Adore (Spiral of Bliss #4)

by Nina Lane

  Archer is quiet for a minute.

  “Well, damn,” he finally mutters.

  “I don’t want to entirely quit,” I continue. “It’s a great project, and I still want to help out. I just can’t direct it anymore. I was hoping you would.”

  Archer blinks. “You want me to lead the project?”

  “You’re way more qualified than I am,” I say. “And Mr. Jenkins respects you a hell of a lot more too. Now that the project is funded, you could hire a few more guys, get the work done faster and better than I ever could. It’d be like running your garage, only with historic trains.”

  Archer looks somewhat baffled, like he’d never have expected me to ask him something like this. “You’re serious?”

  “Sure. I can still help out with the research and stuff, but you need to be in charge.”

  He doesn’t respond for a minute.

  “If it means I get to tell your sorry ass what to do, I’m on board,” he finally says. “Thanks, man.”

  “Yeah, well, keep in mind you also have to let Florence Wickham squeeze your biceps at least once a week.”

  He grins. I push to my feet. We hold out our hands at the same time and shake. When I leave the train shed, I feel lighter, like something heavy has been lifted off my shoulders. Something to do with my brother.

  I head back to campus and call Florence to tell her Archer is taking over as project director.

  “Oh, Dean, what a wonderful idea!” she says, with so much delighted enthusiasm my ego takes a hit. “He’s perfect for the job.”

  “I thought you said I was perfect for the job,” I mutter.

  “Oh, you’re perfect for many jobs, my dear,” she assures me. “But perhaps not this one.”

  I grudgingly agree. After ending the call, I spend the rest of the afternoon working on a paper about castle architecture, which is much more familiar territory than old trains. I glance up when Frances Hunter knocks on the open door.

  “This just came in for you,” she says, handing me a padded envelope.

  The stamps are postmarked from Paris, and the World Heritage return address is in the corner. I peel off the packing tape and remove several folders containing reports from the UN Assembly.

  “As young people say today,” Frances remarks, “they think you’re the boss.”

  “I told Hans I can’t consider taking the job.” I leaf through a report about how to engage local communities in heritage preservation. “I won’t.”

  “Clearly he thinks you can be persuaded otherwise,” Frances says.

  “You know I have a life here.” I drop the report on top of the other documents and push the whole pile to the side. “Liv owns a business. We have a son, a house, a lawnmower. And no way do I want some other medievalist coming to King’s and taking over the program I started. I still can’t believe you think I’d consider saying yes.”

  Before Frances can respond, there’s another knock on the door. Jessica Burke comes in with a worn paperback.

  “Sorry for interrupting, but I wanted to return this,” she says, handing me the book. “I found a copy online. I have some good ideas based on Chaucer’s portraits of knights and merchants.”

  “Great. I’ll look through my bibliography and see if there’s anything else I can find for you.”

  Jessica glances from Frances back to me. “So can I ask what’s going on with the World Heritage position?”

  “They made an offer.” I drag a hand down my face. “But I’m not actively pursuing it, Jessica. I can’t leave King’s or Mirror Lake.”

  A flash of disappointment crosses her face. “I figured you’d say that. Did you and Hans talk about the Youth Experts program?”

  “I told him the WHC should get it up and running again,” I say. “And, Jessica, if you want to spearhead the organization of the program, I’d be more than happy to put in a good word for you.”

  “Me?” Jessica’s eyebrows lift. “I don’t want to organize the program.”

  “Why not? You’re the one who’s been advocating for it. You’d be great at directing and organizing.”

  “No way.” Jessica shakes her head. “I’m trying to finish my book, teach classes, apply for jobs. Now that my father is gone, my mom really needs me. I want to help with the Youth Experts program as much as I can, but I can’t take full responsibility for it right now. I was hoping you would.”

  “How could I?”

  “As assistant director, you’d be in charge of a bunch of different programs,” Jessica explains. “You could make the Youth Experts a priority.”

