by Nina Lane
“I’m sure he’s rich too,” Dean remarks.
“Well, yes, but that’s not why she falls in love with him.”
He rolls his eyes ever so slightly.
I tweak his nose. “That’s not why I fell in love with you.”
“Ah, now this conversation is getting interesting.” Dean slides his other hand around to my ass. “Let’s talk more about why you fell in love with me.”
“Hah. I’m not about to stroke the ego of a man who’s never read Pride and Prejudice.”
“Want to stroke something else?” he asks with a suggestive lift of his eyebrows.
I’m not so offended that the thought of getting sexy with my husband is unappealing—I’m quite certain nothing could provoke such blasphemy—but I’m also not about to let him off the hook that easily.
“That is so not something Mr. Darcy would say.” I press my breasts against his chest to tease him, then wiggle out of his grip and go into the kitchen. “However, maybe we should dress up as Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet for Halloween.”
“Yeah… no.” Dean returns to his sprawled position on the sofa with his tablet.
I let my gaze travel surreptitiously over his long, muscular body, imagining him dressed in well-fitting breeches, a snowy white linen shirt with a double-breasted silk waistcoat hugging his lean torso beneath a navy, superfine coat…
“You’d be very sexy in a Regency gentleman’s clothing,” I say. “And besides, you haven’t come up with a single other idea for a couple’s costume.”
“I’m the one who suggested Olga Danilova and Vasili Buslai.”
“Dean, I don’t even know who they are.” I return my attention to the white shirt spread out on the central island. “No one knows who they are.”
“They’re characters from one of the greatest Russian films of all time—Alexander Nevsky. It’s a historical drama that I can’t believe I haven’t shown you before. I’ll order a DVD.”
“No hurry,” I reply dryly. “And it can’t be that great because I’ve never heard of it. Besides, not a single person will get the reference.” I check the seams of the shirt I sewed. “We could just be Arthur and Guinevere.”
“Isn’t that a little obvious?”
“That’s the point of a couple’s costume. It’s not supposed to be totally obscure.”
“We could go as Odysseus and Penelope,” Dean suggests.
I snort. “You are such a nerd.”
Dean winks at me. “Bet you can’t say the same thing about old Mr. Darcy, can you?”
There are actually a lot of things I can say about Professor West that I can’t say about Mr. Darcy, and all the descriptions are both flattering and very well deserved. Not that I’ll tell Dean that right now.
“Hey, where’s Nicholas?” I hold up the pirate shirt. “I need him to try this on.”
Dean picks up a walkie-talkie from the coffee table and speaks into it. “Ahoy, Dread Pirate West, the pirate queen requires your presence on deck immediately. Savvy?”
He releases the button, and a crackly static comes from the speaker before Nicholas replies, “Aye, bucko. I’m on me way.”
There’s a thumping noise from upstairs before our six-year-old son comes barreling down the stairs and into the kitchen, pirate sword in hand.
“Ahoy, me hearties!” He stops beside me, pushing his eye patch up to his forehead. “You know, I really need a good ship, like a brigantine.”
Dean and I exchange amused looks over the reminder that our son has a far more extensive knowledge of pirate ships, crews, and weapons than either of us do. Not that Nicholas’s fascination with history surprises me, given his paternal lineage.
“Or even a fort,” Nicholas adds, adjusting his hat. “Pirates don’t hide out in closets. They just don’t.”
“We’ll come up with something,” Dean promises. “Maybe in the basement, so you can pillage and plunder during winter.”
“Come here and try these on, captain.” I hold out the knee-length pants and buccaneer shirt with billowed sleeves.
Nicholas strips out of his sweatpants and T-shirt and then lets me help him put on the pirate shirt and pants. I fuss with the fit and pin the hem on the pants, then have him try on the red sash.
“Okay, scallywag, get your regular clothes back on.” I ease the pirate shirt over his head and spread it out again on the central island.
“Where’s Bella?” Nicholas asks, pulling on his sweatpants. “I need her to be my prisoner.”
