Spiral of Bliss: The Complete Boxed Set

by Nina Lane

  The more time I spent with Dean, the more I liked and trusted him. And it wasn’t long before he proved that he was meant to be my hero alone.

  “Bears,” he said one afternoon as we walked up State Street after my shift at Jitter Beans.

  “No way.” I poked him in the side. “Definitely the Packers. I’d be a terrible Wisconsinite if I weren’t a Packer Backer.”

  He scoffed. “Then you must love dancing the polka.”

  “Why would I love dancing the polka?”

  “It’s the Wisconsin state dance. Since you’re such a loyal Wisconsinite and all.”

  I poked him in the side again, harder this time, which made him laugh and reach out to tweak my nose. I decided not to be annoyed since it was so darned cute the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed.

  “How do you even know the Wisconsin state dance if you’re from California?” I asked. “Oh, I forgot. You’re kind of a geek.”

  He flashed me a smile. “Got a problem with that?”

  “I have a problem with the fact that you prefer the Bears,” I said. “Star Wars or Star Trek?”

  “Trek.”

  “We are so incompatible,” I moaned. “Star Wars.”

  “Lucas jumped the shark with Episode One,” Dean said. “Star Trek has always had a universal message about justice and a utopian society.”

  “Star Wars is about the battle between good and evil. What’s more universal than that?”

  “Star Trek had alien babes in bikinis.”

  “You don’t remember Princess Leia’s bikini?”

  “Oh, yeah.” He got a glazed, faraway look in his eyes. “Good point.”

  “I rest my case. Ben and Jerry’s or Häagen-Dazs?”

  “Both.”

  “Me too. Except for Chunky Monkey, which is gross.”

  “Ah.” Dean gave a sigh of relief. “We have common ground. Tolstoy or Dostoevsky?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Whatever, professor.”

  Dean winked at me. I smiled back, enjoying the lovely heart flutters spreading warmth through my veins.

  He opened the passenger side door for me, then went around to get behind the wheel of his car.

  “How was work?” he asked as he headed toward Dayton Street.

  I told him about an espresso maker mishap and a couple of irrelevant stories about the customers. We took the elevator to my apartment, which he hadn’t been in since the night of my confession two weeks ago.

  “Nice place, by the way,” he remarked as we went inside. “I didn’t notice before. How long have you lived here?”

  “Since July.” The rent on the shoebox-sized apartment was more than I could comfortably pay, but it was close to downtown, the university, and Jitter Beans. I’d spent a lot of time at garage and rummage sales looking for inexpensive furnishings, and I was pleased with the way my decorating had turned out.

  I’d found some mismatched round tables that I refinished a light honey color and placed alongside my curved sofa. Floating shelves held my books, prints of English gardens lined the walls, and I’d placed lamps strategically to light the corners. Sheer, sage-green curtains softened the utilitarian blinds, and my indoor garden of fifteen plants sat on a multi-tiered stand beneath the window.

  Dean touched one of the plants. “You really have a green thumb. What kind are these?”

  “Mostly flowers, but there’s a spider ivy on the bottom tier,” I said. “Geraniums, begonias, pentas. I bought a yellow amaryllis last week. I haven’t named it yet.”

  “Named it?”

  Embarrassment heated my cheeks. “I name all my plants. Svengali, Mrs. Danvers, Cruella de Vil, the White Witch.”

  He turned to look at me. “You name your plants after villains?”

  “Just a silly thing. A way of turning something bad into something good.” I went toward the kitchen. “Can I get you a soda?”

  “Just water, thanks.”

  I poured him a glass and returned to the living room. He’d wandered over to examine the books on the shelves. I flushed at the thought that I had some spicy erotica titles tucked in among the textbooks. If he saw them, however, he gave no indication. Or he didn’t mind.

  Instead he picked up the small, framed picture of North that I kept on the lower shelf. Nervousness rolled through me suddenly. I’d never talked about North with anyone, not because I didn’t want to but because I’d never had anyone to talk about him with.

