Always (Spiral of Bliss #5)

by Nina Lane

  Half of the building is an art gallery where local artists display and sell paintings, pottery, and sculptures, and the other half is a working studio.

  “Hi, Ruby.” I set the boxes down on a long table where Ruby Potts is arranging a flower display. “The place looks great.”

  “Thanks.” Ruby wipes her hands on her clay-streaked apron and smiles. “Noah’s bringing in a few things from the back, and we should be all set for the new exhibit.”

  “Did you get my bowl fired?” Bella asks her.

  “Yes, it’s on the shelf, ready to go.”

  Bella goes into the studio to find the bowl she made last week. The back door opens, and Noah Potts enters, carrying a framed painting.

  “Hey, Liv.” He sets the painting beside the counter and peers eagerly at the boxes. “Did you bring the bee cakes?”

  “Of course, and there’s an extra one for you.” I open a box and show him the mini fondant-covered cakes, each decorated with a little honey bee and a flower. He reaches for one immediately, smiling as Ruby gives him a look of mild disapproval.

  “Are you and Bella coming tomorrow for our Souper Bowl throwing event?” Ruby asks me. “We’re giving all the bowls to the library for their fundraising benefit.”

  “Sure. Dean also offered to transport the bowls, if you need help.”

  Bella returns from the studio with her blue-and-orange glazed bowl, which we all admire before she and I say our goodbyes and head back to the Butterfly House.

  After leaving Bella at home with her chore instructions, I return downtown. I walk along a path to the lake’s edge, where a wooden dock extends out into the water. Paddle boats, canoes, and kayaks sit on the shore for rental, though a number of them are still out on the lake.

  Nicholas is pulling a kayak onto the shore, his dark hair sun-streaked, his skin tanned, his lanky body clad in his standard summer attire of Bermuda shorts and a faded T-shirt.

  Archer, dressed in similar clothes, is stretched out on a nearby bench, drinking from a carton of chocolate milk.

  “No way, man,” he’s telling Nicholas. “Superman is just an overgrown Boy Scout. Batman had to learn how to be a hero.”

  “Dude, Batman doesn’t have a single super power,” Nicholas argues. “Superman can fly. What the heck is cooler than that?”

  “Without his powers, Superman would be nothing.”

  “Without his gadgets, Batman would be nothing.” Nicholas tosses a set of oars onto the grass and wipes his sweaty forehead with his arm. “The fact is that Superman is a better superhero. I mean, Batman couldn’t even put the Joker away. What’s up with that? All these years and the Joker is still running wild? Oh, hey, Mom.”

  “Hello, gentlemen.” I sit on the bench next to Archer. “Sorry for interrupting the great debate.”

  “Who would you pick?” Archer asks me.

  “Well, from a woman’s perspective, I’m going to have to go with the strong, upstanding hero who will sweep me into his arms and fly away with me.”

  “Mom.” Nicholas shakes his head. “It’s not about a romance. It’s about which one is the best hero.”

  “The best hero is the one who knows there’s always a romance,” I tell my son.

  “Dude,” Archer says. “She has a point.”

  Nicholas sighs and goes to the shore to retrieve a paddleboat.

  Archer gestures to the chocolate milk. “Want one?”

  “No thanks. How was the kayaking?”

  “Great, especially considering I beat Dean in a race to the north shore.”

  I smile. “And what’s his take on that?”

  “He says he won in a photo finish, even though I had a good two yards on him.” Archer shrugs. “But he’ll want to impress you with the story of his epic win, so you might want to just go with it.”

  “I’ll do that,” I agree solemnly.

  “Hey, Mom?” Nicholas approaches us again, glancing at his watch. “I told Pete I’d take his shift until seven, so I won’t be home for dinner. Okay if I go to a bonfire after work? Henry said a bunch of people are meeting over at the south side beach. Dad said to ask you.”

  “Yes, but be home by one, and please be careful.”

  It’s a mantra I’ve repeated to both our children endlessly, and while it doesn’t mitigate my natural tendency to worry about them, I’m learning to let them both go and find their own way. After all, I had to do the same thing once upon a time.

