CHAPTER ONE
OLIVIA
IT’S AN EPIC MELTDOWN. A PART the seas, lightning bolts from the sky, plague of locusts, peanut-butter-smeared meltdown. His face is red as a beet, drenched with tears, his fists clenched. He’s alternating between pounding the floor with his feet to flopping over like a beached whale and howling.
I’ve tried everything. Food. Changing. Toys. Reasoning. TV. Cajoling. Music. Going outside. Coming inside. Checking his temperature. Books. A vain attempt at a nap. I gave him the wooden spoon I’d been using to stir chocolate frosting because… chocolate, but even that didn’t work.
Nothing is working. My nerves are shot. I’m exhausted, and the house looks like it’s been hit by a tornado. I haven’t showered all day. I look at the clock, calculating I have about three hours to calm Nicholas down and coax him to sleep, get my gourmet dinner prepped, and somehow wrestle the house into tip-top shape. And make myself at least somewhat presentable.
“How about Thomas?” I suggest, quickly pulling up a video on my laptop.
Nicholas wails something incomprehensible and flounders around on the sunroom floor. A headache hammers at my skull. I turn the video toward him. He grabs the laptop from the coffee-table and sends it smashing to the floor.
“Tuck!” he yells.
“I know. I have given you five trucks.” I point to the garbage truck, Mack truck, and three dump trucks amidst the clutter of cars on the floor.
“Tuck!”
“I don’t think you have any more trucks,” I say desperately.
“Fed!”
Fed. Fed what? Federal? Does he have an FBI truck? Does such a thing even exist? But if it did, what two-year-old knows that Fed refers to the FBI? Maybe he means something else, like red?
I rummage through the half-empty toy box and find a red bulldozer, which I hold up.
“This?” I ask.
“No!” Nicholas unleashes an ear-splitting scream.
“Are you thirsty?” I ask, deciding to change tactics even though I’ve asked him that question about a dozen times already. I grab his sippy cup of orange juice from the table and hand it to him. “Juice!”
For a second, his sobs decrease in volume. I almost hold my breath with hope as he grabs the cup from my hand. He throws it on the ground. Orange juice sprays all over the tile and splashes onto my sweatpants.
“No-spill” cup, my freaking ass.
I grit my teeth, clinging to what little patience I have left. My lack of sleep last night, thanks to Nicholas’s penchant for flailing around when he sleeps in our bed, is yanking out the final threads of my frayed sanity.
Badly needing a break, I grab Nicholas and get him into the playpen, where he can at least continue his meltdown without whacking his head against a hard surface.
I set the laptop back on the table, mop up the juice with a few napkins, then go into the kitchen and silently pray my darling, holy terror of a son will wear himself out and fall asleep. With his dark hair and thick-lashed eyes, he’s adorable when he’s asleep.
Now? Not so much.
I scribble “Buy orange juice” on a Post-it and stick it to the refrigerator along with all the other reminders of stuff I need to buy and do.
I grab a spatula and smear chocolate frosting over the lumpy, lopsided cake sitting on the central island. The stupid thing looks nothing like the elaborate, raspberry-chocolate layer cake on my Pinterest board, the one I thought would be “easy enough” to recreate.
I glance at the clock, wondering if I have time to run to the bakery. Then again, the last thing I need is to haul a screaming toddler into a bakery to buy a chocolate cake. We’d barely made it out of the grocery store without being disintegrated by the disapproving, death-ray stares of older women who apparently raised perfect, well-behaved angels.
Nicholas lets out a yell that sounds like he’s being tortured. My heart plummets. I drop the spatula and run into the sunroom, where he is flailing against the mesh sides of the playpen.
“Nicholas, what?”
My headache intensifies, nails driving into my skull. I lean over to lift him out of the playpen. He swings a fist, catching my front teeth in a punch.
Pain radiates over my jaw. Tears spring to my eyes. I sink to the floor as he wiggles out of my grip and flops next to me with another screech of indignation.
“Ah, my beloved family.”
Dean’s deep voice washes over Nicholas’s wailing. I jerk my head up in surprise to find him standing in the kitchen doorway, his briefcase in hand. Aside from looking travel-rumpled, he’s as gorgeous as ever, his thick dark hair disheveled and his tall, muscular body clad in an open wool peacoat over his standard travel clothes of worn jeans and a forest-green rugby shirt.
