by Nina Lane
With that, he tugs me against him and settles his mouth securely over mine. A muffled groan of pleasure escapes me involuntarily.
Oh, God, it’s so good to have him home, despite the utter upheaval of my careful plans. I wind my arms around his waist and let myself fall into the familiar, compelling warmth of his kiss.
Arousal tingles through me like little bells, both surprising and welcoming. Over the past six months, Nicholas’s launch into the terrible twos, complete with constant waking during the night, intense clinginess, and a mutinous refusal to learn potty-training, has sapped my energy right along with my sex drive.
Dean lifts his hands to the sides of my neck, tilting my head to just the right angle as he urges my lips apart. A rumble of pleasure echoes in his chest. Our bodies fit together seamlessly, the pressure of his hard muscles so good against my breasts. I slip my hands under his shirt and stroke the warm tautness of his lower back.
“Fed! Wee wee wee!”
Nicholas’s siren noise breaks me and Dean apart. We both turn to see our son crawling into the kitchen, pushing Fred the Fire Truck.
“Daddy!” Nicholas yells, as if just realizing Dean is home again.
“Hey, buddy.” Dean releases me to crouch and hold out his arms so Nicholas can barrel into them. They exchange a tight hug.
“So good to see you again.” Dean pulls back and ruffles Nicholas’s hair. “I swear you’ve grown in just two weeks.”
“Haf Fed,” Nicholas informs him, patting Dean’s cheek.
“I see that.” Dean glances at me with a wink. “I’ll deal with him. Go take a break. Looks like you could use one.”
“Don’t you need to unpack your stuff?”
“I’ll do it later. Go ahead.”
I almost burst into tears again at the thought of locking myself in the bedroom alone. Figuring I can still salvage something of the evening, I hurry upstairs and strip off my clothes before getting into a scorching hot shower.
Oh, bliss. I stay under the water for at least ten minutes before soaping myself down from head to toe and shaving my embarrassingly prickly legs. Then I brush my teeth, dry my hair, and change into clean yoga pants and a pink fleece shirt—not the slinky silk dress I’d planned on to welcome my husband home, but I’m too tired and relieved to care.
Though I’m still exhausted, at least now I feel somewhat more human, and I certainly smell better. When I return downstairs, I find that Dean has cleaned up the clutter in the sunroom, put away the groceries, stacked the dirty dishes in the dishwasher, and washed all the mixing bowls I’d used for the cake. Now he and Nicholas are sitting on the sunroom floor, building a police car with Duplo blocks.
The sight of my two guys together never fails to make me all warm and mushy inside, especially when the younger guy isn’t screeching like a howler monkey. Nicholas’s features are a toddler version of Dean’s, and though his hair is a lighter brown, it has the same wavy thickness. Put father and son side by side, and you have my entire heart.
Back together again. Since being awarded tenure at King’s over two years ago, Dean has taken on more responsibilities and positions—not only with the Altopascio dig but with other historic sites. He holds a seat on the International Conservation Committee, which advises the World Heritage Center on the protection of sites and monuments, and he’s regularly invited to European universities and museums to give lectures, join research projects, and organize conferences.
And yet, all those illustrious distinctions fall away when he walks back through the door of the Butterfly House and gently commands a kiss.
“Tell me about the site,” I say, lowering myself onto the sofa. “How bad was the earthquake damage?”
“Bad.” Dean’s expression darkens. “Five point one. Fortunately, there were only a couple of minor injuries, but the medieval tower and church were damaged. The monastery took the worst hit. The whole north transept is destabilized, walls cracked, an entire section demolished. The IHR already says it can’t afford to repair the damage, and the seismologists haven’t even finished their assessment yet.”
“Is there another way to save the monastery?”
“We need to get it on the World Heritage Center list of protected sites,” Dean says, racing a toy car alongside Nicholas’s. “That’s the only way we can get funding from other sources to save it. The United Nations assembly meets this summer to vote on which sites should be added to the list. The deadline for proposals has already passed, but I’m hoping we can push ours through.”
