CHAPTER ONE
OLIVIA
October 22
“OH MY GOD.” I STARE AT my husband in disbelief. “Are you freaking kidding me?”
Dean looks as if he doesn’t know whether to be embarrassed or defensive.
“No, I’m not kidding you,” he says.
“How is that even possible?”
He shrugs. “I just never got around to it.”
“You’re a professor,” I say. “A PhD summa cum laude. A graduate of Yale and Princeton. You’ve taken a million honors classes in your lifetime. You’ve read the Magna Carta in the original Latin, for crying out loud.”
“I know.” He’s starting to look faintly irritated. “That doesn’t mean I’ve read every book ever written.”
“But how could you miss this?” I wave the paperback in the air. “In all your years of history and literature classes, you’ve never read Pride and Prejudice?”
“That’s what I’m telling you.”
“I want a divorce.”
Dean laughs, pushing to his feet and crossing the sunroom to where I’m almost vibrating with righteous indignation over the fact that the man I love and adore beyond all reason has been—this whole time—ignorant of the restrained passion of Lizzy and Mr. Darcy.
Dean settles his hands on my hips and pulls me against him in that effortless way that fits our bodies together like puzzle pieces locking into place.
“If you tried to divorce me, Mrs. West,” he says, his gaze warm as he looks down at me, “I would spend the rest of my life fighting to get you back. I’d scale the tallest buildings, climb the highest mountains, cross the most treacherous rivers and deserts, all just to prove how wildly and passionately I love you and to bring you back home to me.”
Okay, so that wasn’t bad.
“But…” I narrow my eyes and tap his chest with the book. “Would you go to great lengths to make a rogue marry my sister to preserve my family’s honor?”
“Uh…” Dean scratches his head. “Yes?”
“You’d better.” I give a little sniff of disdain. “And just so you know, Mr. Darcy is my top romantic hero. Fictional, I mean,” I add hastily, when Dean’s expression starts to darken.
He takes the book from me and looks at the synopsis on the back. “Isn’t Darcy a girl’s name?”
“His first name is Fitzwilliam.”
“Does everyone call him Fitzy Darcy?”
I give him yet another look of disapproval. “Mr. Darcy is extremely handsome, masculine, and noble. He’s also uncompromising and overly proud, but he casts that aside to confess his ardent love for Lizzy.”
“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 children. 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.
Kelsey rolls her eyes, but a pink flush of pleasure rises to her cheeks. Since seeing Kelsey get embarrassed while wearing an Olive Oyl costume is a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence, I decide to add a little mischievous fuel to the fire.
“So,” I say conversationally, “why is it you two decided to dress as a married couple?”
“We’re not a married couple,” Kelsey says.
“I know you’re not in real life—everyone knows that by now—but Popeye and Olive Oyl were married.”
“No, they weren’t.”
“Sure they were,” Archer says.
“No.” Dean shakes his head. “Kelsey’s right.”
“Olive Oyl was torn between Popeye and Bluto,” Kelsey explains. “That’s why Bluto was always coming on to her. It was a classic love triangle.”
“What about the baby Swee’Pea?” I ask. “Wasn’t that Popeye and Olive Oyl’s baby?”
“Swee’Pea was an orphan, left on Popeye’s doorstep,” Dean says. “But they weren’t married, and they didn’t have a kid.”
This is news to me.
“I don’t get it,” I say. “Why didn’t they get married?”
“Well, Olive Oyl was a fickle lass,” Archer replies.
“She was not,” Kelsey says. “She was just keeping her options open.”
Archer snorts. “Maybe she needed to make a decision already.”
“Maybe Popeye needed to be less of a buffoon.”
“Maybe Olive Oyl needed to be happy with what she had.”
“Maybe Popeye needed to realize how good he had it.”
“Oh, he did,” Archer says, looking right into Kelsey’s eyes. “Why do you think he ate all that spinach? He did it for her.”
He gives her a wink. A smile tugs at Kelsey’s mouth.