He takes in the scene before him—the screaming child, the sunroom strewn with books and toys, the pile of dirty dishes and sippy cups in the sink, the disaster of a kitchen with cake ingredients and messy mixing bowls scattered over the counter.
Not to mention his wife collapsed on the floor in old sweatpants stained with spaghetti sauce and orange juice, her unwashed hair limp and tangled, and her torn T-shirt stinking of sour milk.
Dean smiles at me. “Hey, beauty.”
I burst into tears.
He sets his briefcase down and comes toward us, one hand reaching for Nicholas and the other for me. Nicholas, oblivious to his father’s homecoming, grabs a plastic hammer and pounds it on the rug.
I fall against the solid wall of Dean’s body and give in to sobbing for a minute before pulling myself together for what feels like the hundredth time that day. I wipe my wet face and runny nose on his shirt and ease back to look at him.
“W-what are you doing home so early?” I hiccup. “You were supposed to be home at eight.”
“There was room on an earlier flight, so I grabbed a seat,” he says, pushing my hair away from my sweaty forehead. “Didn’t you get my text?”
“Do I look like I got your text?” I retort, suddenly annoyed with both him and American Airlines for screwing up my plan to welcome my husband home after two weeks away.
“No,” Dean admits reflectively, sliding his gaze over me. “You do not.”
He pushes to his feet and reaches for Nicholas, who evades his grasp and toddles over to the basement door.
“Tuck!” Nicholas screams. “Fed!”
“Hold on.” Dean hauls our son into his arms and sets him in the playpen, then goes down into the unfinished basement. He returns with a Lego Duplo-block fire truck and puts it in front of Nicholas.
And, like turning off a water faucet, Nicholas stops wailing.
My ears are still ringing, so for a moment the silence is deafening. Nicholas lets out a few lingering sobs and gulps. Dean grabs a napkin from the table and wipes Nicholas’s face and nose, lifting him out of the playpen and onto the sunroom floor. Nicholas hugs the fire truck like it’s a long-lost friend.
Which I suppose it is.
“Oh my God.” I groan and bury my face in my hands. “Are you freaking kidding me?”
“That’s Fred,” Dean says helpfully. “Didn’t you know that?”
I take my hands away from my face to stare at him. “Do I look like I know that?”
“No,” he admits.
“Why would I know our son has a fire truck named Fred? And moreover, why the hell is Fred in the basement rather than the toy box where he belongs? I have spent all day dragging your son’s toys out, trying to get him to stop wailing like a banshee, and now I find out there are more toys in the basement?”
Dean scratches his head. “Just a few. I put them there for safekeeping when Nicholas was into throwing things down the stairs. He broke apart a fishing boat and had a tantrum, so I’ve been trying to keep the Lego Duplo sets intact.”
“And you couldn’t have told me?”
He shrugs. “I thought I did.”
A wave of frustration almost makes me start crying again. With a grunt, I push to my feet and go into the kitchen. Nicholas rolls the truck on the floor and makes a high-pitched siren noise that sounds like the sweetest lullaby ever compared to his previous screaming.
I grab the spatula and slap frosting on the cake like I’m flogging it. Dean comes up behind me.
“I missed you,” he remarks.
I growl in response.
“I love you,” he adds.
Another growl rumbles in my throat. I turn and smack Dean’s chest with the spatula, leaving a smear of chocolate on his shirt.
“You were supposed to be home at eight,” I repeat accusingly. “I had it all planned out. Nicholas was going to be sleeping peacefully, I’d be showered and all prettied up with lingerie on under my dress, waiting for you with a glass of scotch and a delicious gourmet dinner, followed by homemade chocolate cake. Afterward, I was planning to take you upstairs and actually get sexy.
“However, since you were inconsiderate enough to come home three hours early, you get nothing.” I wave the spatula in the air and turn back to the cake. “Nothing!”
“Oh, I’ve got something.” Dean slides his hands around my waist and pushes his groin up against my bottom. “I’ve got the hottest, sexiest, most perfect wife in the universe.”
“Hah. Good luck with that.”
“Mmm.” Dean pushes my hair away from my nape and kisses the back of my neck. “You smell like Spaghetti Os with meatballs. My favorite.”
“Again…” I push my hips backward in a half-hearted attempt to shove him away, but the movement only presses my ass closer against him. “Good luck.”
