by Nina Lane
Liv stares at me, her breasts rising and falling with the force of her breath. “What… what was that about?”
I put my hands on the wall behind her again, caging her in, and brush my lips gently across hers.
“Still hungry from last night?” I ask in a low voice.
“Oh, yes,” Liv says, putting her hand on my chest. “That was so hot and felt so good.”
“Have you touched yourself lately, my beauty?”
Her breath catches. “God, Dean.”
“Have you?”
“N-no.”
I narrow my eyes. “You sure? All that talk about fantasies and buying your sexy little lingerie. You’re not diddling your pussy when you’re alone, are you?”
“No,” she whispers, her brown eyes fixed on mine with both wariness and heat.
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
“Good. And you won’t either.” I slip my hand between her thighs again, over her nightgown, and rub her clit. “I’ve done a lot of waiting for you, Mrs. West. And I’m getting tired of being left out in the cold. It’s about time you learned a lesson about not finishing what you start.”
She stares at me, her full lips parted, her breath coming in quick little pants.
“Um… what kind of lesson?” she breathes.
I slide my hand up to squeeze her breast. “A lesson about control.”
“Control?”
“Uh huh.” I pinch her nipple. “You’re not allowed to get me jacked up and leave me unsatisfied anymore. In fact, you’re not allowed to do a damn thing unless I say you can.”
“Um…” Her slender throat ripples with a swallow. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“You’ll find out. In the meantime, you don’t think about sex. You don’t fantasize about pirates or gladiators or anything else. And you sure as hell don’t touch your pretty pussy. Got it?”
Liv nods, her eyes still wide and faintly shocked.
”Good.” I push away from her, tugging the folds of her robe closed, my gaze on hers. “Now go make me some bacon, woman.”
Without a word, she starts back to the kitchen, pausing only to give me a rather dazed look over her shoulder.
Satisfaction fills my chest. I fucking love a good plan.
The abandoned freight and passenger line of the Electric Railroad Company once ran from Mirror Lake to Wessington Springs, South Dakota before it folded due to lack of profits. The tracks are still in place, though overgrown with weeds and brush now, and the Mirror Lake Depot—now fallen into disrepair—is a Gothic Revival, brick building with arched windows and a bell tower.
After parking near the depot, I open the passenger side door for Florence Wickham. As she gets out of the car, Archer’s motorcycle rumbles up the road. He comes to a halt, pulls off his helmet, and approaches us.
“Well, I can certainly see the resemblance,” Florence says brightly, after I introduce her to Archer. “You’re brothers through and through, aren’t you?”
Archer shrugs, looking away from me to the station. A knot pulls in my chest because we both know it’s not true. We’re half-brothers, not brothers “through and through.”
“Archer, Liv showed me the chair you painted for the auction.” Florence claps her hands. “It’s just incredible. I can’t thank you enough. I’m thinking of bidding on it for my grandson. Oh, yoo hoo! Mr. Jenkins!”
I look up to see an elderly man emerging from the train shed, which is a wooden barn-like structure a short distance away. Florence waves and smooths down the front of her powder-blue suit.
“Over here, Mr. Jenkins!” she calls.
The old guy shuffles over to us. Dressed in greasy overalls and a hat bearing a Electric Railroad Company logo, he extends his hand and introduces himself as president of the Historic Railroad Association.
“Dean has offered to be the project director,” Florence tells him. “He’s a professor of medieval history at King’s.”
“Medieval history?” Mr. Jenkins looks at me askance, as if wondering what the hell a medievalist is doing heading a train restoration project.
I wonder that myself. I don’t have the time—or frankly the knowledge—I need to devote to the project, but I also don’t want to let Florence down.
“Dean will do an excellent job,” Florence tells Mr. Jenkins, patting my chest.
“He’d better,” Mr. Jenkins remarks, throwing me a look of warning. “We’ve been trying to get this place protected for years. Thank heavens for the good Ms. Wickham here, because if the Historical Society hadn’t gotten involved, the transportation company would have sold it off to developers. Now we stand a chance of saving it. Don’t need any pansy-ass professors mucking things up.”
Archer snorts with suppressed laughter.
“I won’t muck it up,” I assure Mr. Jenkins gravely.
He doesn’t look convinced. I’m not either.
“How many trains are there?” Archer asks.
“An old steam engine and a few cars,” Mr. Jenkins says, leading us toward the shed. “I’d love to get that engine restored. It’d be a beaut.”
“Archer, Dean tells me you’re very knowledgeable about engines,” Florence says, as Archer takes her arm to help her over a rocky patch of grass. “How to oil them up and all. Get the pistons moving nice and smooth.”
“Yeah,” Archer admits. “I know a thing or two.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it, my dear.” She smiles at him. “I’m just delighted you’ve agreed to help us.”
Archer shoots me a look that tells me he agreed to no such thing. I shrug, like I don’t know anything about it.
Mr. Jenkins opens the shed door, and we go inside. An old steam locomotive and train cars loom like monsters in the dim light. The smells of coal, oil, and grease hang in the air.
“Whoa.” Archer stops, his eyes widening. “This is incredible. Dude, you need to bring Nicholas to see this.”