“So,” I interrupt brightly, before they lunge at each other and start kissing passionately, “who wants more punch?”
“Mom, we’re hungry,” Nicholas announces, as he and Bella come traipsing off the dance floor again.
“Come sit down.” I gesture to the two empty chairs. “I already got you both some food.”
“Uncle Archer, next year I want to go as a sailor too.” Nicholas climbs on a chair to examine his plate of pizza and fruit salad.
“Great,” Archer says. “You can be Pipeye.”
“Who’s that?”
“One of Popeye’s nephews. His other nephews were Peepeye, Pupeye and Poopeye.”
“Poopeye!” Nicholas dissolves into a fit of laughter.
“Poop peep poop peep,” Bella chants.
I push my chair back, indicating to Dean that this current situation is his to deal with.
“I need to go coordinate the staff for the game booths,” I explain before heading toward the doors.
Mirror Lake trick-or-treating starts at six, so we’d planned the Spooktacular Ball early enough for everyone to be able to enjoy the food, dancing, and games before taking their kids trick-or-treating. Later, there is a bonfire at Wizard’s Park and haunted train rides on the Mirror Lake Railway, which Archer and his crew finished restoring two years ago.
The volunteers and I get the game booths going, and the corridors of the high school are soon filled with children going from classroom to classroom to try their hand at ring toss and balloon popping. After an hour, an announcement comes over the intercom that official trick-or-treating begins in fifteen minutes.
The children swarm back to the gym, clutching plastic whistles and toy prizes. Dean and I find each other in the crowd and take Nicholas and Bella downtown where all the shops and restaurants are open for trick-or-treaters.
We traipse up and down the street for a couple of hours, then I leave the kids with Dean and promise to meet them at the bonfire. The high school is deserted when I return, but I need to break down the game booths and close up before returning the keys to the building supervisor.
I put the balloon-popping board outside the history classroom and close the door. As I’m locking it, two hands slide around my waist and pull me backward, right up against a very solid, male body.
“Give me a kiss, beauty.” Dean’s deep voice washes over my skin.
I shiver in response and turn in his arms—because that command is one I never can or want to resist.
I lean forward to press my lips against his, the gentle contact making me all soft and fuzzy inside. I twine my hands around the back of Dean’s neck and thread my fingers through his hair.
“It’s later,” he remarks, pressing his lips across my cheek to my ear. “Archer and Kelsey are taking the kids to the bonfire. I told them we’d meet them when we’re done here, though this might take quite a while.”
“Really?” I breathe. “You think it could take a while?”
“A very.” He kisses my ear. “Long.” He kisses my collarbone. “While.” He slides the strap of my gown aside and kisses my shoulder. “It’s just you and me now, baby.”
A flutter of excitement starts low in my belly. I turn my head to brush my mouth across his cheek, the sandpaper grain of his stubble delicious against my lips.
“I have to finish breaking down the game booths,” I say.
“Mmm, love that dirty talk.”
“Want to help me? You know how much I love watching your muscles flex and strain when you’re doing heavy lifting and… other things.”
I slide my palm down his chest, looking up at him suggestively from beneath my eyelashes. Heat brews in his dark eyes.
“What do I get if I help you?” Dean asks.
“My everlasting gratitude.” I pat his cheek and pull away from him. “And maybe something else later.”
“I thought this was later,” Dean grumbles as he follows me.
“Later later.” I open the door and usher him inside. “Tomorrow we’ll move the equipment to the storage garage.”
Dean grumbles a little more, but dismantles the plastic horseshoes game and piles the parts in the corridor. After locking the door, we move on to the chemistry lab where the beanbag toss is set up along the central aisle.
“Did you know I once won a beanbag toss at the Santa Clara County Fair?” Dean asks, warming up to pitch one of the bags.
“I didn’t know that. What did you win?”
“A stuffed Winnie-the-Pooh. I wasn’t happy. Especially when Archer started calling me Roo.” He pitches the bag, which hits the board with a thud.