“I don’t need any more luck.” Dean presses his lips in a line over the ridge of my collarbone. “I’ve already got you.”
Okay, so that wasn’t bad. He continues pressing little kisses over my neck and shoulder, sending tingles raining down my spine. I lick a drop of frosting off my finger and make him work for a few more minutes before turning in his arms to face him. The heat of his body flows into me, soothing the tight anger and frustration that have been gripping me all day long.
“I’m still mad,” I warn him, holding up the spatula.
His eyes warm as he tracks his gaze over my face.
“You’re so pretty,” he says.
“Sure. You should have seen what I was planning to look like when you got home,” I grumble. “It would have been a transformation like Cinderella at the ball, except sexy.”
“You don’t need a transformation to be sexy,” Dean remarks. “But I’d be happy to provide you with a couple of balls.”
That brings a chuckle out of me, despite my fatigue over the full-time care of our son. A few weeks ago, my good friend and part-time nanny Marianne moved out of town to be closer to her daughter and grandchildren. I hadn’t realized how much I’d relied on her help with Nicholas until she was gone. And then with Dean’s work taking him out of town more often than I’d like…
He licks frosting off the spatula I’m still holding before putting his hands on my hips and pulling me closer.
“Give me a kiss, beauty,” he says.
“I haven’t even brushed my teeth today.”
“I don’t care.” He rubs his lips against mine. “I haven’t kissed my wife in two weeks. No way am I waiting a second longer. Not to mention, you taste like chocolate.”
With that, he tugs me against him and settles his mouth securely over mine. A muffled groan of pleasure escapes me involuntarily.
Oh, God, it’s so good to have him home, despite the utter upheaval of my careful plans. I wind my arms around his waist and let myself fall into the familiar, compelling warmth of his kiss.
Arousal tingles through me like little bells, both surprising and welcoming. Over the past six months, Nicholas’s launch into the terrible twos, complete with constant waking during the night, intense clinginess, and a mutinous refusal to learn potty-training, has sapped my energy right along with my sex drive.
Dean lifts his hands to the sides of my neck, tilting my head to just the right angle as he urges my lips apart. A rumble of pleasure echoes in his chest. Our bodies fit together seamlessly, the pressure of his hard muscles so good against my breasts. I slip my hands under his shirt and stroke the warm tautness of his lower back.
“Fed! Wee wee wee!”
Nicholas’s siren noise breaks me and Dean apart. We both turn to see our son crawling into the kitchen, pushing Fred the Fire Truck.
“Daddy!” Nicholas yells, as if just realizing Dean is home again.
“Hey, buddy.” Dean releases me to crouch and hold out his arms so Nicholas can barrel into them. They exchange a tight hug.
“So good to see you again.” Dean pulls back and ruffles Nicholas’s hair. “I swear you’ve grown in just two weeks.”
“Haf Fed,” Nicholas informs him, patting Dean’s cheek.
“I see that.” Dean glances at me with a wink. “I’ll deal with him. Go take a break. Looks like you could use one.”
“Don’t you need to unpack your stuff?”
“I’ll do it later. Go ahead.”
I almost burst into tears again at the thought of locking myself in the bedroom alone. Figuring I can still salvage something of the evening, I hurry upstairs and strip off my clothes before getting into a scorching hot shower.
Oh, bliss. I stay under the water for at least ten minutes before soaping myself down from head to toe and shaving my embarrassingly prickly legs. Then I brush my teeth, dry my hair, and change into clean yoga pants and a pink fleece shirt—not the slinky silk dress I’d planned on to welcome my husband home, but I’m too tired and relieved to care.
Though I’m still exhausted, at least now I feel somewhat more human, and I certainly smell better. When I return downstairs, I find that Dean has cleaned up the clutter in the sunroom, put away the groceries, stacked the dirty dishes in the dishwasher, and washed all the mixing bowls I’d used for the cake. Now he and Nicholas are sitting on the sunroom floor, building a police car with Duplo blocks.
The sight of my two guys together never fails to make me all warm and mushy inside, especially when the younger guy isn’t screeching like a howler monkey. Nicholas’s features are a toddler version of Dean’s, and though his hair is a lighter brown, it has the same wavy thickness. Put father and son side by side, and you have my entire heart.