“What happens if you can’t?”
“We could lose the site entirely.” Dean lines up a few cars in front of what appears to be the starting line of a race. “And we think the monastery is only the start of a much bigger complex. There’s no telling how much more we could excavate, but if we can’t afford to stabilize the earthquake damage and continue the dig, we’ll have to abandon the whole project.”
A new worry gnaws me at the thought of Dean being forced to abandon a project that he and so many others have been working on with such dedication. I sit up to look at him.
“You won’t let that happen,” I say. “You’ll find a way to save it. I know you will.”
“I’m trying, but it means more work and negotiations I don’t want to make.”
Before I can question what that means, Dean reaches out to stroke his hand over my thigh.
“What about you?” he asks. “Toddler meltdown aside, everything’s okay?”
“Mmm.” I rest my head against the back of the sofa. “Busy, but fine. I have a gourmet dinner planned to welcome you home. Spice-rubbed Cornish game hens with a sherry jus. Lemon-mint braised artichoke hearts. Saffron rice pilaf. Raspberry-chocolate cake, if I can get it right. Mac and cheese, but that’s for the boy.”
“Sounds incredible.”
“I’ve been shopping for groceries every day this week.” I close my eyes, enjoying the sensation of his strong hand sliding up and down my thigh. “It’s going to be delicious. I just need to rest for a second, and then I’ll get the mise en place going.”
“Bob!” Nicholas shouts.
Dean responds, but I don’t pay attention to his words as much as the deep, soothing cadence of his voice. The house feels complete with him home again, his presence making the air warmer and richer.
As much as I love the Butterfly House, which Dean and I restored and renovated together, it’s huge compared to the apartments we’d always lived in before. It’s easy to feel a little lost, especially when Nicholas and I are rattling around alone. We stick together pretty closely when Dean is gone—Nicholas sleeps in the bed with me, and we spend the rest of our time in the kitchen or sunroom.
A sigh fills my chest, the anger and frustration of the day slipping into contentment with the knowledge that my husband is home and everything is as it should be, even if he did screw up my plans with his early arrival.
“George noodle,” Nicholas remarks.
I have no idea what he’s talking about, nor do I care at this point. I feel myself slipping into a doze and try to pull out of it, reminding myself that I need to clean the artichokes and stuff the game hens…
Dean’s body is a wall of heat and muscle against my back. I wake with a start, disoriented for a second before realizing that I’m lying in bed, my head nestled on my cloud-soft pillow. Darkness slants through the curtains. I dimly realize Dean must have carried me upstairs. Would have been more romantic if I’d been awake.
Behind me, Dean mutters with annoyance at my shifting and settles his arm heavily around me, pulling me back against him. I’m still in my fleece shirt and yoga pants, but I can tell Dean is shirtless, wearing only his drawstring pajama pants.
He’s also hard. His erection is pushing against my bottom. A spool of lust begins to unwind in my lower body as I absorb the sensation of his warm, muscled chest, his arm strong and ti
ght around me, the pulsing stiffness of his cock. I wiggle a little experimentally, both surprised and delighted when my clit throbs in response.
Since giving birth to Nicholas, my libido hasn’t been at all reliable, with more valleys than peaks. And as attracted as I am to Dean, after a long day working at the café, running errands, cleaning house, cooking, and taking care of a demanding toddler who often clings to me like a baby monkey… By ten at night, all I want to do is fall into bed to sleep. These days, I need as much sleep as I can get, knowing Nicholas is likely to wake me up at least once or twice, needing water or to be soothed back to sleep, which often takes an hour.
But though things are always changing, especially with a toddler and our new work responsibilities, I am sharply aware I will always be Dean West’s wife, and I never want to lose any part of our intense bond.
