Spiral of Bliss: The Complete Boxed Set

by Nina Lane

  I glance at my watch. It’s nine-fifteen. Dean didn’t give me a specific time to be here, though I can’t imagine he’d expect it to be much later than this. In our normal routine, we do tend to be in bed by ten… sleeping.

  But this is hardly our normal routine.

  I walk to the bar, my heels clicking against the hardwood floor. Well-dressed patrons sit at the tables, sipping fancy cocktails, their conversations punctuated by low laughter. I maneuver onto a barstool as the surfer-boy handsome, blond bartender glides over to place a napkin in front of me. He smiles, his teeth as white as peppermints.

  “Good evening, miss,” he remarks. “You can leave your coat at the front rack, if you’d like.”

  A blush scorches my face.

  “That’s okay.” I give him a bright smile. “I’m a bit chilly.”

  “A drink to warm you up, then?” he asks, letting his gaze slip over me.

  I figure I’d better limit my alcohol intake. Even though I’m not sure what Dean has planned, I do know I want to be entirely lucid for it.

  “Club soda with lime,” I say. “Or can you make me something without too much alcohol?”

  “I can make you anything you want,” the bartender replies with a wink.

  I wonder if he’s flirting with me. Wouldn’t that be something?

  “Should I surprise you?” he asks.

  “Okay. Just not too much alcohol.”

  “Are you under twenty-one?”

  I laugh. “You’re closer to twenty-one than I am.”

  “I don’t know about that.” He leans his elbows on the counter. “I’m going to have to see your ID.”

  I shake my head in amusement, thinking he’s joking, but he doesn’t move, his gaze holding mine. With a shrug, I dig into my purse for my wallet and show him my driver’s license.

  “Olivia,” he says, studying my license. “Pretty name.”

  “And plenty old,” I add.

  “Not so much.” He hands my license back. “You’re five years older than me. That doesn’t make you a cougar.”

  A bubble of laughter rises into my throat.

  “My drink?” I ask.

  “Yeah, sorry.” He pushes away from the counter. “One low-alcohol surprise cocktail coming up.”

  Still smiling, I turn to scan the bar again. The clientele is mostly men, though several women in shiny, sheath dresses and elegant gold jewelry sip martinis and cosmopolitans.

  No sign of Dean yet. An older gentleman at a corner table catches my eye and raises his glass.

  It takes me a second to realize that—aside from being conspicuous as the only woman in the bar wearing a raincoat—the coat has parted at the fold, exposing a significant length of my stocking-clad leg.

  The man’s attention makes me wonder what would have happened if Dean and I had met like this—in a hotel bar with me showing off my assets, rather than outside a university registrar’s office with me picking myself up off the sidewalk.

  “Professors have a lot of power,” he said.

  I almost smiled. “Even medieval history professors?”

  “Especially medieval history professors,” he assured me.

  “Knights on horseback and all that?”

  A responding smile tugged at his mouth. “And damsels in distress.”

  Ours wasn’t a romance of cocktails and silk sheets. Ours was a romance of library call numbers, coffee cake, rainy weekends, history textbooks, and boring foreign films. We might not have happened any other way.

  Some things, I think, were clearly meant to be.

  A shiver of awareness ripples over my skin.

  I glance at the entrance to the bar. My breath catches in my throat. Dean is walking toward me, his stride long and assured, his muscular body sheathed in a navy tailored suit that fits him to perfection.

  He’s not just in full professor mode; he’s in full Dean West mode with his perfectly knotted tie and air of complete authority. Other patrons glance at him as he crosses the room. The overhead lights burnish his hair and cast shadows on the masculine planes of his face.

  My heart gives a wild, spinning leap. I turn on the barstool to watch him—my breathtakingly beautiful husband who commands attention like a king holding court, but whose eyes remain unwaveringly fixed on me.

  Oh, Dean. I’ve missed you.

  He stops in front of me and extends his hand. “Dean West.”

  I smile. “Well, I know that.”