  I’d taken the picture outside North’s workshop and made a bunch of silly faces until he’d finally smiled. His grin showed through his bushy beard, the little braid tied with a red ribbon visible on the right side, and his leathery features squinted against the sun. His long, graying hair was pulled back into a ponytail.

  “Your dad?” Dean asked.

  “No.” I put the glass on the coffee table and wiped my hands on my skirt. “Just a good friend from California. Not that kind of friend,” I added when he glanced at me with a hint of a scowl. “The kind of friend who helps you remember which way is up. And who reminds you that sometimes that’s the only direction you can go.”

  Dean looked at me, still holding the photo. “You’re lucky to have a friend like that.”

  “North was… special.”

  “North?”

  “Short for Northern Star Richmond.”

  “Seriously?”

  I smiled. “His parents were hippies.”

  Dean put the photo back on the shelf. “So you used to live in California?”

  “I traveled there a few times with my mother, then I went back before I started at community college. Lived on a commune.”

  “A commune?”

  “They’re called other things now. Intentional communities. Cooperative living. But, yeah, it was near Santa Cruz. Twelve Oaks. My mother and I lived there when I was thirteen, then I went back by myself a few years later. I thought I’d just visit for a week or so, but I stayed for a year. North was the guy who ran the place.”

  I realized I was opening the door to questions I didn’t want to answer. I gestured to the sofa. “So make yourself at home. I’m just going to take a quick shower and change.”

  “Take your time.”

  He settled on the sofa and picked up a coffee-table book about the history of literature. I went into my bedroom and closed the door. As I stripped out of my clothes, my heart pounded harder. I was acutely aware that a thin wall separated me from Dean.

  Was he remembering that night in his apartment? Was he thinking about kissing me again? Was he thinking about me undressing?

  My blood warmed at the speculation. I pushed my underwear off and stood there naked for a moment, staring at my reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall. I didn’t often look at myself naked. My legs were short but well shaped, and I had a curvy, full-breasted body that I was still, at twenty-four, trying to feel comfortable in.

  I slid my hands down my waist, which tapered to round hips and my not-quite-flat belly. I tried to imagine Dean’s hands on me, his long fingers sliding across my hipbones and down between my legs.

  I shivered and turned away from the mirror. My cheeks warmed. I pulled on a thick robe and ducked into the bathroom. After turning on the shower, I stood under the hot spray and wondered what it would feel like to breach the distance between my imagination and reality.

  My very vivid imagination. My very mundane reality.

  I wanted to live in the space where the two met. I imagined it as a place of sunlight and green trees where a man and I wanted each other with crackling desire and our bodies fell into pleasure.

  I closed my eyes and let the water stream over my face. What if Dean was thinking about me in the shower? What if he was imagining what I looked like naked and wet? I trembled at the thought,
almost feeling the heat of his gaze.

  A bolt of arousal went through me. I grabbed the soap and lathered up, drawing in a sharp breath when my palms glided over my hard nipples. Pleasure zinged along my nerves. He was there. Sitting so close…

  I rubbed soapy froth over my belly. The bubbles slipped from my skin. Hot water pounded on my neck and shoulders. I grasped the shower bar and rubbed the soap between my legs, unable to resist pressing a finger into my cleft. A shudder rocked me. Oh…

  Was Dean imagining this right now? Was he thinking about me rubbing soap over my body? Was he picturing me playing with myself, sliding my forefinger over the folds of my sex, pressing my hand against my clit?

  I could see him standing there, all hot and aroused while he watched me. I could see the burn in his eyes, the flush of his cheekbones, the heaviness of his cock against his trousers.

  I pressed one hand to the tiled wall and lowered my head against the spray. I worked my fingers faster, harder, my blood swelling with urgency. His fingers would be adept, expert, his touch precise.