  It’s an idea I’ve found intriguing since she first mentioned it a few weeks ago. Working with students has always been one of the most rewarding parts of my career, and the idea of collaborating with young people around the world to protect historic sites is highly appealing.

  But…

  “As assistant director, I might be able to help the Youth Experts,” I tell Jessica. “But you know the job is highly political and involves a ton of negotiations and bureaucracy. Chances are slim I could even get the Youth program funded, let alone involved in specific projects.”

  Jessica shrugs, not looking convinced. “You’re the only one who cares enough to try. Certainly you’re the only one with enough influence to make a difference.”

  “It would be right in your wheelhouse, Dean,” Frances adds.

  “You saw the assistant director job description,” I tell her. “I don’t know how I’d get all that done in a day, much less have time to organize the Youth program.”

  “So there’s no way you would take the job?” Jessica asks.

  I shake my head, aware of Frances’s gaze. “I can’t.”

  That’s not a phrase I often use, and they both know it. Jessica and Frances exchange glances and turn to leave. I watch them go, hating the sense that I’ve somehow deeply disappointed them both.

  *

  I stop in the kitchen doorway and look at my wife. She’s washing dishes, her head bent as she rinses one of Nicholas’s cups. Her hair is tied up into a ponytail that exposes the graceful curve of her neck. A few strands are loose, drifting around her face and shoulders. I let myself gaze at her for a good long time—the shape of her breasts and hips, the length of her legs beneath her skirt, the pretty curve of her rear.

  I move into the kitchen and come up behind her, sliding my arms around her waist. She startles before giving a little laugh.

  “I didn’t even know you were there.”

  “Nicholas just fell asleep.” I press my lips to her warm nape and spread my hands over her torso. “And you look so good doing the dishes.”

  “Mmm. You should watch me when I’m vacuuming. I’m hotter than a firecracker the way I shimmy my hips around.”

  “Maybe you could do a private show for me one night.” I move my hands around to squeeze her gorgeous ass. “Maybe you could do one right now.”

  Liv flicks soap bubbles over her shoulder at me. “I need to finish these dishes and then work on some festival reports for the town council. I also want to get started on thank-you notes to all the people who painted chairs for the auction.”

  Clearly this is a challenge. I reach around her to turn off the water and push my groin up against her. Ah, damn, so soft and yielding. There are few things more perfect in the world than my wife’s ass.

  “Dean.” Liv squirms a little and nudges me with her elbow. “I have to work.”

  “Me too. I have to work my cock in and out of your sweet, tight pussy.”

  “Dean!” Liv gasps, her breath catching with that little noise that makes me hot in two seconds flat—as if I weren’t already getting hot just pressing my dick against her.

  “Come on, beauty.” I work my hands underneath her apron and slide them into the waistband of her skirt. Lust fires through me at the sensation of her soft, warm belly against my palms. “Let’s fuck.”

  She gives another breathless laugh and shakes her head, her ponytail swishing against my chest
like a swath of silk.

  “Later,” she promises.

  I groan. “I have a conference call in twenty minutes. No idea how long it will take.”

  “Well, now that I know you wanted a quickie, you can darned well wait until you have time to service me properly,” Liv remarks.

  “Don’t I always?”

  “Yeah, you do all right.” She turns in my arms, her expression amused. “Go take your call, professor. Who are you talking to?”

  “A couple of the medievalists who were at the UN Assembly. They’re interested in working with me on conservation techniques.”

  Liv studies me, her eyebrows pulling together. “You know, with all that’s been going on, I’ve neglected to tell you how proud I am of you.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  She shakes her head to stop my words. “Really, Dean. It’s incredible, what you’ve done. What you’re doing. I’ve been so caught up in how all the changes would affect me—us—that I haven’t even told you how extraordinary your work is. The impact you’re having on both history and the present… it’s beyond impressive. I’m so proud of you.”