  He raises an eyebrow, his hand still extended.

  Oh!

  “I’m Olivia… Winter.” I slip my hand into his. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  “Olivia Winter.” His deep voice envelops my name like dark chocolate spilling over a ripe cherry. “Pretty.”

  “Thanks.” I’m getting a little breathless.

  Dean’s fingers close around mine in a warm, secure handshake that sends a tingle clear up my arm. The scent of his shaving soap tickles my nose. I slip my hand slowly from his and gesture to the barstool beside me.

  “Would you like to sit down?” I ask.

  “Only if I can buy you a drink.”

  “Okay.” I glance to the other end of the bar, where the bartender is still making my drink. “I just ordered.”

  “And so will I.” He sits beside me, his sleeve brushing against mine.

  My heart thumps with a slow, heavy beat. A hint of nervous excitement winds through me—as if he really is a strikingly handsome stranger whom I know nothing about except that I’m captivated by his presence.

  “May I take your coat?” he asks, slanting his gaze over my body.

  “Maybe later.” I give him a sultry, sidelong glance. “Mr. West.”

  “You can call me sir.”

  Yes, I most certainly can.

  “Maybe later,” I murmur. “Sir.”

  The bartender returns, faltering slightly when he sees Dean sitting beside me.

  “Here you go, miss.” He sets a pretty, pink drink garnished with a cherry in front of me. “Grapefruit juice, sparkling wine, a touch of syrup.”

  “Put it on my tab,” Dean says.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And I’ll have a scotch on the rocks.”

  “Yes, sir.” The bartender hurries to get the drink.

  “So.” I shift, letting the raincoat display a bit more of my stocking-clad leg. “What do you do, sir?”

  “I’m a venture capitalist and businessman,” he replies. “I own an international conglomerate of companies branded under the name the Beauty Group.”

  “I think I’ve heard of that.”

  “We have about five hundred companies,” he continues, nodding his thanks as the bartender sets the scotch in front of him. “Travel, multimedia, entertainment, finance, hotels.”

  “Impressive,” I remark. “You must be quite wealthy.”

  He shrugs, like he can’t be bothered to consider his billions-of-dollars net worth.

  “And you?” he asks. “What do you do, Miss Winter?”

  “I’m an actress.”

  “Really?” He turns to face me, resting an elbow on the bar. “Stage or screen?”

  “Stage, of course.” I toss my hair back over my shoulder. “Movies are so pedestrian. Stage acting is so much more intimate and challenging. There’s no room for error when you’re on stage in front of a live audience.”

  “Hmm. A risk-taker, are you?”

  “Under the right circumstances, I can be.”

  “Interesting.” Dean puts his warm hand beneath my chin, turning my face toward his. “And what are the right circumstances?”

  “Maybe…” I glance up at him from beneath my eyelashes. “You, Mr. West.”

  “Ah.” He brushes his thumb across my lips, his eyes gleaming with something dark and dangerous. “Righ
t or wrong, make no mistake, Miss Winter. I’m not a circumstance.”

  “What are you, then?”

  “I’m your goddamned destiny.”

  He lowers his mouth to mine. All the breath escapes my lungs. But instead of the hot, hard kiss I’d been expecting—anticipating—his lips are gentle, caressing, a tease rather than an onslaught.

  And yet the effect on me is devastating—my blood goes into full boil, heat pooling in my lower body. By the time Dean lifts his head and eases away from me, I’m dizzy with longing.

  “Another drink?” The bartender’s voice slices through my haze as he plunks a bowl of salted nuts in front of us.

  “Not for me.” Dean glances at me, his expression simmering with heat. “Miss Winter?”’

  “No.” I pull in a breath. “No, thank you.”

  The bartender nods and walks to the other end of the bar to assist another customer. Dean puts his hand on my thigh beneath the counter and finds the opening of my coat. His fingers brush against my leg, his touch sending heat shooting across my skin.

  “So why the raincoat?” he asks, gliding his fingers discreetly up and down my leg. “Is that part of the risk-taking?”