“Still napping.” I glance at the clock. “If she’s not up by two, I’ll wake her.”
“Dad, will you be my prisoner?” Nicholas goes into the sunroom.
“Well…” Dean sighs gustily and puts his tablet aside before slowly straightening. “I guess I could be a prisoner… but you’ll have to capture me first, ye lily-livered swine.”
He leaps up, shoving his feet into a pair of shoes by the sliding glass door before escaping into the garden. Nicholas grabs his sword and hurries to put his shoes on.
“Ye scurvy dog,” he shouts. “Yer doom be at hand!”
He rushes into the garden after Dean, and they start racing around the house and into the wooded lot beyond the garden, hurling pirate insults at each other and laughing.
As I return my attention to Nicholas’s costume, I have a moment of pure gratitude that feels as beautiful and perfect as a soap bubble. Since returning to Mirror Lake from Paris over a year ago, our family has lived a life of happy chaos filled with scrambles to “get ready,” bustling shifts at the café, lectures about World Heritage sites, first-grade music performances, picture books, finger paints, snow days, and long weekends running errands and playing at Wizard’s Park.
A life filled with both change and lovely sameness. I’ve finally learned that life is all about those things existing side by side, like a pathway curving alongside an ever-moving river. Sometimes you take one route, sometimes the other, but both will move you forward.
I finish getting Nicholas’s costume put together—I only have the vest left to make—and go upstairs to wake our three-year-old daughter, who zonked out after our morning trip to a pumpkin farm, which included a hayride, apple cider, and a great deal of traipsing around the pumpkin patch.
As it turns out, Bella is already awake, lounging in bed with her stuffed animals. Brown-eyed with wavy brown hair, my daughter has a touch of wildness in her. She climbs trees, catches bugs, paints pictures of stick-figure dragons, and makes entire buffets out of mud. She likes cowgirls rather than princesses, stuffed tigers instead of dolls, and if there is dirt somewhere to be found, it will invariably end up on her rosy cheeks.
I love her madly.
“Hey sweetie.” I lift her into my arms, breathing in her scent of strawberry shampoo. “Want to come try on your Halloween costume?”
“Okay.” She holds up her stuffed owl. “Cupcake for Hoot too?”
“I can try,” I say, suspecting I’ll be up most of the night measuring an owl-sized cupcake costume.
Bella and I head downstairs, and I help her try on her costume. Shaped by a plastic frame, the costume consists of a purple muffin cup topped with billowy pink-and-white netting and embellished with multi-colored sugar sprinkles. So we can see the full effect, I smooth her hair away from her face and fasten on the sparkly pink hat topped with a bright red cherry.
“A perfect dessert,” Dean says, when he and Nicholas come in from their brawl. He lifts Bella into his arms and nuzzles her nose with his. “What kind of cupcake are you? An angel food cake?”
“More like a devil’s food cake,” Nicholas remarks, doing a couple of parrying moves with his sword.
“Devil’s food, huh?” Dean asks, turning a giggling Bella upside down. “My favorite.”
I smile, feeling myself get all warm and fuzzy at the sight of him with our childre
n. Over the years, Dean and I have learned a great deal about what the other person needs. But my realization that Dean needed to be a father has changed both us and our marriage in unforeseen ways—and all for the better.
At least, once we figured out that it’s critical to focus on us every now and then. Our return to the place of Liv and Dean is like watering a plant, keeping the leaves fresh and alive, watching the blossoms open in the sun.
And because we’ve learned the importance of focusing on our marriage, our love, we’ve created a comforting, happy home for both our children and ourselves. It feels right, too, knowing that the Liv and Dean we were at the beginning will still be there after Nicholas and Bella branch off into their own lives.
Of course, that doesn’t mean Dean and I have buckets of time to get very sexually creative… or edgy, though I often remember the excitement of the night when Dean tied me up and had his way with me. That night led to a wealth of hot personal fantasies—and scenarios—in which Professor West has gotten some serious domination on.