Back together again. Since being awarded tenure at King’s over two years ago, Dean has taken on more responsibilities and positions—not only with the Altopascio dig but with other historic sites. He holds a seat on the International Conservation Committee, which advises the World Heritage Center on the protection of sites and monuments, and he’s regularly invited to European universities and museums to give lectures, join research projects, and organize conferences.
And yet, all those illustrious distinctions fall away when he walks back through the door of the Butterfly House and gently commands a kiss.
“Tell me about the site,” I say, lowering myself onto the sofa. “How bad was the earthquake damage?”
“Bad.” Dean’s expression darkens. “Five point one. Fortunately, there were only a couple of minor injuries, but the medieval tower and church were damaged. The monastery took the worst hit. The whole north transept is destabilized, walls cracked, an entire section demolished. The IHR already says it can’t afford to repair the damage, and the seismologists haven’t even finished their assessment yet.”
“Is there another way to save the monastery?”
“We need to get it on the World Heritage Center list of protected sites,” Dean says, racing a toy car alongside Nicholas’s. “That’s the only way we can get funding from other sources to save it. The United Nations assembly meets this summer to vote on which sites should be added to the list. The deadline for proposals has already passed, but I’m hoping we can push ours through.”
“What happens if you can’t?”
“We could lose the site entirely.” Dean lines up a few cars in front of what appears to be the starting line of a race. “And we think the monastery is only the start of a much bigger complex. There’s no telling how much more we could excavate, but if we can’t afford to stabilize the earthquake damage and continue the dig, we’ll have to abandon the whole project.”
A new worry gnaws me at the thought of Dean being forced to abandon a project that he and so many others have been working on with such dedication. I sit up to look at him.
“You won’t let that happen,” I say. “You’ll find a way to save it. I know you will.”
“I’m trying, but it means more work and negotiations I don’t want to make.”
Before I can question what that means, Dean reaches out to stroke his hand over my thigh.
“What about you?” he asks. “Toddler meltdown aside, everything’s okay?”
“Mmm.” I rest my head against the back of the sofa. “Busy, but fine. I have a gourmet dinner planned to welcome you home. Spice-rubbed Cornish game hens with a sherry jus. Lemon-mint braised artichoke hearts. Saffron rice pilaf. Raspberry-chocolate cake, if I can get it right. Mac and cheese, but that’s for the boy.”
“Sounds incredible.”
“I’ve been shopping for groceries every day this week.” I close my eyes, enjoying the sensation of his strong hand sliding up and down my thigh. “It’s going to be delicious. I just need to rest for a second, and then I’ll get the mise en place going.”
“Bob!” Nicholas shouts.
Dean responds, but I don’t pay attention to his words as much as the deep, soothing cadence of his voice. The house feels complete with him home again, his presence making the air warmer and richer.
As much as I love the Butterfly House, which Dean and I restored and renovated together, it’s huge compared to the apartments we’d always lived in before. It’s easy to feel a little lost, especially when Nicholas and I are rattling around alone. We stick together pretty closely when Dean is gone—Nicholas sleeps in the bed with me, and we spend the rest of our time in the kitchen or sunroom.
A sigh fills my chest, the anger and frustration of the day slipping into contentment with the knowledge that my husband is home and everything is as it should be, even if he did screw up my plans with his early arrival.
“George noodle,” Nicholas remarks.
I have no idea what he’s talking about, nor do I care at this point. I feel myself slipping into a doze and try to pull out of it, reminding myself that I need to clean the artichokes and stuff the game hens…
Dean’s body is a wall of heat and muscle against my back. I wake with a start, disoriented for a second before realizing that I’m lying in bed, my head nestled on my cloud-soft pillow. Darkness slants through the curtains. I dimly realize Dean must have carried me upstairs. Would have been more romantic if I’d been awake.
Behind me, Dean mutters with annoyance at my shifting and settles his arm heavily around me, pulling me back against him. I’m still in my fleece shirt and yoga pants, but I can tell Dean is shirtless, wearing only his drawstring pajama pants.
He’s also hard. His erection is pushing against my bottom. A spool of lust begins to unwind in my lower body as I absorb the sensation of his warm, muscled chest, his arm strong and tight around me, the pulsing stiffness of his cock. I wiggle a little experimentally, both surprised and delighted when my clit throbs in response.