“Looks like your skills are rusty,” I remark, loading the plastic prizes into a storage bin.
Dean frowns and picks up another beanbag. He tosses it through the ten-point hole.
“Okay, Mrs. West.” He steps aside. “Show me what you can do.”
“Yes, sir.”
He glances sideways at me, a spark of intrigue lighting in his eyes. The “sir” thing gets us both interested pretty quickly, though I question the wisdom of going there in the middle of a high-school chemistry lab.
I bend over to pick up a beanbag, feeling Dean’s gaze sweep over me. I straighten and pitch the bag. It goes neatly through the fifty-point bull’s-eye in the center.
“Hah!” I raise my fists in victory. “Olivia West, bean-bag champion of the world. Where’s my prize?”
“Right here.” Dean moves closer and strokes his hand over my ass.
“Really?” I ask dryly, turning toward him. “Isn’t that more like your prize?”
“Oh, you’re definitely my prize.” He slips his hand beneath my chin and tilts my face up to his.
Our lips meet in a warm, lovely kiss that tastes like spiced apples. And even though we’re in a classroom on Halloween night, I feel myself tipping easily into that intimate space where the rest of the world fades into black and white, and where colors bloom like flowers around us.
I curl my fingers into the edge of Dean’s red waistcoat and urge him closer, deepening the kiss. Heat flares inside me almost instantly—kindled by our earlier flirtation and the smoldering glances he sent my way throughout the evening. I open to let him in, loving the way he slides his tongue over my lips and into my mouth, a possessive claiming that fires sparks through my entire body.
“This is so wrong,” I whisper, even as I nudge my breasts against his chest.
“I warned you I’d lure you into the evil pleasures of lust, my sweet angel,” he replies, moving his hands between us to cup my breasts
“We’re in a classroom,” I remind him in a vague effort to maintain a semblance of propriety.
“Mmm. A chemistry classroom.” He lowers his head to press a trail of kisses along the side of my neck. “We should experiment with electromagnetism. Maybe chemical bonding. Definitely some kinetic energy.”
“Or kinky energy.”
“Oh, yeah. That too.” He lifts his head to gaze at my breasts, then hooks his fingers into the bodice of my gown and pulls it down over my bra.
His breath escapes on a curse at the sight of my cleavage—which is especially pillowy and plump thanks to the push-up bra that I bought with a certain handsome devil in mind. I deliberately wore sexy lingerie beneath my costume with the expectation that Dean would enjoy taking it off me, though I’d envisioned this scenario in our bedroom later tonight rather than a high-school classroom right now.
“Wait.” I put my hands over his before he can make me lose my senses entirely. “Door.”
Dean releases me and goes over to make sure the door is locked. The windows lining the outside wall and the interior corridor are all shuttered, and when Dean turns back to face me, my breath stops in my throat.
He’s standing with his hands on his hips and his feet apart, his black cape framing his muscular body. His dark eyes glitter with both promise and lust. Wreathed in shadows, the light slanting through the shutters the only source of illumination, my husband looks both sinful and so arrestingly beautiful that my whole body flames with need.
He crooks his finger at me, his lips curving with that hint-of-wicked smile that is reserved for me alone.
“Come here, beauty.”
My heart pounds, a throbbing beat centering in my core. I approach him slowly, reaching up to take the halo off my head. He grabs my wrist, his eyes darkening.
“Leave it on,” he orders.
I laugh.
“Okay,” I agree, sliding my gaze over him in consideration. “But that means you have to leave your horns on. And your cape, for that matter. Maybe your boots too.”
A smile tugs at his mouth. He pulls me toward him by the wrist before lowering his head and settling his mouth across mine.
A little moan escapes me as my knees weaken. Dean slips the organza wings off my shoulders before moving me backward until my hips touch the edge of a table. He pushes me gently onto my back and leans over me, bracing his arms on either side of my head. Our gazes meet, hot and electric.
