by Nina Lane
Apples, cinnamon, nutmeg, sugar, butter. I stir everything up into a nice, creamy mess, load the filling into the pie, and make a quick lattice-work crust before putting the whole creation in the oven.
I close the oven door and glance at Dean. I’m warm not only from arousal, but also the work and heat of the oven.
“It’ll take at least an hour to bake,” I remark, hoping he’ll amend the rules about exactly what needs to happen before we get down to business.
He shrugs. “I can wait.”
Of course he can.
With a sigh, I perch on a kitchen stool and drum my fingers on the central island. The clock ticks. I’m not about to risk my pie being anything less than good, but I struggle to hold on to my patience as the clock moves at a snail’s pace and my body hums with the simmering need for Dean.
I cross my legs. My clit is pulsing. A little tightening of my thighs, and I could totally bring myself off. Dean frowns at me. I swing my leg and smile innocently.
“Believe me, professor,” I say. “If I were about to come, you’d know it.”
“Indeed I would.”
The timer on the oven dings. Yes! I hop off the stool and hurry over to take the pie out, pleased that the crust is golden-brown, the filling bubbly and soft.
“Perfection!” I set the pie on a rack.
Dean pushes to his feet and approaches me. “So far so good.”
“Well, now you have to wait for it to cool,” I say.
He scowls. Hah. Two can play at this game.
But because I don’t want to play for much longer, I get out a plate and cut a slice of pie after only a few minutes of cooling time. The steam smells heavenly, curling up from the apples in little whorls of sweetness and spice.
I fork up a generous portion of filling and crust, glancing at Dean as I purse my lips and blow on the pie to cool it further. He lets out his breath, his gaze on my mouth. I hold the forkful of pie out to him. He takes the bite and chews, his expression growing thoughtful, like he’s one of those chef judges on a cooking competition show.
Finally he swallows and says, “It’s not good.”
My heart sinks. “It’s not?”
“No.” He advances, backing me toward the counter. “It’s delicious.”
Before I can respond, he plants his hands on the counter behind me and pushes me right up against it, his mouth coming down on mine in a kiss of swift, hot possession.
I melt, gripping the front of his shirt, my lips parting on a moan. He shoves his erection against me, the heat of his stiff flesh burning through his trousers. My pulse pounds. I fall into him, tasting apples, sugar, and Dean, my head spinning with lust and love.
He grasps my waist, lifting me onto the counter and moving between my spread legs. He straightens, his gaze on mine. I slide my hands over his shirt, my fingers trembling as I unfasten the buttons slowly. To my embarrassment, I can’t remember the last time I undressed my husband.
Has it really been that long?
“Oh, you’re so gorgeous,” I breathe, sliding my hands over the sculpted planes of his chest and abdomen, down to the tantalizing line of hair leading right into his trousers.
I unbuckle his belt and slide it off, leather rasping against cloth. His breathing quickens, his heartbeat increasing beneath my palm. I smile and stroke downward, cupping the bulge pressing against the front of his trousers. I lean in and press my lips against the warm hollow of his throat.
“How am I doing with keeping control?” I whisper.
“Not bad, beauty.” His voice is thick with growing lust. He lowers his head, his sandpapery cheek scraping deliciously against mine as he kisses my neck. “Now let’s see if I can make you lose it.”
Before I can start unfastening his trousers, he slips his hand between my thighs, his fingers delving into my cleft with easy assurance. He knows exactly how and where to touch me, and before long I’m panting and writhing against the pressure of his hand.
I spread my legs wider, squirming to the edge of the counter so I can hook my legs around him. He slips his other hand up to cup my breast over the material of the apron, his thumb flicking my nipple. Sparks fly through me.
Dean moves away only long enough to unfasten his trousers. He shoves them and his boxers down, and my mouth goes dry at the sight of his long, stiff cock poking out from under the hem of his open shirt.
I start to reach for him, wanting to feel the pulsing length against my hand, then I stop and glance up at him.
“Permission, sir?” I murmur.
His jaw tenses, his breath escaping on a hiss. “Permission granted.”
I close my hand around his cock, my sex clenching at the thought of all that hard flesh filling me. I slide my hand up and down a few times, brushing my thumb over the damp head in the way I know he likes.
His breath saws through the air, his fingers clenching on my hips. I guide him to my opening, my breath catching as he begins a slow, tight glide into me, his body tense and straining.
“Ah, fuck, Liv…”
His breath stirs the tendrils of hair at my temple. When he’s fully inside me, he stops, tightening his grip. Urgency scorches me from the inside out, the throb of his big cock sending flickers of fire straight into my blood. I flex my hands on his arms and shift, wiggling closer, aching to feel him pump deep inside me.
“Hurry,” I whisper, my head filling with the fog of desire, the eucalyptus scent of Dean’s shaving soap mixing with the lingering scents of apples and cinnamon.
He presses his lips in a line over my cheek to my mouth, his tongue flickering out to taste my lower lip.
“You want it?” he murmurs, his voice husky.
“Oh, yes…”
“How badly?”