Though come to think of it, I haven’t seen him wickedly dominating in a while. I’ve seen him in many other different guises—professor, athlete, scholar, diplomat, archeologist, lecturer, tour guide, international traveler. And of course I wildly love every facet of my husband, but I also revel in the times when he sheds those roles to focus only on our erotic pleasure in that sinful, delicious way of his.
Ooo. Sinful.
Now that’s an idea I can get behind. Or better yet, under. Or on top of…
October 31
Oh, yes.
As I suspected, Professor West is one handsome devil. A devil who makes you want to commit all seven deadly sins… and then beg for more. A devil you’d follow to the ninth circle of anywhere and revel in whatever exquisite torments he bestows upon you. A devil who could lure even the purest of angels into temptation.
His dark brown hair, threaded with a few strands of silver, is slicked back from his forehead, emphasizing the masculine planes of his face and glittering eyes. His gorgeous body is clad in black trousers, a black shirt, and a red waistcoat that hugs his muscular torso. A red satin necktie slides as smooth as a blade from the knot at his throat.
With shiny black boots and a black cape that billows like a cloud behind him, Professor West exudes villainous sex appeal.
Sex appeal that is intensified by the hot way he’s looking at my breasts. He comes to a stop in front of me and slides one finger into my cleavage.
“Hmm.” His voice is a deep rumble of pleasure. “My little angel. I could do very dirty things to you.”
Oh yes, please.
“Very evil, depraved, wicked things,” he continues, stroking his finger deeper between my breasts and revealing the curve of my cleavage in a white lace push-up bra. “I could ruin you.”
“Well,” I say breathlessly, turning back to the mirror and adjusting the golden halo affixed to my hair, “then you’d better hurry up and get started.”
His eyes darken with heat as he rakes his gaze over my body, the gold-and-white chiffon gown that drapes over my curves and flows in a pool around my ankles.
Dean steps behind me and spreads his hands over my bottom as he lowers his head to kiss the side of my neck. Tingles wash through me, though I try to ignore them since we’re on a schedule here.
“You smell heavenly,” he remarks, rubbing his lips over my collarbone. “What else are you wearing under there?”
“Lace panties, a satin slip, and sheer stockings,” I tell him. “But you can see them all later.”
He mutters a noise of irritation, but straightens to adjust the gold-tipped organza wings affixed to my back. He looks again at my reflection in the mirror. He slides his big hand over my neck to the V of skin exposed by the bodice of my gown. My breath catches at the delicious friction of his touch, the effect of which is magnified by his captivatingly wicked appearance.
A sizzle of heat arcs between us, but before I can give in to it, a sliver of rationality reminds me of our schedule. I turn my head, meeting Dean’s mouth in a quick, hot kiss.
“I love you like milk loves cookies,” I murmur against his mouth.
He squeezes my ass. “I can’t wait to eat you tonight.”
I grin and move reluctantly away from him. I go into the bathroom to finish applying my glittery gold makeup. I pause to adjust my push-up bra, which has an underwire that’s chafing the side of my breast. Ah, well, it’s the price of sexiness I’ll gladly pay to indulge in the heat my husband and I always generate.
“Don’t forget your horns,” I call through the bathroom doorway. “They’re on the dresser. Your pitchfork is in the closet.”
I return to the bedroom and find him adjusting the horns on his head. The surprisingly realistic black horns only add to the full villainous effect of Professor Devil, and I experience a flutter of anticipation at the thought of what, exactly, he’s going to do to innocent little me later tonight.
I put my wallet and a few toiletries into a gold beaded handbag and slip my feet into gold sandals. Dean goes to corral Nicholas, and I head into Bella’s room to help her finish getting ready and to get her stuffed owl Hoot into the matching cupcake costume I sewed for him.