My heart pounds. In the shadowed light, with that black cape and red tie, Professor West really does look as if he’s a dark lord of the underworld. One who is intent on doing dirty, wicked things to an innocent angel.
I hook one leg around his thighs, pulling him closer. He looks down at me, something menacing radiating from him as he twists his fingers into the straps of my gown and pulls it slowly over my shoulders and down to my waist.
I swallow, flicking my tongue out to lick my lips. With a quick twist of his fingers, Dean unhooks the front clasp of my bra and pushes the cups aside. A rush of cooler air brushes across my nipples, stiffening them into tight peaks. Dean groans low in his throat at the sight of my bare breasts. He bends to capture my nipple between his teeth, sending a shock of heat to my core.
My breathing increases as he lavishes attention on my breasts, cupping one in his hand as he presses his lips around my areola, down to the crevices beneath. His scruff scrapes exquisitely against my skin.
I tangle my hand in his hair and tug gently, urging him back up to me. As our mouths meet again, I grasp his red tie and work the smooth knot. I leave the unfastened tie around his shoulders as I unbutton his shirt and waistcoat to reveal his powerful chest.
His skin is hot beneath my fingertips, his heart thumping with the heavy beat of a drum. I squirm underneath him, my arousal intensified by the contrast of the hard table under me, and my hot, muscular husband on top of me.
“Hurry,” I whisper, pushing my gown and slip up to my waist.
Dean moves closer to the table, his gaze on mine as he unfastens his trousers and drops them to the floor. His erection presses against his boxer briefs, a hard ridge along his thigh. I reach out to palm the length, tracing my fingers over the shaft. My sex clenches with anticipation.
Dean takes off boxers, letting his cock rise upward. The sight of the thick, veined shaft fires me with heat, and I wiggle to the edge of the table so he can better position himself.
I push to my elbows, my pulse throbbing as I watch him—black cape billowing, red tie like a streak of blood down his chest. He tangles his fingers into the straps of my panties and pulls them off, exhaling a groan of appreciation at the sight of my damp sex. He presses his fingers into me, flicking his thumb over my clit.
I lift my knees, gasping as he presses the head of his cock over my folds and slowly down to my opening. Then he’s pushing inside me, throbbing against my inner walls and firing heat through my nerves.
I moan, pulling him closer as he starts to thrust, and then we both fall into the push-and-pull, give-and-take rhythm that has always come so easily to us. He tightens his grip on me as his thrusts increase in pace, driving into me the exact instant I arch my hips upward.
“Come on, beauty,” he whispers, lowering his head to kiss my shoulder as he slides his fingers to my clit. “So fucking good…”
“Yes.” I dig my fingers into his shoulders as the coil of pleasure winds tighter and tighter. “Dean, I’m… oh, harder.”
He thrusts deep, jolting me against the table. One more press of his fingers on my aching clit, and my whole body arches upward, flooding with intense vibrations that wrench a cry from my throat. Dean’s mouth comes down on mine, his tongue sliding past my lips as the pace of his thrusts changes to a long, slow glide. I wrap my legs around his waist, opening myself fully as he gives a hoarse shout and comes deep inside me.
Dean’s breath rasps through his chest as he lowers himself on top of me, his hands on either side of my head. I reach up to thread my fingers through his gorgeous hair, stroking it away from his damp forehead as I gaze up at his face—loving the satisfaction in his eyes, the lingering heat, the ever-present tenderness.
With unspoken and reluctant agreement, we part slowly and get back into our costumes, helping each other adjust our clothes and accessories so we don’t look too terribly rumpled. I clean off the table while Dean finishes dismantling the beanbag toss booth. As we’re leaving the room, he grabs me around the waist and gives me a hot, hard kiss.
“I fucking love you, beauty,” he says against my lips. “And I love fucking you.”
I laugh and stroke his cheek, a riotous combination of love, longing, and happiness flooding me. I give in to the urge to sink against him for an instant, his arms closing around me in that warm, protective circle I know so well before we separate to return to the outside world.