  “Okay, thanks.” Nicholas makes his way back to the rental shack, where two teenaged girls are waiting to either rent a boat or find an excuse to talk to him.

  “I’ll swing by the bonfire later and check on them,” Archer tells me, tossing the empty milk container into the trash.

  “Thanks, Archer. Did Dean go to Java Works?”

  “Yeah, he said he’d meet you there.”

  After saying goodbye to him and Nicholas, I take out my phone and send my son a quick “I love you” text, so I won’t embarrass him by actually saying it in front of other people.

  As I walk to Java Works, I realize that both our children have plans for the evening, which means Dean and I will have several hours alone together.

  Ooo. Nice. Very nice.

  A flutter of warmth travels through my blood. I approach the coffee-house, the warmth intensifying as I see a certain handsome professor standing on the sidewalk near the door. He’s looking across the street, his hands in the pockets of his cargo shorts and his body relaxed as he leans his shoulder against a lamppost.

  Even now, all these years after we first met, my pulse still quickens at the sight of him, my heart rising like a balloon into a clear blue sky. His features are strong in profile, his thick, dark hair threaded with silver, his jaw shadowed with scruff.

  He’s not teaching summer classes this year, so his hair is a little longer and messier, and his skin is tanned golden brown from all the time he’s spending outside—working in the garden; kayaking, hiking, and fishing with Archer and Nicholas; two weeks in Monterey with Bella volunteering for a marine wildlife organization, and most recently, coaching a sports club for at-risk kids.

  He turns his head, as if he senses my approach—of course he does—and our eyes meet with the hot tenderness that belongs to us alone.

  Dean smiles his beautiful, hint-of-wicked smile, his eyes creasing at the corners. He extends his arm to me.

  “Hey, beauty.”

  “Hi, professor.”

  I tuck myself against his side and wrap my arms around his waist. The scent of him—sun, wind, summertime—fills my head. Dean hugs me against him, bending to brush his lips across my temple.

  “Good day?” he asks.

  “Good day.”

  Good life.

  We go inside to order our coffees and take them to a table by the window. In some ways, it’s like the days we used to spend at Jitter Beans, after I’d finish a shift and join Dean at the table where he’d been sitting for a couple of hours.

  “Pretending to work,” he once told me, “but really sneaking glances at you.”

  We’d spend another hour talking about everything and secretly wondering how we could extend the time so we didn’t have to leave each other. Now, we no longer wonder that because we don’t have to leave each other at all.

  My phone buzzes with a text from Bella informing me she has to be at the mall in half an hour. As we sometimes do, Dean and I obey our daughter’s summons and return to the Butterfly House.

  Fitzy Darcy, seventy pounds of happy, tail-wagging dog, bounds up to meet us. Bella follows with a pleading look on her face.

  “Can I please get a ride home from Cara?” she asks. “It’s just so embarrassing when I’m the only one whose Dad picks her up from the movies.”

  “I could wear a disguise,” Dean suggests, scratching Fitzy behind the ears. “Fake gla
sses and a mustache.”

  Not dignifying that with a response, Bella turns to me. “Please, Mom?”

  Dean and I exchange glances and come to an agreement. We’ve known Cara and her family since she and Nicholas were in fourth grade together, and she’s a responsible, trustworthy girl.

  “All right,” I agree. “But only if Cara is driving.”

  “And text us when you’re leaving so we know when to expect you home,” Dean adds.

  “I will, I promise.” Bella comes over to hug me. “Thank you so much.”

  “Have fun.” I squeeze my daughter tightly and send up my usual silent prayer for the universe to keep her safe. “And be careful.”

  She hurries out to the car. Dean picks up his keys and glances at his watch.

  “Guess I’ll stop by Home Depot after dropping her off,” he says. “I need a new lawnmower battery.”

  “Nicholas is working late, then going to a bonfire,” I tell him, tapping my fingers on the counter.