  I brush a stray eyelash off Liv’s cheek, thinking that her praise means more to me than anything the World Heritage Center—or anyone else on the planet—could offer.

  “Thanks,” I say, aware of the painful inadequacy of the word.

  But all Liv has to do is look at me to see right into my heart.

  “You’re welcome.” She smiles. “Go take your call, hotshot.”

  I tug her ponytail, tilting her head back and pressing my lips against hers. “Be ready for me.”

  “Don’t take too long.” She brushes her hand over my chest and turns back to the sink.

  I head to my office and dial in to the conference call. It’s lengthy and detailed, covering conservation techniques for several different sites in Europe and South America. After the call, I check my email, which includes a message from Hans Klasen confirming our phone appointment on Monday.

  A knot pulls in my chest. There’s never been a question that my family comes first. Always. And I hate knowing that by turning the WHC job down, Liv will still feel responsible for what she thinks is a missed opportunity. No matter how much she doesn’t want to change our lives.

  I finish up some other work and shut down my computer. I check all the doors in the Butterfly House to make sure they’re locked and turn off the lights before going upstairs.

  I stop in Nicholas’s room. He sleeps with his fists bunched up on either side of his head, exactly the way he did as an infant. His mouth is open, a faint whistling coming from his nose with every breath.

  Makes no sense that we only have one heart to contain all these emotions. I brush my hand over my son’s head and pull the blanket up around him before going into the master bedroom. Liv is in bed, a book open on her lap and her head tilted to the side as she dozes.

  I put her book on the nightstand and turn off the light. After changing into pajama bottoms, I climb into bed. Liv turns to me sleepily like she always does, a movement as dependable as the sunrise, tucking her head under my chin and shifting her body against mine. No matter how hard she sleeps, she always turns to me when I get into bed. I wrap my arms around her and pull her closer.

  A perfect fit. My head fills with the scent of peaches. Any lingering tension in my chest disappears. I feel Liv start to wake, to realize I’m there.

  “Oh, sorry,” she whispers, rubbing her cheek against my shoulder. “I really was waiting for you.”

  “Yeah, I could tell by the way you were snoring. Very seductive.”

  She chuckles and pokes me in the stomach. “I do not snore.”

  “Uh, sure you don’t,” I assure her.

  She pokes me again and lifts her head, her thick hair tumbling over her face. I reach up to brush it back, sliding my hand over her cheek. She shifts upward to press her soft lips against mine. I breathe her in, letting the feel of her fill every part of me.

  “Before I fell asleep, I was thinking about our honeymoon,” Liv says.

  “What were you thinking?”

  “I was remembering one afternoon,” Liv murmurs against my mouth, running her hand across my chest. “We’d just been to the Rodin Museum, and we stopped at a patisserie to get some brioche to have with coffee when we got back to the apartment. The second we stepped outside, the skies just opened up with a torrent of rain, like Zeus himself had ordered a thunderstorm. Lightning cracked through the black clouds, and everyone outside started hurrying for shelter.

  “I tucked the bag of brioche under my sweater, you grabbed my hand, and we started running toward the apartment like we could somehow escape it. But it was pouring so much that we were soaked within seconds, and then I stumbled on the curb. You stopped to steady me, and we were both absolutely drenched, water streaming into our eyes and ruining our shoes. And do you remember what we did?”

  “I remember.”

  “We looked at each other and started to laugh.” Liv presses kisses over my cheeks, down to my jaw and neck. “I can still hear your laugh, echoing against the old buildings and cobblestones, more resonant than the thunder. We were laughing so hard we couldn’t move, so we just stood there, getting more drenched with every second. By the time we managed to regain our composure and get back to the apartment building, we were literally soaked to the skin. We left puddles of water all over the stairs until we finally reached the apartment.”

  She circles her hand over my chest, her warm mouth sliding over the side of my neck, her hair like silk against my skin. Her touch alone fires heat through my blood. When she rubs her full breasts over my chest, my cock starts to harden.