“So badly,” I say against his lips, tightening my legs around him. “God, Dean, I had no idea baking you a pie would turn me on this much.”
A smile tugs at his mouth, his eyes filled with heat. “Imagine what’ll happen when I order you to bake me a cake.”
“I’ll come before I get the damned thing out of the oven,” I gasp, shivering when he slips his hand between my thighs to my clit.
“Wider,” he says.
He drags me to the very edge of the counter, half sliding out of me before driving back in, so powerfully that I cry out. I part my legs wider, and he thrusts so deep I feel the jolt all the way to my core.
Another cry breaks from my throat, and then the world around us dissolves, replaced by hot breath, deep thrusts, and the rhythmic cadence of our movements that we still fall into so easily. I lean forward to press my lips to the hollow of his throat as he fucks me again and again, driving my need higher with every deep plunge.
“Dean…” My voice is strained tight, like a wire about to snap. “I’m going to… I want…”
“Come on, beauty,” he murmurs, his voice rough against my ear. “Come all over my cock. Let me feel it… good and hard.”
He shoves forward, pushing into me, his fingers still working my clit. I moan, squeezing my eyes shut, feeling my body climbing toward the explosion of pleasure I haven’t experienced in too long.
The instant the pressure breaks, Dean’s mouth descends on mine, his tongue sweeping across my lips as light bursts through my body. Bliss consumes me, a combination of freedom and a renewed anchoring of myself to my husband. I cry out his name, clenching my body around his shaft as he plunges into me again.
“Do it,” I gasp, gripping his shoulders. “Come inside me. I want to feel you.”
He clutches my hips, slowing his pace to a long, hard glide in the instant before he comes with a heavy groan. I tighten around him as his body shudders with release, the sensation of him filling me eliciting a new wave of pleasure.
Gasping, I fall against him, pressing my forehead to his chest as we struggle to catch our breath. A sh
een of sweat dampens my skin, the scent of sex rising from our bodies.
I shiver, pressing my thighs together as Dean slips out of me and reaches for a napkin to clean us both up. He gives me a lazy, satisfied smile—so beautiful with a flush cresting his sharp cheekbones, his dark hair messy, his eyes warm and sated.
Without letting go of me, he turns and takes a chunk of apple from the pie and holds it to my lips. I open my mouth and accept the warm, sugary slice, redolent with cinnamon.
“I love you,” I breathe.
“I’m really glad to hear that, beauty.” Dean lowers his head to kiss me, his mouth sweet and sticky. “Because you’re the apple of my pie.”
I smile and wind my arms around his neck to deepen the kiss.
The phone rings.
Dean tightens his grip on me. “You are not allowed to answer that.”
“Good, because I don’t want to.” I slide my tongue across his lower lip.
The machine clicks on. A man’s voice breaks into my haze.
“Liv, it’s Roger Jameson calling about the Airstream trailer you were looking at for your party truck. I think I can work out a deal for you. Give me a call if you’re still interested.”
I suppress a flicker of interest and concentrate on kissing my husband, but the intrusion of the call has cooled our heat. With a resigned sigh, Dean pulls slightly away from me.
“Now you’re taking on another project?” he asks.
“Allie and I have been talking about it for awhile. A birthday party truck that—”
“Yeah, you told Archer. And Archer told me.”
“Well, he offered to do the engine work, if we can find a used pick-up,” I explain. “We have enough for a deposit, but we’re also hoping for a loan to help buy the trailer. Except I’ll have to increase the amount to include the restoration.”
“And who’s going to do the restoration?”
“Allie and I.” I wince inwardly at the disapproval flashing over his face. “In our spare time. It’ll be cheaper than hiring someone else to do it.”
Dean sighs. “Liv, for the love of God, would you please let me buy you the truck and hire someone to restore it for you? If you take on one more project, I’m putting my foot down.”
I run my hand over his jaw. “Well, I do kind of like it when you put your foot down.”
He frowns. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“Let me buy you the damned truck.”
“We already applied for the loan, Dean.” I shift closer to him, not wanting to remind him that he also just took on a new responsibility as director of the train project. “Besides, even if it does work out, we won’t get started until later this summer, and I’ll be done with the festival by then. So it’s not like I’d be trying to do it right now along with everything else.”
Dean doesn’t look terribly mollified. I can see him bristling with the urge to argue, but to his credit, he only gives me a grudging nod.
“I’m watching you, Mrs. West,” he mutters. “And I’ll give you this one, but it’s clear you haven’t yet learned your lesson.”
“Maybe I need a time out.” I slide my hand down his muscular torso. “A big, thick, long time out…”
Renewed heat flares in his eyes as he lowers his head to slant his mouth across mine. Cinnamon, sugar, apples, and Dean. Again, I let the rest of the world fall away.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
DEAN
THERE’S ONE THING BETTER THAN A good plan. A good plan that works.
And though I haven’t yet devised a plan for getting Liv to let me buy the birthday party truck, my other plans are working out very well. So well, in fact, that I divide my time during the next few days between fielding ideas from architects and seismologists about how to stabilize the monastery and thinking of ways to keep my wife hot and needy. This is not, as it turns out, nearly as much of a disconnect as one would imagine.