“I believe the cars were all original to the railway,” Florence says. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Jenkins?”
“Sure enough.”
“You can still see the train numbers.” Archer points to the Great Midwest Railway logo and number 3457 on the side of the engine. “Whyte notion of engines based on wheel arrangement.”
“You know your trains, son,” Mr. Jenkins says, his eyebrows lifting.
Archer starts talking about the engineer he once worked for who taught him how steam engines were classified. Not for the first time, I’m impressed with my brother’s knowledge, which proves again that his years on the road shaped him in ways I’d never considered.
We look around more, with Archer and Mr. Jenkins getting deep in conversation about what it would take to fix the engines.
“This is really cool, man,” Archer tells me as we leave the shed. “Thanks for bringing me on board.”
“Thanks for agreeing to do it.”
I’d never imagined Archer and I could find common ground and work on a project together, but maybe this is it. The combination of his mechanical knowledge and my research skills could be a good partnership.
“You remember the bandits from the Castle train robbery?” he asks.
I almost smile. Sometimes our tree house was an Old West train, usually carrying newly minted gold eastward, that we had to defend against masked bandits.
I hadn’t remembered the train robberies until now. Makes me wonder how many other memories I haven’t managed to preserve. It’s easy to look at a dilapidated place like this or the Butterfly House, to imagine restoring a property to its former glory, to see the value in saving it. It’s easy for me to look at a historic castle, a cathedral, a fortress, and advocate for its preservation.
It’s not so easy to do that with your own life. To know what’s worth saving and what’s faded enough to let go.
>
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
OLIVIA
A LESSON ABOUT CONTROL.
Well, all right then, Professor West. Teach me.
Curious thoughts buzz around my mind like bees in a hive as I work my shift at the Wonderland Café. I’m still aroused from both this morning and last night’s thwarted lust. And I feel a little raunchy for having lascivious thoughts while I serve heart-shaped jam tarts and cucumber sandwiches to a group of ladies from the Historical Society.
“Thank you, Olivia, my dear,” Florence Wickham says. “I’m sorry I missed you at the Historical Society meeting. How are you?”
Horny.
I stifle a laugh as I imagine how the ladies would react if I actually said that. Florence would probably tell me to go right home and put Dean to work.
Except I can’t do that. Because I’m not allowed to.
A little tingle of excitement goes through me. What on earth will I be allowed to do? And when?
I clear my throat and place a tiered tray of tea sandwiches on the table.
“Very well, thank you,” I reply. “I hear Dean and Archer are helping you with the railroad.”
“Yes, and we’re anticipating great things from the auction,” Florence says. “Did you ever secure an auctioneer?”
“Didn’t I CC you on the email?” I take out my phone and scroll my messages. “Patrick Hartford from Hartford Pharmacy is a licensed auctioneer, but because he’s been out of the auction gig for a while, he agreed to do it for a nominal fee.”
“Oh, lovely.” Florence smiles at me. “What would this town do without you, Olivia?”
Hopefully this town will never have to find out, I think, as I pick up their empty teapot and return to the kitchen. I bring the ladies a fresh pot of Earl Grey and ring up a customer’s bill. After I help a couple of teenagers at the counter, my cell phone buzzes with a text.
DEAN: Go into your office and call me.
LIV: I’m working.
DEAN: Do it.
My stomach flutters. As soon as Sheryl returns to staff the front counter, I mutter something about needing to do some “stuff” in the office. I hurry in and lock the door behind me—Allie and I sometimes change out of our work clothes in the office, so she won’t wonder why the door is locked. I dial Dean’s number.
“I’m here.”
“Door locked?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Good. Put your hand between your legs and tell me how wet you are.”
I draw in a sharp breath, a shiver raining down my spine. My heart hammers as I slip my hand under my apron and unzip my pants. I’m unfortunately wearing boring cotton underwear, but clearly that has no effect on my arousal.
“God, Dean,” I murmur. “So wet. I really was turned on last night… and this morning.”
“I know you were.” His voice drops an octave. “I’m going to tell you a fantasy, beauty. And when you get home, you strip off your clothes, put on your bathrobe, and lie on the bed with your legs spread. You’re going to touch yourself and think about what I’m going to tell you. But you’re not allowed to come. Understand?”
My pulse is beating so hard I can hear it in my head.
“Yes,” I manage to whisper.
“You’re wearing an apron.”
An apron?
Since I wear an apron every day, this is not a particularly sexy start. And given Dean’s lack of imagination when it comes to fantasies…
“Um, okay,” I say, keeping my voice husky. “An apron.”
“And nothing else.”
“Oh…”
“It’s a little red checkered apron with a ruffled hem that just comes to the tops of your thighs and covers your breasts.”
Oh my.
Maybe he does have a sexy imagination after all.
“What are you wearing?” I ask.
“You’re not allowed to ask questions.”
“Oops. Sorry.”
“Pay attention. You’re only wearing red heels and this little apron that exposes your pretty ass. And you’re aroused. Every time you take a step, you feel your clit throbbing and your juices dripping down your thighs. Your nipples are hard, rubbing against the apron, your breasts bouncing every time you move. You’re so tempted to reach under that ruffled hem and touch yourself, but you know that if you do, you won’t get fucked.
