CHAPTER THIRTEEN
OLIVIA
A LESSON ABOUT CONTROL.
Well, all right then, Professor West. Teach me.
Curious thoughts buzz around my mind like bees in a hive as I work my shift at the Wonderland Café. I’m still aroused from both this morning and last night’s thwarted lust. And I feel a little raunchy for having lascivious thoughts while I serve heart-shaped jam tarts and cucumber sandwiches to a group of ladies from the Historical Society.
“Thank you, Olivia, my dear,” Florence Wickham says. “I’m sorry I missed you at the Historical Society meeting. How are you?”
Horny.
I stifle a laugh as I imagine how the ladies would react if I actually said that. Florence would probably tell me to go right home and put Dean to work.
Except I can’t do that. Because I’m not allowed to.
A little tingle of excitement goes through me. What on earth will I be allowed to do? And when?
I clear my throat and place a tiered tray of tea sandwiches on the table.
“Very well, thank you,” I reply. “I hear Dean and Archer are helping you with the railroad.”
“Yes, and we’re anticipating great things from the auction,” Florence says. “Did you ever secure an auctioneer?”
“Didn’t I CC you on the email?” I take out my phone and scroll my messages. “Patrick Hartford from Hartford Pharmacy is a licensed auctioneer, but because he’s been out of the auction gig for a while, he agreed to do it for a nominal fee.”
“Oh, lovely.” Florence smiles at me. “What would this town do without you, Olivia?”
Hopefully this town will never have to find out, I think, as I pick up their empty teapot and return to the kitchen. I bring the ladies a fresh pot of Earl Grey and ring up a customer’s bill. After I help a couple of teenagers at the counter, my cell phone buzzes with a text.
DEAN: Go into your office and call me.
LIV: I’m working.
DEAN: Do it.
My stomach flutters. As soon as Sheryl returns to staff the front counter, I mutter something about needing to do some “stuff” in the office. I hurry in and lock the door behind me—Allie and I sometimes change out of our work clothes in the office, so she won’t wonder why the door is locked. I dial Dean’s number.
“I’m here.”
“Door locked?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Good. Put your hand between your legs and tell me how wet you are.”
I draw in a sharp breath, a shiver raining down my spine. My heart hammers as I slip my hand under my apron and unzip my pants. I’m unfortunately wearing boring cotton underwear, but clearly that has no effect on my arousal.
“God, Dean,” I murmur. “So wet. I really was turned on last night… and this morning.”
“I know you were.” His voice drops an octave. “I’m going to tell you a fantasy, beauty. And when you get home, you strip off your clothes, put on your bathrobe, and lie on the bed with your legs spread. You’re going to touch yourself and think about what I’m going to tell you. But you’re not allowed to come. Understand?”
My pulse is beating so hard I can hear it in my head.
“Yes,” I manage to whisper.
“You’re wearing an apron.”
An apron?
Since I wear an apron every day, this is not a particularly sexy start. And given Dean’s lack of imagination when it comes to fantasies…
“Um, okay,” I say, keeping my voice husky. “An apron.”
“And nothing else.”
“Oh…”
“It’s a little red checkered apron with a ruffled hem that just comes to the tops of your thighs and covers your breasts.”
Oh my.
Maybe he does have a sexy imagination after all.
“What are you wearing?” I ask.
“You’re not allowed to ask questions.”
“Oops. Sorry.”
“Pay attention. You’re only wearing red heels and this little apron that exposes your pretty ass. And you’re aroused. Every time you take a step, you feel your clit throbbing and your juices dripping down your thighs. Your nipples are hard, rubbing against the apron, your breasts bouncing every time you move. You’re so tempted to reach under that ruffled hem and touch yourself, but you know that if you do, you won’t get fucked.
“And you want to get fucked, beauty. Badly. You want to spread your legs and feel my cock pounding into you. You want to writhe and moan and scream. You want to beg to come, and when I let you, the fucking earth will shake.”
“Oh my God, Dean.” I grip the desk and close my eyes, sweat breaking out on my forehead. “I’m about to come right now.”
“No.” His voice steels. “Get back to work.”
Seriously?
“Wait,” I gasp. “I still have two hours left in my shift.”
“I know.”
“I’m bringing tea to the ladies of the Historical Society.”
“Say hello to them for me,” he remarks, his tone now laced with amusement. “Remember what I told you. Be ready. I’ll be home at five.”