Which is exactly why I’d planned a romantic night to welcome him home. Maybe I can salvage part of the evening, at least.
Dean moves his hand around to cup my breast, his fingers toying with my nipple under my shirt. He nuzzles his face against my hair and rumbles a noise of pleasure.
There’s certainly never been anything wrong with his sex drive.
I suddenly wonder what he’s done about it, considering the number of times I’ve either outright turned him down, or made a breathy promise of “later,” only to end up asleep before we could get started.
A thought hits me. “The game hens!”
“That’s not a hen.” Dean pushes his erection harder against my rear. “That’s a cock.”
I laugh. “You don’t say. I meant I forgot to put the hens back in the fridge.”
“Already done.”
“Oh, good. Thanks.” I pause for a minute. “Hey, Dean?”
“Hey, Liv.”
“You haven’t been feeling… frustrated lately, have you?”
“About what?” He presses his lips against the nape of my neck.
“Sex.”
“Does this feel frustrated?” He nudges his cock against my bottom again, his body tensing slightly with growing lust. “Damn, I love your ass.”
“I mean, over the past couple of years,” I say as my skin starts to warm in response to him. “I know I haven’t been on board much.”
“I’m not frustrated,” he assures me, snaking his other hand underneath me so he can fondle both of my breasts at the same time. “Though I do lust after you on an hourly basis.”
“And what do you do when you’re lusting and I’m sleeping?”
“I jerk off while thinking about you,” he murmurs against my ear.
The admission fires me with an unexpected bolt of heat. I’ve always loved watching Dean masturbate—the easy, slow movement of his hand as he strokes himself to orgasm, the way his chest heaves with increasing breaths and his eyes glaze over with pleasure—but it occurs to me now I haven’t actually seen him do it in ages.
I twist in his arms and turn to face him, my whole body folding against his. It’s so good having him back in our bed, right where he belongs. I gaze at his chocolate-brown eyes framed with thick lashes, the strong masculine planes of his face, his rumpled dark hair. The woodsy, eucalyptus scent of his shaving soap drifts from his skin.
“You’ve stayed in practice,” I remark.
“Had to. Traveling and being away from you doesn’t leave me any other option.”
Guilt simmers inside me. Once upon a time, he and I would engage in hot talk over the phone when he was away. Now I can’t remember the last time I was up for that either.
But the thought of him pleasuring himself here at home…
“Do you do it in the shower?” I whisper, sliding my forefinger across his lower lip.
“Sometimes. Or up in my tower office. Or in bed.”
“In bed?” I repeat. “When are you ever in bed without me?”
“I’m not.”
I try to process that for a second. Dean raises an eyebrow, amusement flashing in his eyes. I gasp.
“Dean West! Are you implying you’ve been masturbating in our bed while I’m sleeping?”
“I’m not implying anything,” he replies.
A riotous combination of shock and intrigue floods my chest. I push to one elbow and stare at him.
“Really?” I breathe. “You jerk off while I’m lying asleep next to you?”
“Uh huh.” He slides one hand under my shirt, his fingers trailing against my skin. “That turn you on?”
“Um… I’m not sure.” My heartbeat starts to increase in pace. “How come I’ve never woken up?”
“You sleep hard. And I’m quiet.”
“You’re not quiet when we have sex. Or when I watch you masturbate.”
“What can I say? I’m versatile.”
“So… How often do you do it?”
“Couple times a week, I guess.” He moves his hand up to my bra. “Why are you so curious?”
“I don’t know. It’s just that my sex drive has been so weird since I had Nicholas, and you’ve obviously been deprived.”
“I haven’t been deprived.”
“If you’re jerking off beside your sleeping wife, you’ve been deprived.” Now I sound annoyed. I can’t even remember the last time I masturbated—not that I’ve ever had much reason to do so since I met Dean.
“I jerk off beside my sleeping wife because I fucking love smelling her hair and feeling her body against mine when I come,” Dean says.
