CHAPTER TWELVE
DEAN
SOMETHING HAS TO CHANGE. AND IN ways that have nothing to do with another job, no matter how impressive. Yeah, I can secure funding for a medieval site. I’m prominent enough to be a frontrunner for an international, diplomatic position. I can write reports, collaborate with scientists, navigate bureaucracy and politics.
I can get shit done. So why the hell haven’t I figured out how to revive my relationship with my wife?
I unlock the front door, my muscles still burning and chest heaving from a morning run. The exercise did nothing to ease the frustration that, thanks to last night, now feels like a volcano on the verge of erupting.
I call out a hello to Liv and Nicholas as I pass the kitchen, then head straight for the bathroom. After stripping out of my clothes, I turn on the shower and step under the spray. I lower my head into the hot water and shut my eyes.
I get that Liv is trying. I love her wildly for it. Just thinking about her in that silky little gown, her gorgeous breasts pushed into pillowy cleavage, her hips and thighs all soft and round… fuck.
My dick hardens. And though I’m sick of jerking off, I grab my shaft and stroke. Pressure builds in my groin. As usual, the images flash through my brain with no effort whatsoever—Liv spread out in front of me, her pussy open and glistening, her breath coming in short, little gasps.
“Oh, God, Dean… hurry, please…”
She’s all ripe lust and heat, her tight nipples begging to be sucked, her pale thighs tense with strain. My blood surges. I tighten my grip on my dick and stroke faster, picturing myself sinking into my wife, her legs winding around my hips, her breath puffing against my neck. I can feel her closing around me, like wet, tight silk, gripping my cock, pulling me into her…
“Would you like a piece of pie, sir?”
The image shifts, and then she’s wearing a little pink waitress outfit with the buttons unfastened low enough to reveal the curves of her tits. She turns and hikes the skirt up over her hips, showing me her perfect ass as she bends over the counter and spreads her legs. She gives me a hot look over her shoulder, her eyes glazed with lust, her long hair spilling over her back.
Without a word, I grab a fistful of her hair and position myself at her slit, driving into her so hard and fast she lets out a shriek of surprised pleasure. Urgency fills the air. Her ass smacks against my stomach, the wet, slapping sound of fucking filling my ears as I plunge into her again and again… so hot, so fucking good…
“Ah!” A groan rumbles from my chest as I come, shooting all over my hand.
The shower spray beats onto my lowered head and neck as I catch my breath, lust still throbbing in my veins because of course my goddamned hand is no substitute for my wife.
I grab the soap and spread lather over my chest. I’ll try again to get Liv to come away with me, though it probably still won’t work out with her schedule. At least, her schedule has always been her excuse for declining. I suspect it’s also because she’s worried about being away from Nicholas, but she won’t admit it.
Maybe I need to get on board with her fantasy thing, if it’ll help her focus. But no way am I going to tell her about pie and a pink waitress outfit.
Even though she’d be insanely cute in one.
Hmm…
I shut off the water and grab a towel.
Think, West. Figure it out, or you’ll be rubbing your dick so much you’ll summon a fucking genie.
I’m surprised I haven’t already.
A snort of laughter escapes me. Apparently I could use a genie to help get my sex life back. I wouldn’t even need three wishes—just one would do. I get dressed in a gray suit and knot my tie while looking in the mirror. Unsurprisingly, my expression is tense and rigid.
I’m not an asshole. At least, I haven’t been before now, I don’t think. I’ve always tried to give Liv whatever she wants, whatever she needs. I waited months for her to be ready for me when we were first dating, and damned if I wouldn’t have waited longer. I’d have waited as long as it took. Olivia Rose Winter was a woman you’d wait an eternity for. And then you’d sit back and wait even longer.
When she told me to go to Altopascio after the miscarriage, because she knew I had to stay away from King’s or risk my career, I went. I’d hated being away from her for months, but I’d done it. Like now, I’d spent most of my nights jerking off like a teenager, waiting to get back to her. Same thing after Nicholas was born, though I’d been expecting that. I waited it out again, knowing it would take awhile.