  “Do you remember what happened then?” she whispers.

  How could I forget?

  I fist the length of her hair into my hand and pull her head up. Her brown eyes are heavy with growing desire, her pale skin colored with a slight flush.

  “I remember,” I say before pulling her into another kiss.

  The door slamming behind us. Turning to look at Liv, her hair plastered to her head, her eyes bright with laughter, rain trickling over her face. My mermaid wife.

  My wife.

  Grabbing her shoulders, crowding her up against the door, crushing her mouth with mine. Her gasp of surprise, then her open, eager response as she parted her lips to let me inside. Both of us laughing again as we struggled to peel the wet clothes off each other right there in the foyer. Water evaporating into steam.

  “Best storm I’ve ever been in,” Liv remarks, lifting her head with a smile, her breath hot against my lips.

  “What happened to the brioche?” I ask.

  “They landed on the floor, and we squished them when you rolled me over.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  An image of her rolled over flashes in my head—her beautiful, round ass perched right in front of me, her legs spread in invitation. Her desire-dark eyes as she turned to look at me over her shoulder, breathlessly begging me to fuck her.

  Lust surges through me. I start to reach for the folds of her nightgown, but she pushes away from me.

  “Don’t move.” She lifts her gown over her head and drops it to the floor.

  I groan. The sight of her naked jerks my cock into full hardness. I reach into the waistband of my boxers and grab my dick, squeezing it. Liv rises to her knees, all voluptuous curves, her full breasts topped with stiff, dark pink nipples. I reach out to caress them, palming their weight before sliding one hand between her thighs.

  “Oh!” She gasps as I probe into her damp sex, her clit quivering against my forefinger. She grabs my wrist. “Dean, wait. Not yet.”

  Reluctantly, I pull my hand away, beckoning her closer.

  “C’mere,” I order. “I want my wife.”

  “You have your wife,” she assures me, lowering her head to kiss the hollow of my throat. “Every minute of every day. And right now she’s going to have you.”

  She trails kisses in a
line down my chest and over my abdomen, her breasts sliding over my thigh. When she cups the bulge of my cock through my pants, heat jolts through me. Liv glances up at me with a smile, tracing the edge of my pants before hooking her fingers into them and tugging them down. My dick springs free like it just escaped confinement.

  Liv murmurs something low in her throat, wrapping one hand around the shaft and stroking. Ah, shit. Her cool fingers against my hot skin almost makes me come. A grunt escapes me as I push up into her fist, both wanting her to get me off and wanting this to last for hours.

  Her breath puffs against my aching shaft as she licks the tip. Pressure tightens my entire body. I inhale a rush of air when she starts taking my cock into her mouth, enveloping me in wet heat. I grip her hair at the nape of her neck to keep it from falling into her face and concealing the view.

  I love watching her lips slide over my shaft, her eyes half-closed with her thick lashes like feathers. She circles the base of my dick with her hand, lowering her mouth halfway down before sliding back up.

  It’s so fucking good that I could come any second, but I want to be deep inside her when I do. I pull her up toward me, grasping her hips to roll her onto her back. Her eyes are glazed with lust, her breath coming in little gasps, her skin flushed. My perfect wife.

  I slide my hands over her naked body, pinching her nipples as I get between her legs, spreading her thighs apart to expose her wet pussy. I circle my thumb around her clit before lowering my head to lick her cleft.

  “Dean!” Liv gasps, twining her fingers into my hair as she arches upward. “Oh, God.”

  Her body vibrates with need. I settle between her thighs, sliding my tongue over her folds and back down into her tight slit. Little moans stream from her throat as she writhes underneath me, her fingers clenching and unclenching in my hair, her legs winding over my shoulders.

  Ah, Christ. My dick throbs against the bed sheet. The taste and scent of my wife fills my head. I spread her open and push my tongue into her, feeling her start to tense with urgency.