by Lane, Nina
An orgasm pulses through Dean’s cock like a wave. He grunts and pushes forward into my fist, spilling over my breasts and belly. It’s a sight that has me gasping with need, but before I can say anything, he slides down and pushes my legs apart.
The instant his tongue swipes across my clit, I shatter. I clutch his head and moan as he closes his lips around me and urges every last sweet sensation from my body.
“Damn.” He heaves in a breath and crawls up the bed to lie beside me. “Those are the kind of dreams you’ve been having while I’m gone?”
“Nice, huh?” Even so, the mention of him being gone elicits a twinge of sorrow.
I push it aside, snuggling into the warmth of the sheets and the heat of his skin. My pirate captain, my gladiator, my white knight. I rub my cheek against his bare chest and stretch.
“Hungry?” he asks, skimming his hand up and down my arm.
“A little.”
He pushes out of bed, and I admire the muscular lines of his body as he tugs his pants up and goes to the kitchen. As the coffee brews, we dress and bundle up in our jackets, then take our coffee and toast out to the porch so we can watch the sun rise over the lake.
I squeeze myself into Dean’s chair, half on his lap so I can stay pressed close to his lean, strong body. The coffee is hot, steam rising in whorls, the air cold, the sun streaked with red and gold. Whitecaps ripple the surface of the lake.
We stay out until the sun is hovering over the water, then we go back inside and sink deep into the whirlpool bath, soaping each other down until we’re both breathless and wanting each other again.
I make him sit back this time, straddling his lap and easing his thick cock into me with one glide of my body. Then we’re both panting and moaning, water splashing over the sides of the bath as I move faster and harder, and Dean grips my hips and pushes up into me. I come violently, squeezing his shaft inside me as some distant part of my mind wishes this would never end.
As the day progresses, that wish intensifies. We watch a movie, leaf through some magazines, trade massages, play backgammon with a board that Dean finds in a cabinet by the bookshelf. We fool around, laugh, tickle each other, order room service, consider and quickly dismiss the idea of actually leaving the cottage.
I spend most of the day wearing Dean’s sweater vest and nothing else. After dinner, I get dressed so I can do a little striptease for him in front of the fire—even though I forgot to bring along an extra set of sexy lingerie. Still the dance doesn’t last long, as Dean growls his appreciation once before pulling me down on his lap and crushing his mouth to mine.
He fumbles with the clasp of my white bra, groaning at the sight of my bare breasts before hefting me into his arms and getting us both to the bed in three strides. I open my arms, feeling excited, happy, loved to the very center of my soul as my husband lowers himself on top of me and kisses me senseless.
CHAPTER NINE
Olivia
fter weeks of wanting, hoping, needing, now finally… it’s us again.
Spring flowers bloom from vases around the cottage, and a crackling fire burns off the chill in the air. Reddish clouds lace the mountaintops. The lake is a sheet of glass, but inside everything is coated in a golden light.
I roll over in the feather-soft bed, putting my hand out to find Dean. He’s not there, but the sheets are warm from his body. I open my eyes and find him sitting in a chair by the French doors, dressed in unbuttoned jeans and a wrinkled white shirt.
He’s twisting a loop of string between his fingers, his strong hands spread apart, the cuffs of his shirt pulled up to reveal his hair-roughened forearms, hard with muscle.
Warmth floods me. His thick hair, which has grown longer over the past few weeks, brushes the back of his collar. He’s wearing his reading glasses, his forehead furrowed slightly in concentration.
He glances up and finds me watching him. A smile tugs at his mouth.
“Hello, Sleeping Beauty,” he says, his voice a husky murmur that makes heat pool in my lower body.
I yawn and stretch, feeling my muscles lengthen deliciously. “What time is it?”
“Almost six. Coffee?”
“Not yet.” I shift onto my belly and rest my chin on my hands. My mind is foggy with pleasure, my body still pulsing from the thorough fucking I received a few hours ago.