While we’ve had brief resurgences of great sex, this drought has now lasted longer than a while. And while I would gladly become a monk in exchange for keeping my family safe and happy… well, my family is safe and happy.
And I’m no monk.
My cell buzzes with a text from Liv. Coffee’s ready.
I text back: Be right there.
I pull on my suit jacket and shoes, then walk up the spiral staircase to my tower office to get my briefcase.
Sometimes I miss our little two-bedroom apartment on Avalon Street. Proud as I am of the work we’ve done on the Butterfly House, it’s a damn big place. When we’re not in the same room, Liv usually calls or texts me from the kitchen or living room so she doesn’t have to leave Nicholas alone or climb the stairs to the tower.
On Avalon Street, I used to be able to hear her rattling around the kitchen, humming, or I’d walk out of my office to find her reading in a chair by the French doors or watering plants on the balcony.
I used to be able to come up behind her, wrap my arms around her, bury my face in her long hair. Slide my hands between the folds of her robe and fondle her gorgeous breasts…
I stop the direction of that thought or I’ll end up in the shower again.
After setting my briefcase on the foyer table, I go into the kitchen. Nicholas is at the table in his booster seat, eating cereal and a banana.
“Daddy!” He gives me a wave, his round-cheeked face breaking into a smile.
“Morning, buddy.” I stop to ruffle his hair. “Sleep well?”
He nods and holds up a piece of cereal. “Cheerio.”
“Yum.” I let him put the Cheerio in my mouth, which makes him laugh before he goes back to chewing on the banana.
I return to the kitchen, where Liv is at the stove cooking scrambled eggs. She’s wearing her old padded robe, her hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. She turns to smile at me, though her eyes are wary.
“Morning.” I press a kiss to her cheek, inhaling her sweet, vanilla scent that goes straight to my blood.
“Morning,” she murmurs, lifting a hand to the side of my neck. “Sorry about last night. Again.”
“Me too.”
After Archer’s phone call, he’d brought Nicholas back home, and then our evening shifted into our usual routine revolving around dinner, picture books, and bedtime. Any faint hope I’d had about finishing what Liv and I had started disappeared when I came back from putting Nicholas to bed and found Liv asleep on the sofa.
I rub my cheek against the top of her head. I know my wife. She’d been jacked up hard last night too. I’d felt her body straining and pulsing, the heat of her clenching around me so damn tight…
I step away and look at her. She blinks. Amazing how she can still sometimes look so innocent.
“What?” she asks.
I glance back at Nicholas, who is dropping Cheerios onto the floor. I take Liv’s arm and tug her into the living room, away from Nicholas’s line of sight.
“Dean, what… oh!”
A shocked gasp catches in her throat as I push her up against the wall and plant my hands on either side of her head, penning her into the cage of my arms. I bring my mouth down on hers—hard and fast. She moans, her lips parting, her hands coming up to clutch the lapels of my jacket. A tremble rocks through her.
I reach for the belt of her robe and yank it open, lifting my head to gaze down at her plain pink nightgown. Her nipples are dark circles against the thin cotton. My cock starts to stiffen again. I grab a fistful of her nightgown and pull it up to expose her hips. She gasps again, twisting toward the kitchen.
“Dean, we can’t…”
I push my hand between her legs, edging one finger under her panties. Heat bolts through me. She’s wet, still aroused from yesterday.
Liv curls her hand around my wrist, her breath coming faster. “What are you… oh…”
Her eyes glaze with need as she thrusts her hips toward my hand, like she wants me to fuck her with my finger.
Of course she does. Before I fuck her with my cock.
I circle my thumb around her clit, ignoring the lust burning through me. When I feel her start to strain harder, her grip tightening on my wrist, I pull my hand away and tug her nightgown back over her hips.
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.