Since giving birth to Nicholas, my libido hasn’t been at all reliable, with more valleys than peaks. And as attracted as I am to Dean, after a long day working at the café, running errands, cleaning house, cooking, and taking care of a demanding toddler who often clings to me like a baby monkey… By ten at night, all I want to do is fall into bed to sleep. These days, I need as much sleep as I can get, knowing Nicholas is likely to wake me up at least once or twice, needing water or to be soothed back to sleep, which often takes an hour.
But though things are always changing, especially with a toddler and our new work responsibilities, I am sharply aware I will always be Dean West’s wife, and I never want to lose any part of our intense bond.
Which is exactly why I’d planned a romantic night to welcome him home. Maybe I can salvage part of the evening, at least.
Dean moves his hand around to cup my breast, his fingers toying with my nipple under my shirt. He nuzzles his face against my hair and rumbles a noise of pleasure.
There’s certainly never been anything wrong with his sex drive.
I suddenly wonder what he’s done about it, considering the number of times I’ve either outright turned him down, or made a breathy promise of “later,” only to end up asleep before we could get started.
A thought hits me. “The game hens!”
“That’s not a hen.” Dean pushes his erection harder against my rear. “That’s a cock.”
I laugh. “You don’t say. I meant I forgot to put the hens back in the fridge.”
“Already done.”
“Oh, good. Thanks.” I pause for a minute. “Hey, Dean?”
“Hey, Liv.”
“You haven’t been feeling… frustrated lately, have you?”
“About what?” He presses his lips against the nape of my neck.
“Sex.”
“Does this feel frustrated?” He nudges his cock against my bottom again, his body tensing slightly with growing lust. “Damn, I love your ass.”
“I mean, over the past couple of years,” I say as my skin starts to warm in response to him. “I know I haven’t been on board much.”
“I’m not frustrated,” he assures me, snaking his other hand underneath me so he can fondle both of my breasts at the same time. “Though I do lust after you on an hourly basis.”
“And what do you do when you’re lusting and I’m sleeping?”
“I jerk off while thinking about you,” he murmurs against my ear.
The admission fires me with an unexpected bolt of heat. I’ve always loved watching Dean masturbate—the easy, slow movement of his hand as he strokes himself to orgasm, the way his chest heaves with increasing breaths and his eyes glaze over with pleasure—but it occurs to me now I haven’t actually seen him do it in ages.
I twist in his arms and turn to face him, my whole body folding against his. It’s so good having him back in our bed, right where he belongs. I gaze at his chocolate-brown eyes framed with thick lashes, the strong masculine planes of his face, his rumpled dark hair. The woodsy, eucalyptus scent of his shaving soap drifts from his skin.
“You’ve stayed in practice,” I remark.
“Had to. Traveling and being away from you doesn’t leave me any other option.”
Guilt simmers inside me. Once upon a time, he and I would engage in hot talk over the phone when he was away. Now I can’t remember the last time I was up for that either.
But the thought of him pleasuring himself here at home…
“Do you do it in the shower?” I whisper, sliding my forefinger across his lower lip.
“Sometimes. Or up in my tower office. Or in bed.”
“In bed?” I repeat. “When are you ever in bed without me?”
“I’m not.”
I try to process that for a second. Dean raises an eyebrow, amusement flashing in his eyes. I gasp.
“Dean West! Are you implying you’ve been masturbating in our bed while I’m sleeping?”
“I’m not implying anything,” he replies.
A riotous combination of shock and intrigue floods my chest. I push to one elbow and stare at him.
“Really?” I breathe. “You jerk off while I’m lying asleep next to you?”
“Uh huh.” He slides one hand under my shirt, his fingers trailing against my skin. “That turn you on?”
“Um… I’m not sure.” My heartbeat starts to increase in pace. “How come I’ve never woken up?”
“You sleep hard. And I’m quiet.”
“You’re not quiet when we have sex. Or when I watch you masturbate.”
“What can I say? I’m versatile.”
“So… How often do you do it?”
“Couple times a week, I guess.” He moves his hand up to my bra. “Why are you so curious?”
“I don’t know. It’s just that my sex drive has been so weird since I had Nicholas, and you’ve obviously been deprived.”
“I haven’t been deprived.”
“If you’re jerking off beside your sleeping wife, you’ve been deprived.” Now I sound annoyed. I can’t even remember the last time I masturbated—not that I’ve ever had much reason to do so since I met Dean.