  He would know when to slide a finger into me, when to roll his thumb around my clit. He would suck my nipples at the same time, intensifying my arousal, his breath hot.

  Oh, I wanted it, wanted to know what it was like, wanted his hands and mouth on me. I saw him clutching my hips, lifting me, pushing his cock between my legs, his eyes filled with desire. I saw myself, pink-flushed and panting, writhing against him, water beading on my breasts, my hair plastered in wet tendrils to my skin.

  I imagined what it would feel like, him filling me with one deep thrust as I gripped his shoulders and begged for more. My nerves flared with sparks. I would tighten my inner flesh around his thick shaft, feel his groan rumble against my neck as he pushed inside me again and again, driving us both to the edge of bliss.

  He’d talk dirty too, his voice rough in my ear, his fingers digging into my hips. “Open your pussy for me, Liv… I want to fuck you deep… so deep you’ll still feel it tomorrow… make you come until you scream… ah, you’re tight… so damn good…”

  He would thrust slowly at first, then harder, an intense, thorough fucking that would shake my body and wrench his name from my throat as I arched my hips and creamed all over his cock…

  A gasp escaped me as I came, clenching my thighs around my rapid fingers, vibrations rolling through me. I shuddered and inhaled a gulp of hot, steam-laced air as the sensations peaked and ebbed. Breathing hard, I absorbed the final quivers as the water began to cool.

  I turned the faucet off and stepped out, pressing a towel against my face as my heartbeat slowed. I had no idea how long I’d been in the shower, but likely it was far too long for a “quick shower.” I dried off, shrugged into my robe, and darted back into the bedroom.

  Soon, I silently promised myself as I dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. Soon I would close the distance between us again. I knew it would be so much better than anything I could imagine.

  And I could imagine quite a bit.

  After brushing my hair, I went back into the living room. Dean was still sitting on the sofa, working a loop of string into patterns between his palms.

  “Sorry,” I said, my voice breathless. “Uh, the shower felt too… good, I guess.”

  “No problem. Game doesn’t start until six.” He unlaced the string from his fingers and looked at me.

  I knew my face was still flushed from my little erotic interlude, and I had the sudden fear he knew exactly what I’d been doing.

  Not fear. Hope.

  The realization struck me.

  I hoped he knew what I’d been doing. The idea that he’d been sitting here, imagining me in the shower the way I’d imagined him watching me… my breath caught.

  Dean’s cell phone rang, breaking apart my thoughts. He sighed as he pulled it from his pocket. “Sorry, Liv.”

  “Go ahead.”

  His expression tensed as he looked at the caller ID. “Paige? What… no, I didn’t tell her I’d do anything… if he doesn’t get his shit together…”

  My stomach knotted. I suspected he was talking about his brother. Paige must be his sister.

  “You’re damn right he won’t,” Dean snapped into the phone.

  Uneasy at overhearing a private conversation, I went into the kitchen and turned the water faucet on full blast to drown out Dean’s voice. After a few minutes, he came in, his expression set with frustration. I tightened my hands on a dishtowel.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked.

  “Depends on what you mean by okay.” He tossed his phone on the counter. “My brother has been a troublemaker his whole life. I wouldn’t give a shit if it didn’t cause problems for everyone else.” His mouth twisted. “It’s kind of fucked-up.”

  Oh, Dean. I know all about fucked-up.

  It should have made me wary, this revelation of a bitter family relationship in which he was tangled. Instead I wanted only to erase that pained look on his face, ease the furrows lining his forehead.

  I stepped closer to him. I pressed my forefinger between his eyes, smoothing away the deep crease. His breath hitched, his gaze searching mine.

  I was becoming accustomed to seeing Dean look at me with affection and heat. I was not accustomed to this look of aggravation, the sense that he needed something from me.

  What? What could I give him?

  I certainly wasn’t the kind of woman who could comfort a man with her body. Or with her cooking. Or even with any good suggestions on how to deal with his family.