After a flurry of activity as we make sure everyone has their costume accessories, we pile into the car. Halfway down the drive, Nicholas announces that he forgot his eye patch, so Dean goes back to retrieve it. Then Bella has to go potty, which means removing half her costume. Guess I didn’t think that one through entirely.
By the time we finally get to the high school, the parking lot is already full, and Dean has to find a spot to park on the street. Costumed partygoers stream into the gymnasium. A sign over the door announces Mirror Lake’s Spooktacular Halloween Ball.
The inside of the gym is filled with black-draped tables, orange and black balloons and streamers, and a buffet table filled with covered dishes. A band onstage, the members all dressed like zombies, is belting out “Monster Mash” while princesses, ninjas, cartoon characters, and firefighters dance.
We greet a number of people, exchanging admiration about each other’s costumes, and find an empty table. Dean and I sit down to keep an eye on Nicholas and Bella as they run out to join the revelers on the dance floor.
“Mr. West!” Three children—a witch, a cowboy, and a ninja—run up to Dean as soon as they spot him. “Can you make a pumpkin?”
“I dunno.” Dean scratches his head and shrugs. “That sounds tough.”
“Can you try?” the witch begs.
Dean pulls the ever-present loop of string out of his pocket, holding his hands out as he winds the string around his fingers. The kids watch with bated breath as he performs a series of complex loops before holding up the final result—a pattern of diamonds surrounding a round pumpkin.
“Cool,” the ninja shouts.
“See if you can guess what this next one is.” Dean unravels the string and starts to wind it around his fingers in a new pattern.
He holds out his hands. The kids study the pattern stretched between his fingers.
“A tree.”
“A ladder.”
“I know.” The witch’s hand shoots into the air. “A witch’s broom.”
“You got it.” Dean gives her a high five.
“Can you come show my sister?” the cowboy asks.
“Sure.”
Dean gets to his feet, and the cowboy takes his hand to lead him across the dance floor.
“There you are.” Kelsey March weaves her way through the crowd toward me, looking almost unrecognizable in a black ponytailed wig, a slim-fitting black skirt, and a red shirt with a white, scalloped collar. “Archer wanted to get the baseball game booth set up in the English classroom, but he didn’t have the key.”
“Oh, I have it. Sorry, I forgot to give it to him.” I reach into my
purse for the ring of keys the building supervisor had lent me for the party set-up.
Kelsey waves her hand. “It’s okay. He put it in the history classroom instead.”
“Does he need Dean to help set up the rest of the games?”
“No, it’s all done. Now he’s getting food, of course.” Kelsey glances toward the buffet table just as Dean and his brother start making their way toward us.
Archer looks both impressive and strikingly realistic in a sailor’s costume complete with a hat and an anchor tattooed on his muscular forearm. When he sits beside Kelsey, the Popeye-Olive Oyl effect is one for the books.
“Uncle Archer!” Nicholas races off the dance floor, then steps back and eyes Archer’s costume critically. “Who are you supposed to be?”
Archer slants Dean a narrow, disapproving look. “Your kid doesn’t know who Popeye is? What’s that about?”
“Hey, Nicholas, which medieval knight became the King of England in 1189?” Dean asks.
“Richard the Lionheart.”
Dean looks at Archer smugly.
“Yeah, that’ll really impress the chicks when he’s a teenager,” Archer mutters.
“Look who I ended up with,” Dean says, tilting his head toward me. “Being smart can score you the greatest prize of all time.”
“Knowing how to ride a Harley can score you a lot of…” Archer stops and glances at Nicholas, “…uh, ice-cream cones.”
“I totally want to learn to ride a motorcycle,” Nicholas announces before darting back into the fray.
Archer stuffs a forkful of macaroni and cheese into his mouth, then realizes Kelsey is eyeing him with her laser-like glare.
“What?” he asks around the mouthful.
“Score you a lot of what?” Kelsey asks crisply.
Archer takes an inordinately long time chewing and swallowing before he shoots her a wicked grin.
“A lot of love from hot Professor Kelsey March,” he says.