A shiver travels down my spine. This is it. This is the solution. And it’s so easy. It’s what we’ve both known all along—all we need is us. All we need is to be alone, cocooned again in our own private world where neither of us has to explain or overthink anything.
It’s the place where we don’t have to distinguish between Dean’s need for control and my unending desire to give him everything. From the beginning, he has taken me places I didn’t know existed, and he has always kept me safe. I’ll follow him anywhere, and he knows it.
That will never change. And for the first time I realize… it doesn’t have to.
Because the opposite is also true. Dean always has and always will follow me into unfamiliar territory, knowing that his heart is safe with me.
“Your plan worked,” I whisper.
“Mmm.” His gaze tracks over my body beneath the sheet. He untangles the string, then lifts his hand and makes a circling gesture with his forefinger.
My heart jolts. He puts the string and his glasses aside and pushes to standing. The sight of him coming toward me, all masculine grace and prowling heat, sends my pulse soaring.
Already hot with anticipation, I shift beneath the sheets so that my back is to him. I feel him stop beside the bed, grab a fistful of the sheet and pull it off. The cotton slithers over my body, cooler air brushing my naked skin. My breasts press into the mattress, and I bury my head against my crossed arms.
Dean settles his large palm against my ass, rubbing his hand in circles. A thousand quivers fall through me. I twist to look at him over my shoulder, my breath catching as his dark eyes meet mine. He’s all disheveled masculinity, his muscles coiled with that taut, intense energy that has my heart racing.
I shift, wiggling my ass enticingly. I want that energy unleashed on me.
After another slow rub, he trails one finger down the cleft of my rear to where I’m already damp between my legs. I tuck my face against my arms again and surrender, feeling my whole body yield. Dean leans over me to press a kiss right below my left shoulder blade. Then he pushes himself between my legs, spreading my thighs wider as he probes me gently with his finger and circles my clit.
My blood flames. I start to push myself onto my knees, thinking this is what he wants. Still standing beside the bed, Dean grabs my hips and eases me back down. He tugs me closer so that my legs dangle off the side of the mattress. There’s a rustling sound as he pulls off his jeans. I start to turn and look at him again, wanting to see his thick, erect cock…
“No.” He puts his hand between my shoulder blades, urging me down again. “Don’t move.”
Excitement spirals through me. I curl my fists into the bedcovers, my heart pounding as I feel the hard knob of his sheathed erection against my folds. With a muffled groan, I try to push backward and impale myself on him. He gives a hoarse laugh, and in one movement, plunges into me so fast that I shriek.
“Dean!” I instinctively jerk forward against the suddenness of the impact and the tight, full sensation of his shaft.
“Don’t move.” Dean clutches my hips to keep me still, his breath rasping outward as he waits for me to adjust to his entry. He shifts, his sac pressed against my pussy, the hair of his legs abrading my inner thighs.
I part my lips to draw in air. Sweat breaks out on my forehead. Dean lowers his full weight on top of my back, curling his hands around my wrists. He pins my arms to the bed. His flat belly presses against my ass, his legs tight against mine.
The muscular weight of him is overwhelming, pu
shing me into the bed, his cock throbbing inside me. I bury my face against the mattress. My legs already ache from being spread so wide apart. He tightens his grip on my wrists.
“Christ.” He shifts, rubbing his stomach against my bottom. “So hot…”
He eases back and pushes forward again, entering me so deep my blood burns. I shift, trying to match his rhythm, but through my lust-drenched mind I realize there is no rhythm, not this time.
He pulls out of me and thrusts in at his own pace, surprising me with every move, every shift. His hands are steel bands around my wrists, his breath rasping against my shoulder, his chest a heavy weight against my back. I wiggle a little to rub my nipples on the sheet, easing some of the tingling ache, but I can hardly move beneath him. I’m overpowered, impaled, conquered.