  “Okay. I’ll also get some new brackets for the shelving in the—” Dean stops and looks at me with interest. “Both kids are going out tonight?”

  I nod slowly. “I was thinking we should use the time to clean out the basement storage.”

  “Ah, great idea.” Dean backs toward the door, his gaze on me. “Why don’t you go ahead and get started down there? I’ll be back with some hardware you might need.”

  “Sounds good.”

  We exchange goofy smiles before Dean turns and heads out the front door.

  Calculating I have forty minutes at most, I spring into action. I toss a blue-and-white cloth over the table in the garden, turn on the miniature globe lights strung through the trees, and set the table with white china plates, wineglasses, and a votive candle. I run upstairs to change into a flowing, white cotton sundress, doing a light-speed washing up and makeup reapplication.

  By the time Dean’s car comes back up the drive, I’m in the kitchen heating the pasta dish I’d made last night. I dim the lights, set a bottle of wine on the central island, fluff out my hair, and lean my hips on the counter in what I hope is a casually sexy pose.

  Dean comes into the kitchen and stops, his eyes warming with appreciation as he looks at me, sliding his gaze over my body as if he’s already touching me. My skin tingles.

  I expect him to cross the room and haul me into his arms—just the thought leaves me breathless—but instead he continues watching me in that way of his, a look of both tender warmth and awe, as if even after all these years he still can’t believe the girl from Jitter Beans is his wife.

  I know, because I often look at him the same way.

  “Give me a kiss, beauty,” Dean says.

  With a smile, I close the distance between us. Our lips meet in a kiss as warm and good as hot cocoa on a snowy night, ear massages, the scent of cinnamon, honey melting over fresh-baked bread.

  When we slowly part, Dean tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear.

  “There’s a medieval doctrine of philosophy called illuminationism,” he tells me.

  I lift an eyebrow. “Is there?”

  “The philosophy states that humans need divine grace to aid their thoughts,” he continues. “Saint Augustine was an early proponent of the idea. He said a man couldn’t have full knowledge of the truth without heavenly intervention. The philosophy is also related to the idea of a divine light that banishes darkness and illuminates everything good and true.”

  I reach up to smooth his disheveled hair away from his forehead, gazing into his chocolate-brown eyes that will forever hold the key to unlocking my soul.

  “And do you possess this divine illumination?” I ask.

  “Of course.” He lowers his head to brush his lips across mine. “Her name is Liv West.”

  My heart goes into a slow, curving free-fall, like a feather knowing it will come to rest right in the palm of this man’s hand.

  “You are my eternal grace.” Dean brushes his lips across mine. “My divine light, the illumination of everything good and true.”

  He slides his hand up my midriff to my breast. “And you are without question my most heavenly body.”

  “Well,” I murmur, spreading my hand over his chest, “you’re definitely getting lucky tonight, professor.”

  “I’m already lucky. Luckier than I could ever have imagined.”

  I smile, curling my fingers into his T-shirt as our lips meet in another kiss. He moves his hands to the sides of my neck, tilting my head to just the right angle before delving his fingers into my hair. I sink against him, my body curving along his with the ease of a flower stem bending to the wind.

  The world slips away, distilling into the familiar touch of our lips together, the irrepressible desire that floods between us. Only when the timer on the stove dings do I pull away from him, pressing a series of kisses over his jaw.

  Twilight shines through the windows, dusky and golden, and birdsong rustles on the breeze. I dish up plates of pasta, Dean pours the wine, and we sit at the garden table to eat under the glowing lights.

  In the woods beyond, The Castle Two sits nestled in the trees, still beloved after all these years and kept in good condition for—maybe one day—our future grandchildren.

  Because both Bella and Nicholas have keys to the house and could change plans any second and come home, Dean and I go upstairs to the bedroom after dinner. Dean locks the door behind us, and we step into each other’s arms, a move as natural as a heartbeat. I still experience a sense of relief when Dean’s arms close around me, as if we’re locking together, as if the earth is settling into place, as if the planets and stars are aligning.