  “I… I just came from the theater,” I reply, making an effort not to squirm on the barstool. “I’m still in costume.”

  “What kind of costume?”

  “One I can’t show a stranger.”

  “Too sexy?” He moves his hand up my thigh far enough to reach the edge of my stocking.

  My breath shortens. Dean slips his fingers into my stocking. His eyes darken with growing heat.

  “Too… slutty,” I murmur.

  “Tell me,” he orders, easing off the barstool to stand beside me, blocking me from view of the rest of the room.

  “It’s a black lace baby doll with purple ruffles,” I whisper, tensing a little when his hand glides toward my inner thigh. “It’s… well, it’s a little tight around my breasts, but I kind of like that because it feels really good on my nipples. And I’m wearing a flimsy little G-string, and thigh-high stockings.”

  “Hmm.” A faint growl rumbles in his chest. “What role were you playing?”

  “The wife of a medieval history professor who acts out all her husband’s dirty fantasies. It’s called The Secret Life of Professor West. You should come see it sometime.”

  “Maybe I will.” Amusement sparks beneath the heat in Dean’s eyes as he slips his hand between my thighs, urging them slightly apart.

  A gasp catches in my throat. I curl my hand around his wrist, glancing nervously past his shoulder to see if anyone notices exactly what we’re doing over here.

  “You shouldn’t do that, sir,” I say.

  “I’ll stop if you unbutton your coat and show me your breasts.”

  Oh my God. Desire bolts through me, centering in my core. I swallow, tightening my grip on his wrist.

  “I don’t think I can do that.”

  “Not all the way. Just a little.”

  He nudges his groin against my thigh. He’s already half-hard. I almost moan aloud, suppressing the urge to slide my hand down the front of his gorgeous suit and cup his growing erection in my hand.

  I glance around again to make sure no one else is paying attention to us, then I quickly unfasten a few buttons of the coat to reveal the V of my cleavage. Shielding me with his body, Dean gazes at my breasts with hot appreciation before pressing his mouth close to my ear.

  “Are your nipples hard?” he asks, his voice echoing deep inside my blood.

  “Yes,” I breathe, shifting and trying not to press my legs together.

  “And are you wet?” He slides his hand over my thigh.

  “God, De… sir.”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes. Oh.” I writhe a little on the barstool, my clit pulsing with every beat of my heart. “Wet and… hungry, sir.”

  Dean smiles. I half expect him to ease the raincoat open farther and start fingering me, but instead he lowers his mouth close to my ear again.

  “You’re a bad girl, Olivia Winter,” he whispers, his breath stirring the tendrils of my hair. “And you’re the hottest, sexiest woman I’ve ever seen in my life. I’d fuck you right here on the bar if it wouldn’t get us arrested.”

  A shudder rocks through me. I flick my tongue out to lick my dry lips. My nipples are so hard they’re starting to chafe against the mesh fabric of my bodice.

  “Well,” I murmur, “is there somewhere else we could go?”

  “I’m in the luxury suite.” Dean puts his big, warm hand on the nape of my neck. “But I’ll only take you there if you agree to do whatever I say. And I should warn you I’m very demanding.”

  Demanding.

  A bubble of excited anticipation rises in me.

  “I’ll do whatever you say, sir.”

  “Good.” He moves closer, his eyes brewing with lust. “Now kiss me.”

  Before I can take a breath, his mouth comes down on mine again—this time with possessive force. A thousand fireworks explode inside me, my whole being filling with warmth and love. I lift my hands to the sides of his face as he urges my lips apart and delves his tongue into my mouth. Ah, bliss…

  He tastes like scotch and sex. The noise of the bar recedes, the lights fading as the world compresses to the movement of our lips together—a warm, lovely kiss edged with the promise of hot passion.

  When Dean lifts his head, we’re both breathing heavily, and a faint dizziness washes over me. He brushes his thumb across my lips and puts his hand under my elbow.