“I jerk off beside my sleeping wife because I fucking love smelling her hair and feeling her body against mine when I come,” Dean says.
A new flame of shocked heat rips through me.
“You smell my hair?”
“Uh huh.”
“That sounds vaguely perverted.”
“I’m okay with that,” he remarks.
If my pulsing clit is anything to judge by, so am I.
I lean over him, drumming my fingers on his chest. “Why haven’t I ever noticed it when I change the sheets?”
“First, because you don’t change the sheets,” Dean reminds me. “I do. And second, because I use a towel.”
“Oh.” Despite my shock at this revelation, hot images flash crystal-clear through my head of Dean stretched out on his back, his bare, sculpted chest patterned with shadows and moonlight, his big cock sticking straight up as he wraps his hand around the base and strokes up to the tight head already glossy with moisture…
I shiver and press my thighs together. I’m starting to throb.
“So what…” I swallow to ease the dryness in my throat. “What do you fantasize about, then?”
“You.”
“Oh, please.” I roll my eyes and shift a little to rub my breasts against his chest. My nipples are straining against the constriction of my bra. I wish Dean had undressed me before carrying me up to bed. “You’re a man, Dean.”
“Yes, I am.”
Yes, he is. I ease my hand down to brush against the stiff bulge in his pants.
“So men fantasize about all sorts of things,” I remind him, cupping his erection in my palm. “What about when you’re not in bed? When you’re in the shower or up in your office? You can’t smell my hair or grind up against me then. So what do you fantasize about?”
“Usually you in different scenarios.”
“Like what?”
To my further intrigue, a slight flush crests his cheekbones.
“Dean?” I squeeze his cock lightly. “Come on. I’ve told you about my fantasies, right?”
“Mine aren’t nearly as vivid as yours,” he replies.
“Remember that dream you once had in which I was a librarian?” I ask, smiling when his cock stiffens even more. “That was pretty hot.”
“That was a dream, not a fantasy.”
“A dream is an unconscious fantasy,” I remind him. “But I want to know what you fantasize about when you’re awake. Am I a nurse? A farmer’s daughter? A vestal virgin?”
Dean shakes his head.
I try to think. “Oh! Am I a dominatrix?”
“Beauty, as much as I love the idea of you in leather, I’d never be up for that.” He slides his hand over my ass.
I can’t really see it either—even in my imagination, sexual submission and Dean West are a total mismatch. Control is just one of the things that makes him who he is, and though it’s also the characteristic that has caused the most problems between us, I’ve accepted that it will always be part of him.
“What do you fantasize about, then?” I ask.
“How about you tell me?” he suggests. “You have some pretty imaginative, elaborate fantasies. Elves and pirate captains and all that, right?”
Right. I used to have elaborate sexual fantasies. Now my most intense fantasies involve sleeping past five a.m., or eating an entire meal without getting up once, or having time to read a book whose plot doesn’t revolve around Arthur or the Berenstain Bears.
Stay on track, Liv. No thinking of Brother and Sister Bear…
“So?” Dean prompts, winding a lock of my hair around his finger.
“Um, so I had this fantasy where you were… uh, a deliveryman,” I say, “and I was… a bored, lonely housewife and you were delivering some sex toys…”
“Sounds more like a porn flick,” Dean remarks.
“Yeah.” I sigh. “I guess I haven’t fantasized much lately.”
“So instead of talking, why don’t we just get dirty?” he suggests, tugging at the hem of my shirt. “Take this off.”
Though I’m not entirely ready to be done with this conversation, I’m getting hot, and my breasts are aching. I lift myself up to take off my shirt and unhook my bra, tossing both to the floor. Cooler air caresses my skin, and Dean’s breath hisses out in pleasure at the sight of my bare breasts, my nipples jutting out, hard as cherries.
I shiver, desire rolling through me at the darkening heat in his eyes, the visible strain of his muscles.
Yes.
Oh, it feels good to be aroused, even if we haven’t done much of anything yet. Especially because we haven’t done much of anything yet.
“C’mere,” Dean mutters roughly, grabbing my waist and hauling me toward him. He fastens his lips around my nipple and tugs, the light pull sending a current of heat right to my sex.
I move over him to straddle his waist, bending forward so he has full access to my breasts. His body tenses as he palms and squeezes my breasts until waves of heat wash through me.