  Of course they are.

  A slow, languid heat rises between us. Dean twists his fingers into the straps of my sundress, his touch warm against my bare skin. He trails his lips from my mouth across my cheek and down my neck to my shoulder.

  I shiver, loving the scrape of his stubble, the tickle of his thick hair against my bare skin. Heat radiates from him, as if he’s absorbed the summer sun. I pull him toward the bed, wanting his strong body on top of me so I can arch against him like a cat stretching in the sunlight.

  I love this, cherish it like breathing, the return to a private island where my husband and I shed the roles of mom, dad, professor, mentor, volunteer, lecturer, café owner, cook, advisor, board member, consultant… the place where we simply return to the beginning of what we became.

  Wrapped in Dean’s arms, intoxicated by his kisses, I’m just Liv again, the starry-eyed girl who melts at his touch, and he’s the captivating man who loves me with an adoration that is more powerful and eternal than time itself.

  He undresses me slowly, working the buttons lining the front of my dress, his fingertips skimming across my bared skin. Delicious quivers rain through me. I shift to take off my bra as he slides my panties over my hips and lowers his head to press gentle kisses over my torso, up to my breasts, across my neck.

  He moves away only long enough to shed his clothes. Currents of heat pool in my belly as I gaze at his gorgeous body that I love so much—the smooth planes of his shoulders, his muscular chest, the thick ridge of his cock that makes me clench my thighs with hot anticipation.

  Dean lowers himself on top of me, bracing his hands on either side of my head as I part my legs to let him inside. Our lips lock together in unison with our bodies, the push-and-pull movement that has the rhythm of the tides. I wrap my legs around his thighs, loving the heavy, deep thrust of his cock as he drives our need higher and higher. There’s no end to it, this pleasure that streams over us like water.

  I fall into the cascade, the world softening at the edges until there is only the delicious friction of our bodies, the press of his mouth, the feel of his hard chest against my breasts.

  Time coalesces, over twenty years falling away, and we’re in Dean’s former
university apartment, indulging in each other for hours on a lazy Saturday afternoon. I’m twenty-four again, happy, excited, and eager to let this beautiful man show me how deliciously raw and uninhibited we can be together, how completely we can love each other.

  And oh, how we have loved across the years—often with the same hot, passionate fervor of our early days, but also with a rich, gentle elegance that over two decades together have given us, like a pearl slowly polished by time.

  My husband and I know and cherish everything—the flaring burn of lust that drenches us both in need; the easy, leisurely fucking like indulging in a decadent dessert; the emotional reconnection after a fight, the flirtatious teasing that leads to the sudden urgency of wanting each other right now, the sizzling excitement of dirty talk, the comforting predictability of turning to each other at the same time; the rough edginess of total control (his) and complete surrender (mine), the thrill of quick, secret interludes, and all the other unique, Liv-and-Dean nuances that paint our love with such intense, vivid colors.

  I thread my fingers through Dean’s thick hair as he lowers his head to press his lips across my throat, down to my breasts. His hands glide over me with smooth assurance, reminding me that in all of history, he—and only he—has ever possessed the instinct and knowledge to touch me in all the right ways. He is the man who has perfected the incomparable art of making love to me, of loving me.

  He thrusts into me again and again, his scruff tickling my skin, his muscles flexing beneath my hands. As the spool of bliss winds tighter, Dean stills, lifting himself over me and bringing his mouth down on mine the instant I come with a cry. Sensations tear through me, hot and intense, as I clench tight around him. He groans, burying his face against my neck as he surges deep inside me and surrenders to his own release.

  We fall against the pillows together, sweaty and breathing hard. Dean wraps his arm around me and pulls me into the space against his side where I will always fit so perfectly.

  As we catch our breath, Dean’s fingers linger on my left breast, absently tracing the decade-old surgery scar and radiation burns that are now concealed by a tattoo. An intricate design of flowers and vines surrounds an orange-and-black monarch butterfly, delicate wings arched and poised to take flight. Nestled among the vines is an interwoven L and D.