“And you want to get fucked, beauty. Badly. You want to spread your legs and feel my cock pounding into you. You want to writhe and moan and scream. You want to beg to come, and when I let you, the fucking earth will shake.”
“Oh my God, Dean.” I grip the desk and close my eyes, sweat breaking out on my forehead. “I’m about to come right now.”
“No.” His voice steels. “Get back to work.”
Seriously?
“Wait,” I gasp. “I still have two hours left in my shift.”
“I know.”
“I’m bringing tea to the ladies of the Historical Society.”
“Say hello to them for me,” he remarks, his tone now laced with amusement. “Remember what I told you. Be ready. I’ll be home at five.”
Holy shit. I stick my phone back into my pocket, trying to compose myself as I walk back out to the kitchen. Figuring I can attribute my flushed skin to the heat of the stove, I manage to get through the rest of my shift with a reasonable degree of composure—even if I do find myself looking at the raw carrots with a perverted interest.
By the time I get home, I’m almost shaking with need. I take off my clothes and pull my robe on over my naked body before stretching out on the bed. Images flood my head of me walking around in the little red apron and heels, the bow tickling my ass, Dean’s hot gaze raking over me.
I wonder where we are. Am I working in a bakery? Is he the boss? Maybe I’m a housekeeper and he’s the master of the mansion. And maybe he catches me stealing a doughnut and decides to punish me by making me strut around half-naked for his pleasure.
Ooo. Doughnuts.
Focus, Liv.
I stretch out on the bed, lightly running my hands over my bare thighs through the opening in my robe. I picture myself maybe walking around with a feather duster, dusting Master West’s collection of… um, priceless Greco-Roman antiques, when he grabs the duster from me and starts flicking it over my naked body, the feathers tickling my skin…
“Good girl.”
Dean’s deep voice falls over me. My breath catches as I push up to my elbows, our eyes clashing hot and intense across the room. His tie is loose around his neck, but otherwise he’s still fully dressed in charcoal-gray slacks and a navy shirt that fits beautifully over his broad chest and shoulders. I let my gaze wander hungrily down to his groin, where sure enough a heavy, tempting bulge is all too evident.
I lick my lips. He mutters a curse, pulling off his tie.
“Watch it,” he growls. “You’re also not allowed to seduce me.”
“I’m just looking at you.”
“You looking at me is a seduction,” he says, jerking a thumb toward the door. “Downstairs.”
“Downstairs?”
“Go.”
I scramble off the bed and pass him in the doorway, making certain to nudge my breasts accidentally against his arm. He frowns.
I hurry downstairs, stopping halfway with the question I can’t help asking because it was Dean’s turn to pick Nicholas up from daycare.
“Where’s Nicholas?” I ask.
“With Archer. Who is under the threat of death not to call unless it’s a dire emergency.”
“Oh.” I stifle a giggle. “He must really be wondering what we’re up to.”
“Kitchen,” Dean orders. “Now.”
I go into the kitchen, stopping at the sight of a folded, red-checkered apron sitting on the central island along with an array o
f baking ingredients. There’s a pair of red, pointed-toe heels beside the counter.
I pause. “What...”
Dean stops behind me, rubbing his big hands over my ass. “Put on the apron, beauty. And bake me an apple pie.”
I turn to stare at him. “You’re serious?”
“Never more.” Though his expression is stern, amusement flickers in his brown eyes.
“This is your fantasy? For me to bake you a pie half-naked?”
“While I watch,” he adds, lifting his hands to fondle my breasts. “If the pie is good, I’ll fuck you nice and hard and let you come.”
A bolt of heat shoots through me. “And… and if it’s not?”
“I’ll still fuck you, but you won’t be allowed to come.”
“Well, that’s just mean.”
“Better make it a good pie, then.”
With that, he sits down on a kitchen chair, crosses his arms, and waits.
And since I really want what’s behind door number one, I strip out of my robe—slowly, as his heated gaze rakes over me—and put on the ruffled apron. The skirt is too small, leaving my cleavage exposed on the top and sides, and the little hem barely covers my pussy. I slip my feet into the heels and fasten the thin straps.
I walk over to Dean and turn, flicking the apron strings.
“Could you tie it for me, please?” I ask breathlessly.
I can almost hear his jaw grinding with restraint as he takes the strings and ties a bow right above my bare bottom. Then he gives me a light spank.
“Bake, woman,” he orders.
I set to work making the pie crust and peeling apples. And though this is unconventional for us, it’s also fun. And pretty smoking hot. Every time I glance at Dean, he’s watching me with a smoldering gaze, his muscles leashed with self-control, his erection straining against his fly.
For the fourth time, I drop an apple peel on the floor.
“Silly me.” I turn, bending over to pick it up, feeling Dean’s gaze on my upturned ass.
I’m sure he’s imagining exactly what he wants to do to me. And he was right—with every step, every movement, even rolling out the pie crust, I’m acutely aware of my arousal. My nipples rub against the cotton apron, and I have to fight the urge not to tense my thighs to ease the ache of need.