Holy shit. I stick my phone back into my pocket, trying to compose myself as I walk back out to the kitchen. Figuring I can attribute my flushed skin to the heat of the stove, I manage to get through the rest of my shift with a reasonable degree of composure—even if I do find myself looking at the raw carrots with a perverted interest.
By the time I get home, I’m almost shaking with need. I take off my clothes and pull my robe on over my naked body before stretching out on the bed. Images flood my head of me walking around in the little red apron and heels, the bow tickling my ass, Dean’s hot gaze raking over me.
I wonder where we are. Am I working in a bakery? Is he the boss? Maybe I’m a housekeeper and he’s the master of the mansion. And maybe he catches me stealing a doughnut and decides to punish me by making me strut around half-naked for his pleasure.
Ooo. Doughnuts.
Focus, Liv.
I stretch out on the bed, lightly running my hands over my bare thighs through the opening in my robe. I picture myself maybe walking around with a feather duster, dusting Master West’s collection of… um, priceless Greco-Roman antiques, when he grabs the duster from me and starts flicking it over my naked body, the feathers tickling my skin…
“Good girl.”
Dean’s deep voice falls over me. My breath catches as I push up to my elbows, our eyes clashing hot and intense across the room. His tie is loose around his neck, but otherwise he’s still fully dressed in charcoal-gray slacks and a navy shirt that fits beautifully over his broad chest and shoulders. I let my gaze wander hungrily down to his groin, where sure enough a heavy, tempting bulge is all too evident.
I lick my lips. He mutters a curse, pulling off his tie.
“Watch it,” he growls. “You’re also not allowed to seduce me.”
“I’m just looking at you.”
“You looking at me is a seduction,” he says, jerking a thumb toward the door. “Downstairs.”
“Downstairs?”
“Go.”
I scramble off the bed and pass him in the doorway, making certain to nudge my breasts accidentally against his arm. He frowns.
I hurry downstairs, stopping halfway with the question I can’t help asking because it was Dean’s turn to pick Nicholas up from daycare.
“Where’s Nicholas?” I ask.
“With Archer. Who is under the threat of death not to call unless it’s a dire emergency.”
“Oh.” I stifle a giggle. “He must really be wondering what we’re up to.”
“Kitchen,” Dean orders. “Now.”
I go into the kitchen, stopping at the sight of a folded, red-checkered apron sitting on the central island along with an array of baking ingredients. There’s a pair of red, pointed-toe heels beside the counter.
I pause. “What...”
Dean stops behind me, rubbing his big hands over my ass. “Put on the apron, beauty. And bake me an apple pie.”
I turn to stare at him. “You’re serious?”
“Never more.” Though his expression is stern, amusement flickers in his brown eyes.
“This is your fantasy? For me to bake you a pie half-naked?”
“While I watch,” he adds, lifting his hands to fondle my breasts. “If the pie is good, I’ll fuck you nice and hard and let you come.”
A bolt of heat shoots through me. “And… and if it’s not?”
“I’ll still fuck you, but you won’t be allowed to come.”
“Well, that’s just mean.”
“Better make it a good pie, then.”
With that, he sits down on a kitchen chair, crosses his arms, and waits.
And since I really want what’s behind door number one, I strip out of my robe—slowly, as his heated gaze rakes over me—and put on the ruffled apron. The skirt is too small, leaving my cleavage exposed on the top and sides, and the little hem barely covers my pussy. I slip my feet into the heels and fasten the thin straps.
I walk over to Dean and turn, flicking the apron strings.
“Could you tie it for me, please?” I ask breathlessly.
I can almost hear his jaw grinding with restraint as he takes the strings and ties a bow right above my bare bottom. Then he gives me a light spank.
“Bake, woman,” he orders.
I set to work making the pie crust and peeling apples. And though this is unconventional for us, it’s also fun. And pretty smoking hot. Every time I glance at Dean, he’s watching me with a smoldering gaze, his muscles leashed with self-control, his erection straining against his fly.
For the fourth time, I drop an apple peel on the floor.
“Silly me.” I turn, bending over to pick it up, feeling Dean’s gaze on my upturned ass.
I’m sure he’s imagining exactly what he wants to do to me. And he was right—with every step, every movement, even rolling out the pie crust, I’m acutely aware of my arousal. My nipples rub against the cotton apron, and I have to fight the urge not to tense my thighs to ease the ache of need.
Apples, cinnamon, nutmeg, sugar, butter. I stir everything up into a nice, creamy mess, load the filling into the pie, and make a quick lattice-work crust before putting the whole creation in the oven.