Only when I stop trying to move does Dean settle into a rhythmic thrusting, his cock sliding in and out of me hard and fast. I struggle to take all of him, moans streaming from my throat as the air drenches with fire.
He fills me over and over, his stomach tight against my bottom and his groans hot on my skin. My whole body trembles, and before I can think past the fog of sensation, my arousal builds like a storm front.
I bite down on a corner of a pillow and squeeze my eyes shut as urgency spins like a whirlpool through me. Again and again, he pumps into me, the friction driving me to the edge, his thick, smooth shaft stretching me beyond what I’ve ever felt before.
“Dean.” My voice almost breaks with strain.
He lifts his head, closing his teeth around my earlobe. “Tell me.”
“I’m so close,” I gasp.
“No.” Still gripping my wrists, he eases his cock out of me. “I want dirty words coming from your pretty mouth.”
“Dean, I…”
“Dirty.” He trails his mouth from my ear to my shoulder and bites down gently on my skin. “Lewd. Raw.”
I moan and turn my face against the bed again.
“Put your cock in me,” I whisper. “Fuck me, please… I need to feel you again… need to feel you throbbing inside my pussy, need you to make me come, Dean, please…”
He eases partway into me again, slick and hot. I tighten my inner flesh around him. Explosions flare through my blood. I try to shift, rubbing my ass against his stomach. His breath rasps against my shoulder.
“I… I feel it.” I can hardly speak past the heat in my throat. “I want… my clit aches, Dean… touch it, please, and I’ll come all over your cock, I can’t stand it anymore, fuck me and I’ll do anything… anything…”
“I know you will,” he whispers, scraping his teeth over my shoulder.
I strain against the pressure of his hands, but his grip on my wrists is inexorable. He fucks me again and again, so hard I lose all coherent thought as sensations overtake me. My body bounces against the bed, the sound of his flesh hitting mine filling my ears, the slick plunge of his cock driving me to the edge.
I rock my hips, aching to rub my clit, before he pushes his hand beneath me and splays his fingers over my core. Bliss shatters me at his first touch, and I convulse around his cock with a shriek.
When the sensations ebb, he pulls his hand away and eases back, clutching my ass as he pounds into me. My unending moans clash with his grunts, his thrusts so deep and fierce the earth seems to tremble.
I grab the sheets and press backward, my body aflame, as he pumps three times in succession and pulls out with a groan. Shivers rain through me as his warm seed spurts over my ass, and I look over my shoulder to watch him stroke his big cock, his sweaty chest heaving and his eyes half-closed with pleasure.
“Oh, fuck, Liv…” With another groan, he collapses on the bed beside me, reaching out to run his hand over my damp back. “I don’t want to leave you again.”
Through the haze of lingering desire, my chest constricts at the thought of him leaving again. Surely once was enough.
I shift to curl up against his side as our breathing calms. I’m painfully aware that today is Tuesday. I need to work. And tomorrow Dean needs to attend the Office of Judicial Affairs’ mediation meeting.
I press a kiss to his shoulder and push myself to a sitting position. My body aches in a deliciously sore, pulsing way that I hope will last for a while. I want to be reminded of my husband every time I move.
We both get up and take our time showering and eating breakfast, as the cloud of reality sets in.
“I have to go,” I say reluctantly, when I notice that it’s almost eight. “I’m meeting Allie and Brent at the café to start remodeling.”
Dean smiles, his eyes warming as he tugs at a lock of my hair. “Proud of you, lady.”
I return his smile, pleased by his pride and my own ambition. We linger as long as we can, before I finally pull on my coat.
“What are you doing today?” I ask.
“Working from here, then meeting with Frances Hunter. We’re going over to Rainwood this afternoon to deal with some conference stuff, but I’ll be back before dinner.”
“Can you come over then?”
“Of course.” He winks at me. “That was my plan.”