A new flame of shocked heat rips through me.
“You smell my hair?”
“Uh huh.”
“That sounds vaguely perverted.”
“I’m okay with that,” he remarks.
If my pulsing clit is anything to judge by, so am I.
I lean over him, drumming my fingers on his chest. “Why haven’t I ever noticed it when I change the sheets?”
“First, because you don’t change the sheets,” Dean reminds me. “I do. And second, because I use a towel.”
“Oh.” Despite my shock at this revelation, hot images flash crystal-clear through my head of Dean stretched out on his back, his bare, sculpted chest patterned with shadows and moonlight, his big cock sticking straight up as he wraps his hand around the base and strokes up to the tight head already glossy with moisture…
I shiver and press my thighs together. I’m starting to throb.
“So what…” I swallow to ease the dryness in my throat. “What do you fantasize about, then?”
“You.”
“Oh, please.” I roll my eyes and shift a little to rub my breasts against his chest. My nipples are straining against the constriction of my bra. I wish Dean had undressed me before carrying me up to bed. “You’re a man, Dean.”
“Yes, I am.”
Yes, he is. I ease my hand down to brush against the stiff bulge in his pants.
“So men fantasize about all sorts of things,” I remind him, cupping his erection in my palm. “What about when you’re not in bed? When you’re in the shower or up in your office? You can’t smell my hair or grind up against me then. So what do you fantasize about?”
“Usually you in different scenarios.”
“Like what?”
To my further intrigue, a slight flush crests his cheekbones.
“Dean?” I squeeze his cock lightly. “Come on. I’ve told you about my fantasies, right?”
“Mine aren’t nearly as vivid as yours,” he replies.
“Remember that dream you once had in which I was a librarian?” I ask, smiling when his cock stiffens even more. “That was pretty hot.”
“That was a dream, not a fantasy.”
“A dream is an unconscious fantasy,” I remind him. “But I want to know what you fantasize about when you’re awake. Am I a nurse? A farmer’s daughter? A vestal virgin?”
Dean shakes his head.
I try to think. “Oh! Am I a dominatrix?”
“Beauty, as much as I love the idea of you in leather, I’d never be up for that.” He slides his hand over my ass.
I can’t really see it either—even in my imagination, sexual submission and Dean West are a total mismatch. Control is just one of the things that makes him who he is, and though it’s also the characteristic that has caused the most problems between us, I’ve accepted that it will always be part of him.
“What do you fantasize about, then?” I ask.
“How about you tell me?” he suggests. “You have some pretty imaginative, elaborate fantasies. Elves and pirate captains and all that, right?”
Right. I used to have elaborate sexual fantasies. Now my most intense fantasies involve sleeping past five a.m., or eating an entire meal without getting up once, or having time to read a book whose plot doesn’t revolve around Arthur or the Berenstain Bears.
Stay on track, Liv. No thinking of Brother and Sister Bear…
“So?” Dean prompts, winding a lock of my hair around his finger.
“Um, so I had this fantasy where you were… uh, a deliveryman,” I say, “and I was… a bored, lonely housewife and you were delivering some sex toys…”
“Sounds more like a porn flick,” Dean remarks.
“Yeah.” I sigh. “I guess I haven’t fantasized much lately.”
“So instead of talking, why don’t we just get dirty?” he suggests, tugging at the hem of my shirt. “Take this off.”
Though I’m not entirely ready to be done with this conversation, I’m getting hot, and my breasts are aching. I lift myself up to take off my shirt and unhook my bra, tossing both to the floor. Cooler air caresses my skin, and Dean’s breath hisses out in pleasure at the sight of my bare breasts, my nipples jutting out, hard as cherries.
I shiver, desire rolling through me at the darkening heat in his eyes, the visible strain of his muscles.
Yes.
Oh, it feels good to be aroused, even if we haven’t done much of anything yet. Especially because we haven’t done much of anything yet.