I close the oven door and glance at Dean. I’m warm not only from arousal, but also the work and heat of the oven.
“It’ll take at least an hour to bake,” I remark, hoping he’ll amend the rules about exactly what needs to happen before we get down to business.
He shrugs. “I can wait.”
Of course he can.
With a sigh, I perch on a kitchen stool and drum my fingers on the central island. The clock ticks. I’m not about to risk my pie being anything less than good, but I struggle to hold on to my patience as the clock moves at a snail’s pace and my body hums with the simmering need for Dean.
I cross my legs. My clit is pulsing. A little tightening of my thighs, and I could totally bring myself off. Dean frowns at me. I swing my leg and smile innocently.
“Believe me, professor,” I say. “If I were about to come, you’d know it.”
“Indeed I would.”
The timer on the oven dings. Yes! I hop off the stool and hurry over to take the pie out, pleased that the crust is golden-brown, the filling bubbly and soft.
“Perfection!” I set the pie on a rack.
Dean pushes to his feet and approaches me. “So far so good.”
“Well, now you have to wait for it to cool,” I say.
He scowls. Hah. Two can play at this game.
But because I don’t want to play for much longer, I get out a plate and cut a slice of pie after only a few minutes of cooling time. The steam smells heavenly, curling up from the apples in little whorls of sweetness and spice.
I fork up a generous portion of filling and crust, glancing at Dean as I purse my lips and blow on the pie to cool it further. He lets out his breath, his gaze on my mouth. I hold the forkful of pie out to him. He takes the bite and chews, his expression growing thoughtful, like he’s one of those chef judges on a cooking competition show.
Finally he swallows and says, “It’s not good.”
My heart sinks. “It’s not?”
“No.” He advances, backing me toward the counter. “It’s delicious.”
Before I can respond, he plants his hands on the counter behind me and pushes me right up against it, his mouth coming down on mine in a kiss of swift, hot possession.
I melt, gripping the front of his shirt, my lips parting on a moan. He shoves his erection against me, the heat of his stiff flesh burning through his trousers. My pulse pounds. I fall into him, tasting apples, sugar, and Dean, my head spinning with lust and love.
He grasps my waist, lifting me onto the counter and moving between my spread legs. He straightens, his gaze on mine. I slide my hands over his shirt, my fingers trembling as I unfasten the buttons slowly. To my embarrassment, I can’t remember the last time I undressed my husband.
Has it really been that long?
“Oh, you’re so gorgeous,” I breathe, sliding my hands over the sculpted planes of his chest and abdomen, down to the tantalizing line of hair leading right into his trousers.
I unbuckle his belt and slide it off, leather rasping against cloth. His breathing quickens, his heartbeat increasing beneath my palm. I smile and stroke downward, cupping the bulge pressing against the front of his trousers. I lean in and press my lips against the warm hollow of his throat.
“How am I doing with keeping control?” I whisper.
“Not bad, beauty.” His voice is thick with growing lust. He lowers his head, his sandpapery cheek scraping deliciously against mine as he kisses my neck. “Now let’s see if I can make you lose it.”
Before I can start unfastening his trousers, he slips his hand between my thighs, his fingers delving into my cleft with easy assurance. He knows exactly how and where to touch me, and before long I’m panting and writhing against the pressure of his hand.
I spread my legs wider, squirming to the edge of the counter so I can hook my legs around him. He slips his other hand up to cup my breast over the material of the apron, his thumb flicking my nipple. Sparks fly through me.
Dean moves away only long enough to unfasten his trousers. He shoves them and his boxers down, and my mouth goes dry at the sight of his long, stiff cock poking out from under the hem of his open shirt.
I start to reach for him, wanting to feel the pulsing length against my hand, then I stop and glance up at him.
“Permission, sir?” I murmur.
His jaw tenses, his breath escaping on a hiss. “Permission granted.”
I close my hand around his cock, my sex clenching at the thought of all that hard flesh filling me. I slide my hand up and down a few times, brushing my thumb over the damp head in the way I know he likes.
His breath saws through the air, his fingers clenching on my hips. I guide him to my opening, my breath catching as he begins a slow, tight glide into me, his body tense and straining.
“Ah, fuck, Liv…”
His breath stirs the tendrils of hair at my temple. When he’s fully inside me, he stops, tightening his grip. Urgency scorches me from the inside out, the throb of his big cock sending flickers of fire straight into my blood. I flex my hands on his arms and shift, wiggling closer, aching to feel him pump deep inside me.