  I slide off the barstool, shuddering as the pulse between my legs intensifies. Dean straightens the folds of my raincoat and tightens the belt.

  I slip my hand into his as we cross the room, and I’m distinctly aware of the glances tossed in our direction. I suppress a giggle at the thought of what these people would think if they knew our true story.

  But this is our true story. Everything we do is part of our story.

  We go into the mirrored elevator, and Dean swipes a key card into the reader. The elevator whisks us to the top floor, the doors gliding open right at the foyer of a fancy suite. Dean steps aside and ushers me to precede him.

  I go into the foyer, inhaling a breath of delight and awe at the sight of the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the midnight expanse of the lake and the glittering view of downtown. The furnishings are gorgeously elegant—damask wallpaper, sheer taupe curtains, intricately patterned carpet and plush sofas. A carved open door reveals a huge bed piled with silk, tasseled pillows and a bedspread that looks thick and soft as a cloud.

  “Oh, Dean.” I stop behind the sofa and turn to face him. “This is incredible.”

  He smiles, his eyes creasing at the corners as he reaches out to tug a lock of my hair. I expect a tender, loving remark or kiss, but he points to a wing-backed chair facing the high windows.

  “Take off your coat, Miss Winter,” he says. “And sit in that chair.”

  My heart thumps. Despite his warm gesture, Mr. West’s iron-clad sense of command is fully intact. And I’m suddenly a little nervous because… well, he’s “very demanding.”

  I step away from him, my breath shortening as I walk to the chair. The windows glow with both exterior and interior light, and I can see our hazy reflections in the glass. I stop by the chair and turn to face Dean, who is standing with his arms crossed and his expression unreadable.

  I tug at the knot of the raincoat and push it off my shoulders to reveal the skimpy little baby doll that barely covers my breasts and the scrap of lace panties. Dean’s gaze rakes over me, slow and heavy.

  “Slutty indeed,” he remarks.

  I curl my hand around the back of the chair, shifting my legs a little because the throb of arousal is becoming more acute with every passing second.

  “The out
fit maybe,” I say, blinking at him. “But really, I’m quite innocent.”

  A smile quirks his mouth. “Yes, I can tell, Miss Winter. Sit down, please.”

  I turn and sit in the chair, resisting the urge to squirm again. I dart my tongue out to lick my lips. I can see my reflection in the window, surrounded by the elegant furnishings—my hair long and loose around my shoulders, my body newly sexy in the lacy lingerie and thigh-highs, my feet still clad in the black fuck-me heels. The intimidating, dark shadow of Mr. West behind me.

  I shiver, my anxiety ratcheting up a notch. Goosebumps prickle my skin.

  Dean approaches, his steps silent on the plush carpet, his tall figure moving ever closer. I watch him in the reflection of the window before he moves to stand in front of me.

  My mouth goes dry as I find myself staring at the intimidatingly large erection pressing against the front of his trousers. A fire burns low in my belly, spreading heat outward into my blood. I reach up to touch him.

  Before I can, Dean grabs my wrist.

  “No,” he says, his voice deep and soft. “You don’t get to touch me unless I say you can.”

  Though I’m not at all certain I can obey that order—after all, touching this man’s incredible, muscular body is one of my most favorite pastimes—I nod in agreement. He releases my wrist and reaches into his pocket, producing a length of red silk. Before I can ask what he intends to do with it, he wraps one end around my right wrist.

  “Dean, what…”

  He shakes his head and loops the silk around the chair arm, then the back, before bringing it around to my left wrist. Next thing I know, I’m lashed to the chair, the silk gentle but secure around my wrists. I move my arms experimentally. There’s very little give in the fabric.

  “Where did you learn to tie knots like this?” I ask.

  Dean catches my eye for half a second and winks. “Boy Scouts.”

  Of course.

  He reaches into his left pocket and removes another length of purple silk. This time I don’t have to ask what he intends to do with it, but my heart stutters when he places the cloth against my eyes and ties it at the back of my head. The world becomes darkness, and a faint fear rises along with the hammering of my heart.