“God, Dean.” I squirm on top of him, rubbing my clit against his torso. “I’m getting really hot.”
He pushes his hips upward, nudging his cock against my ass. He grips the waistband of my pants, and I shift so he can tug them down my hips and slip his hand between my legs. He groans.
“Ah, fuck, you’re wet already.” He yanks at my pants. “Get these off. Now.”
I maneuver around to pull my pants off and ease down Dean’s body, pressing kisses to his gorgeous chest, down the line bisecting his abdomen, following the trail of hair leading right to the tantalizing hardness of his erection.
I grasp his hips and press my mouth onto his cock, right over the cotton of his pants. Dean groans, fisting a hand into my hair. The heat of his shaft burns through the thin material, his thigh muscles tightening like corded wire. I pull his pants down just enough to release his cock, the beautiful, thick length almost gleaming in the dim light.
I glance up at him through the veil of hair that has fallen over my face. He’s watching me, his dark eyes smoldering. He reaches down to squeeze my breast, pinching the nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
“Use these,” he says huskily.
A shiver rains through me. I get to my knees and cup my breasts. Dean grasps the base of his shaft. I position myself over him and press my breasts together to create a deep cleavage before sliding his cock between them.
“Oh, God.” I inhale a sharp breath, my skin tingling at the sensation of his smooth, veined shaft against my damp skin. “Is that good?”
“Hell, yeah.” He grits his teeth and pushes his hips upward, like he wants to thrust into my cleavage. “Fuck me with them.”
I do. I squeeze my breasts together tighter and slide them up and down his stiff cock, the pathway eased by the combination of his fluids and my perspiration. My head fills with the scent of him, urgency tightening through my entire body. I’d almost forgotten how uninhibited and sexy I could be with him, how good pure, undiluted lust could feel.
Mesmerized, I watch his thick erection push in and out of my pillowy cleavage. I twist my nipples, jolts of heat pouring through me. I pause and shift to take the head of his erection into my mouth. The salty, male taste of him floods my tongue. His body tautens beneath me, his hand tightening in my hair.
I circle my tongue over the tip of his cock before easing him into my mouth inch by inch. His shaft is warm and pulsing. I press my tongue to the vein throbbing at the underside, then ease back and move my head up and down, fucking him with my mouth. His breath saws through the air, and I feel his muscles flexing.
A groan shakes his chest. He grips the back of my neck as he pushes his cock gently into my mouth. I let my eyes drift closed and breathe, focusing on the sensation of my husband’s body, the smooth feel of his shaft, the quickening breaths signaling his increasing drive toward release. His fingers tighten briefly on my nape before he releases me and slides his hand down to rub my back in an almost soothing motion.
“Come here,” he orders gruffly.
I release him, crawling back up the length of his body and splay over him, my thighs hugging his hips and my breasts crushed against his chest. Our lips meet in a hot, full kiss as he strokes his hands down my back to my rear end. In one movement, he turns me over, his body rigid with self-restraint.
“Open,” he whispers against my lips.
My breath catches. I spread my legs, letting him move between them. He gets to his knees and pushes my legs farther apart. I rake my gaze over him, the planes of his chest and thighs, the ridge of his erection, the burning gleam in his eyes. He slides his fingers into my cleft. The first touch is a delicious shock, his thumb circling my clit as he pushes two fingers into my opening.
“Oh, God, Dean…” I clench my fists into the sheets, feeling as if I’m aroused for the first time ever.
I’m vibrating with sensation—streams of blue and gold coursing through my veins, the press of Dean’s fingers stimulating my nerves, the heat-drenched air pressing against my skin. I push my hips back and forth, as all thought slides away into a warm, heady pool of sensation. All I know is this feels so good, so right, and it’s been much too long since we’ve indulged in such hot intimacy.
“Fuck me,” I murmur, hooking my legs around his thighs. “I want to come with you inside me.”
He needs no further invitation, pushing into me with one slow, easy surge. He groans. I gasp, my inner flesh stretching and tightening around his shaft. I grip the sheets tighter as he starts to thrust, his deep movements blazing heat over my nerves. I arch upward to meet his repeated plunges, our bodies pushing and pulling in a rhythm as powerful and natural as tides.
