
“Yes,” I breathe, shifting and trying not to press my legs together.