I plan another erotic encounter, breaking up the day by calling Liv a couple of times and warning her not to touch herself. I swear, the order alone gets her going, like she’s been told she can’t have a bite of a fresh-baked cookie—tempting, mouth-watering, and off-limits.
“Are you in your office?” I ask, lowering my voice an octave.
“Yes.” The word comes out on a breathless sigh that makes my dick twitch. “Are you?”
“Uh huh. Door’s locked?”
“Just a sec.” A pause fills the line before she says, “It is now. I’m working on payroll.”
I can see her sitting at her desk, her eyes starting to darken with need, her skin flushed and lips parted. She’s wearing a purple Wonderland Café apron, but beneath that her nipples are pressing against her white shirt, and any minute now she’ll start to squirm…
“Unbutton your shirt,” I tell her.
There’s a rustling noise beneath the sound of her breath. “All the way?”
“Just enough so you can reach into your bra and fondle your breasts.”
“God, Dean.”
“Do it.”
A small moan escapes her, followed by heavy silence.
“You’d better not be touching your pussy,” I remark.
“I’m… I’m not. But I want to so badly.” She pulls in a breath. “We’re working with this band called Slice of Pie for the festival, and I was listening to some of their songs earlier so we could come up with a playlist and—”
“You’re really not allowed to talk about work.”
“No, this isn’t about work… I mean, I was listening to this song about cherry pie, in the sky, hoping it will drop from high, juicy and hot, gimme a lot… and oh my God, Dean, it’s so wrong but I was getting incredibly aroused thinking of baking you a cherry pie and imagining what you’d do with all that sweet, drippy filling…”
Hmm. Now I know what she’s baking for me this weekend.
“And what were you imagining?” I ask.
“What?”
“What would I do with the cherry pie filling?”
“You’d spread it over my nipples and lick it off,” Liv says breathlessly. “And you’d feed me the gooey cherries with your fingers and make me suck them clean. And you’d scoop up spoonfuls and eat them, then kiss me all sticky and hot while you pushed your cock into my pussy… oh…”
I give a muffled laugh, rubbing the front of my pants. Doesn’t take much from my wife to get me hard. Just picturing her with pie filling smeared over her round tits, her lips glossy with cherry juice…
Ah, fuck. My dick is starting to throb.
“Take off your panties,” I tell Liv.
“What?”
“Reach under your skirt and strip off your panties. Now.”
Her breath catches. There’s a rustling noise on the other end of the phone before Liv’s voice comes through again.
“Okay,” she says. “They’re off.”
“Now go back to work.”
“Without any underwear?” She sounds faintly shocked, as if her customers will somehow know she’s naked under her skirt.
“Without any underwear.” I lower my voice. “I want you to feel your wet pussy rubbing together with every step. I want you to think about spreading your legs for me, taking my cock in, bending over to show me your pretty, naked ass. I want your nipples to be hard for the rest of the day, so you can imagine me sucking them after I rip your clothes off. I want you to think about how fucking good it’s going to feel when I plunge inside you deep enough to make you scream.”
No response, aside from her heavy, panting breaths. Finally she whispers, “Okay.”
Despite my throbbing cock, I can’t help grinning. “Okay.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, beauty. Don’t you dare put your panties back on.”
I end the call and spend th
e next few minutes thinking about medieval arms and armor to get my mind off all the dirty things I want to do to my wife right this second.
When I have myself under control again, I pull out my cell phone and send Liv a text: Be good, and I’ll fuck you again tonight.
A response comes a few seconds later: That would be lovely, dear, but I don’t think your wife would approve.
What the…?
I check the number and groan. I push the call button, a burn of embarrassment crawling up my chest. “Florence, I’m so sorry.”
She laughs. “Don’t be. You gave me something to… think about.”
“This is why I hate texting.”
“I believe that was called sexting,” she replies. “Not that I know anything about that, although Mr. Jenkins did send me a message about engine drivers the other day.”
“If he’s hitting on you, let me know and I’ll set him straight.”
“Actually, if you could give him some pointers, I’d be most grateful,” Florence replies rather wistfully. “I asked him to come over one evening to discuss tie plates, but he refused because he didn’t want to miss the early bird special at the World Buffet.”
“Does he already have a girlfriend?”
“Seriously, Dean? You think a man that clueless has a girlfriend? He clearly lost his game along with most of his hair.”
“So why do you want to go out with him?”
“He’s a widower who was married for forty-three years,” she replies. “He likes to garden, doesn’t talk too much, and has a hobby to occupy his time so he won’t get on my nerves. Speaking of which, have you contacted engineers about the train restoration yet? Or gotten blueprints?”
I curse inwardly and scribble a reminder to myself on a notepad.
“Not yet,” I tell Florence. “I’ll get to it soon.”
“Let me know as soon as you do,” she replies. “I’ll speak with you later, Dean. Tell Liv she’s a lucky girl, though I’m sure she already knows that.”