He slides his hands to my lower back and pulls me against him, settling our bodies together. I gaze at him, my beautiful knight, struck by how invincible he has always been, how powerful, how certain of his place in the world. Nothing and no one has ever defeated him.
That thought gives me a burst of courage and hope as I press a hand to his chest to feel his heartbeat.
“I’ll come over around seven.” He gives me a gentle kiss and turns me toward the door. “Call me when you’re done at the café. I love you.”
After I leave, still practically floating after the beauty of a weekend alone with my husband, I stop at our apartment to change into jeans and a T-shirt before going to the café.
The windows are partly open, a radio is blaring, and the whole place is in disarray. Brent has recruited some of his friends to help with the remodeling, and the floor is covered with drop cloths and torn wallpaper.
After greeting everyone, I grab a bottle of remover solution and start pulling off the old wallpaper. Later, Allie and I go to the hardware store to arrange for deliveries of paint, window trim, and flooring. In the afternoon, we meet with Rita Johnson, the magazine reporter who wants to write an article about the café.
It’s a good feeling, even if it’s still scary, this working toward something both new and risky.
The sky is starting to darken by the time I head home. I can’t wait to see Dean again and tell him about the magazine article and our plans. Maybe he’ll have a few more plans of his own too.
Anticipation fills me as I hurry across Avalon Street. I pull open the door of our building.
And stop.
A woman is sitting on the stairs, dressed in a leather jacket and jeans. Long, wheat-colored hair spills around her shoulders. Her blue eyes meet mine.
“Hello, Liv,” my mother says.
CHAPTER TEN
Olivia
have only one picture of me and my mother, and one of me and my father. I keep both photos in an envelope tucked between the pages of a tattered paperback copy of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. I bought the book for a quarter at a used bookstore when my mother and I were living outside Seattle. The name Lillian Weatherford is written on the inside cover in large, looped penmanship. I’ve always liked her name.
Lillian Weatherford, whoever she was, has guarded my photos for the past twenty years.
The picture of my father was taken at Christmas when I was five. He and I are sitting next to the tree—a small fir covered with lights and artificial snow. He looks handsome, young, a smile on his face. His arm is around me, and I’m holding a white stuffed bear with a red ribbon around its neck. I look happy.
In the picture of me and my mother, we’re in California. I’m thirteen years
old. My mother and I are sitting beside a campfire, both of us smiling, our faces shiny and lit by the glow of the flames. We look alike, our hair pulled back in ponytails, our smiles almost identical. We look like mother and daughter.
I remember everything about this photo. I’ve shown it to Dean, of course, told him the story of where it was taken and who took it.
The man’s name was North.
“North?” I repeated after he’d introduced himself.
“Short for Northern Star,” he explained. “Parents thought I’d have a good, steady life with a name like that.”
“Do you?” I asked.
“Life is always good,” he replied with a shrug. “But rarely steady. Waves are always on the horizon.”
He was a medium-height, bulky man with long, graying hair, a bushy beard, and an open, kind face. He wore old T-shirts, torn jeans, and ratty sandals, when he bothered with shoes at all. A few strands of his beard were tied into a braid and held with a tiny, red ribbon.
North lived and worked on a Northern California commune called Twelve Oaks, a fifty-acre farm near Santa Cruz that my mother had heard about through an LA acquaintance. We stopped there en route to Oregon—hoping for a free meal and bed for the night—and ended up staying for seven months.
It was a weird place, but I liked it. About fifty people and their children lived there, and they made their own soaps and grew organic herbs and vegetables—all of which they sold at farmer’s markets and to local groceries.
“Heard you have rooms for visitors,” my mother told North when we arrived, her car keys dangling from her slender fingers, wide sunglasses concealing half her face.
North nodded, glancing from her to me. I stayed by the car, my arms around my middle. We’d just come from the urban sprawl of Los Angeles with its brown-smudged air and clogged freeways, but I was trying hard not to hope that we’d stay for a while in this farmland right by the ocean.