Tension winds through my lower body. I slide my hand down to rub my clit, craving the intense explosion of pleasure I haven’t felt in weeks. Sometimes I can hardly remember not having to work to get into the moment, to push away all the worries, plans, and schedules cramming my head.
There’s always something to think about, whether it’s the café staff schedule, profit and loss, what to make for dinner, Nicholas’s daycare payments, or… Oh, shit, I forgot to give the monthly payment to Christine last week, which means I need to double-check that there’s enough to cover—
“Ah, good.” Dean, still thrusting into me like a well-oiled piston, braces his hands on either side of my head and lowers his mouth to mine. “Put your legs up… yeah, like that…”
I writhe under him, trying to get my head back in the game, but my rhythm is off, and we both pull back at the same time. He slides out of me and stops, his breathing hard. His expression darkens.
“Where did you go?” he asks.
“Nowhere. Just, um…” I dig my fingers into his back and wiggle again. I strain for the resurgence of arousal, but it’s like trying to grasp a fistful of water.
Dean slips his hand between my legs, massaging my clit in the way I usually love. I sink back against the pillows, playing with my breasts and waiting for delicious arousal to coil through me again.
Did I tell Christine about the change in my work schedule? I can’t remember. I need her to take care of Nicholas on Thursdays instead of Tuesdays, and I need to shift the pickup time to…
I shake the thought off and reach down to palm Dean’s erection and guide him back inside me. I arch upward as he slides in, smooth and easy, his breath rasping against my temple. His body grows taut with familiar urgency as he pushes into me again.
I squirm, disliking the edge of unfulfilled lust, but knowing he won’t succumb to his own release until he knows I’m satisfied. For the first time ever, I wish he weren’t such a gentleman.
“Oh, Dean…” I breathe his name and wrap my legs around his hips. “You feel so good, so big… fuck me harder, please… yes, yes!”
I dig my fingers into his shoulders, simultaneously straining for both arousal and something to say in order to keep him, at least, in the zone.
“Do me, baby, good and hard. I’m coming… Oh my God, I’m coming. Yes… oh, God, yes!”
I shriek and writhe my hips, pushing up against him the second I realize he’s stopped moving. I open my eyes. He’s looking at me, his arms still braced on either side of my head and his chest heaving.
“Really?” he asks dryly.
A hot flush of embarrassment crawls up my face. Dean gives a half laugh, half groan and thrusts a couple more times. Though he comes, I can tell it’s hardly as powerful an orgasm as it usually is for him.
He rolls off me, throwing his arm across his face.
“You’re the love of my life, Olivia,” he mutters. “But you’re a terrible actress.”
My embarrassment intensifies. I should have known better than to think he wouldn’t notice. But after two weeks away from each other, I was sure I’d have no trouble reaching the finish line.
I turn toward him and put my hand on his damp torso. Lines of frustration etch his forehead, and his chest rises and falls with heavy breaths. Guilt stabs me.
“I’m sorry.” I prop myself up on my elbow to look at him. “It’s really not you. It’s me. I don’t know where my sex drive goes sometimes.”
Dean opens his eyes to meet my gaze.
“So what happened?” he asks. “You were into it before.”
“I started thinking about something I have to do tomorrow,” I admit.
“I’m guessing it wasn’t ride Dean’s cock,” he mutters.
I can’t help giggling. “No, but I’ll put that on my To Do list.”
I ease closer to rest my cheek against his shoulder. I slide my hand down his abdomen, tracing the ridges of his abs with my fingertips. Not only does my husband have an incredibly gorgeous body, he knows exactly how and when to both make love and fuck hard. He’s certainly not the reason I have trouble keeping my head in the game.
“Don’t do that again,” Dean says, his tone so implacably stern that I glance up.
He frowns down at me, his eyes narrowing with a sense of menace I’ve never before seen directed at me. For some reason, a shiver of excitement runs down my spine.
“I won’t,” I promise.
“You’d better not,” Dean murmurs, his deep voice rolling over me like a hot breeze. “You’re not allowed to fake an orgasm. Ever.”
“Oh.” I dart my tongue out to lick my lips, wondering why his unyielding command is making me all quivery inside. “Okay.”
“If you do that again, I’ll have to punish you,” Dean warns, leaning back against the pillows and closing his eyes. “We wouldn’t want that now, would we?”
Given the little tingles racing through me, I’m not sure what the right answer to that question is.