  I tilted my head to the kitchen table. “Sit down.”

  “Shouldn’t we get going?”

  “In a minute. First sit down.”

  He sat. I stood behind him and took his earlobes between my thumbs and forefingers, then rubbed them gently.

  “Uh…,” he said.

  “It’s an ear massage. Excellent way to reduce stress and release endorphins. Just relax.”

  He didn’t obey the command right away, given the tightness of his neck muscles. I stroked his earlobes, then pressed along the outer edge of his ears all the way to the top. I massaged the whorls and behind his ears along his skull. After a few minutes, the tension in his shoulders eased.

  “That feels really good,” he remarked.

  “You sound surprised.”

  “Where’d you learn to do that?”

  “There was a woman at Twelve Oaks who was into ear reflexology,” I explained.

  Dean closed his eyes while I started the massage process again, rubbing his earlobes, the exterior, then moving to the back of his neck. I looked down at his hair and thought about pressing my lips to the top of his head.

  I kneaded the muscles of his shoulders. Warmth flowed from his skin up the length of my arms.

  “Ear reflexology is a whole practice,” I said in an attempt to redirect my thoughts. “Different points on the ears relate to different parts of the body, that kind of thing. I don’t know much about it, except that it feels good. Sometimes that’s enough.”

  “Sometimes that’s everything.”

  Crowds of people clad in red UW jackets and sweatshirts streamed toward the football stadium. A layer of clouds further darkened the evening sky, and a brisk chill swept across our faces as we walked alongside Dayton Street.

  I nudged Dean’s arm. “You forgot your gloves.”

  “It’s okay.”

  I took my hand out of my pocket and wrapped it around his so his fingers wouldn’t get cold. He closed his hand around mine.

  We followed the swarm of red toward the stadium, where a log-jam of people crowded one of the arched entrances. Dean paused to dig two tickets out of his pocket, then eased me ahead of him as we kept walking.

  Voices and laughter rose like flocks of birds, a palpable excitement in the air.
I circled around a group of college boys and joined the slow lines moving into the stadium.

  I turned back to Dean, only to find a group of people had gotten between us. I knew he wasn’t far behind, so I stepped out of the line and craned my neck around to look for him. I took a few more steps away toward the stadium, and then I was between the wall and the crowd.

  A sudden unease raced through me. I didn’t like the feeling of being trapped. I started to push back into the line, but two big, young men moved in front of me.

  The backs of their red sweatshirts filled my vision. Their laughter rang in my ears. The smell of beer and brats assaulted my nose.

  Panic hit hard and fast. I froze. My chest tightened, and my heartbeat raced. Sweat broke out on my forehead. I tried to draw in a breath, but the air was stale and hot from all the bodies, and it stuck in my throat like a stone.

  The boys were turned away from me, oblivious to my presence, their voices eager as they discussed the upcoming game. Black spots swam in my vision. My skin prickled with cold. Part of me knew what I needed to do to calm down, but I couldn’t do it.

  Fear paralyzed my brain. The crowd surged. The bigger guy bumped against me. My stomach roiled with nausea.

  “Liv, sorry, I thought you…” Dean pushed past the frat boys. “Liv?” He stopped and grabbed my arm. “What’s wrong?”

  I was shaking too hard to respond. He pulled me away from the wall, away from the boys. I stumbled. My legs weakened as dizziness swamped me.

  Dean slid his hand beneath my elbow and guided me to a bench, the crowd still swarming in a sea of red.

  “P-panic attack,” I whispered. “Need… need to… b-breathe…”

  A woman’s voice penetrated the ringing in my ears. I forced air into my lungs and looked up, her face a blur, her words sounding very far away.

  “… all right… need help… ?”

  I clenched my fingers around Dean’s arm and shook my head. He settled his other hand on my back as he declined the woman’s offer of assistance. She moved away. I pulled in another breath. My chest ached.

  “Liv, look at me.” His voice was calm, steady.