“Hurry,” I whisper, my head filling with the fog of desire, the eucalyptus scent of Dean’s shaving soap mixing with the lingering scents of apples and cinnamon.
He presses his lips in a line over my cheek to my mouth, his tongue flickering out to taste my lower lip.
“You want it?” he murmurs, his voice husky.
“Oh, yes…”
“How badly?”
“So badly,” I say against his lips, tightening my legs around him. “God, Dean, I had no idea baking you a pie would turn me on this much.”
A smile tugs at his mouth, his eyes filled with heat. “Imagine what’ll happen when I order you to bake me a cake.”
“I’ll come before I get the damned thing out of the oven,” I gasp, shivering when he slips his hand between my thighs to my clit.
“Wider,” he says.
He drags me to the very edge of the counter, half sliding out of me before driving back in, so powerfully that I cry out. I part my legs wider, and he thrusts so deep I feel the jolt all the way to my core.
Another cry breaks from my throat, and then the world around us dissolves, replaced by hot breath, deep thrusts, and the rhythmic cadence of our movements that we still fall into so easily. I lean forward to press my lips to the hollow of his throat as he fucks me again and again, driving my need higher with every deep plunge.
“Dean…” My voice is strained tight, like a wire about to snap. “I’m going to… I want…”
“Come on, beauty,” he murmurs, his voice rough against my ear. “Come all over my cock. Let me feel it… good and hard.”
He shoves forward, pushing into me, his fingers still working my clit. I moan, squeezing my eyes shut, feeling my body climbing toward the explosion of pleasure I haven’t experienced in too long.
The instant the pressure breaks, Dean’s mouth descends on mine, his tongue sweeping across my lips as light bursts through my body. Bliss consumes me, a combination of freedom and a renewed anchoring of myself to my husband. I cry out his name, clenching my body around his shaft as he plunges into me again.
“Do it,” I gasp, gripping his shoulders. “Come inside me. I want to feel you.”
He clutches my hips, slowing his pace to a long, hard glide in the instant before he comes with a heavy groan. I tighten around him as his body shudders with release, the sensation of him filling me eliciting a new wave of pleasure.
Gasping, I fall against him, pressing my forehead to his chest as we struggle to catch our breath. A sheen of sweat dampens my skin, the scent of sex rising from our bodies.
I shiver, pressing my thighs together as Dean slips out of me and reaches for a napkin to clean us both up. He gives me a lazy, satisfied smile—so beautiful with a flush cresting his sharp cheekbones, his dark hair messy, his eyes warm and sated.
Without letting go of me, he turns and takes a chunk of apple from the pie and holds it to my lips. I open my mouth and accept the warm, sugary slice, redolent with cinnamon.
“I love you,” I breathe.
“I’m really glad to hear that, beauty.” Dean lowers his head to kiss me, his mouth sweet and sticky. “Because you’re the apple of my pie.”
I smile and wind my arms around his neck to deepen the kiss.
The phone rings.
Dean tightens his grip on me. “You are not allowed to answer that.”
“Good, because I don’t want to.” I slide my tongue across his lower lip.
The machine clicks on. A man’s voice breaks into my haze.
“Liv, it’s Roger Jameson calling about the Airstream trailer you were looking at for your party truck. I think I can work out a deal for you. Give me a call if you’re still interested.”
I suppress a flicker of interest and concentrate on kissing my husband, but the intrusion of the call has cooled our heat. With a resigned sigh, Dean pulls slightly away from me.
“Now you’re taking on another project?” he asks.
“Allie and I have been talking about it for awhile. A birthday party truck that—”
“Yeah, you told Archer. And Archer told me.”
“Well, he offered to do the engine work, if we can find a used pick-up,” I explain. “We have enough for a deposit, but we’re also hoping for a loan to help buy the trailer. Except I’ll have to increase the amount to include the restoration.”
“And who’s going to do the restoration?”
“Allie and I.” I wince inwardly at the disapproval flashing over his face. “In our spare time. It’ll be cheaper than hiring someone else to do it.”
Dean sighs. “Liv, for the love of God, would you please let me buy you the truck and hire someone to restore it for you? If you take on one more project, I’m putting my foot down.”
I run my hand over his jaw. “Well, I do kind of like it when you put your foot down.”
He frowns. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“Let me buy you the damned truck.”
“We already applied for the loan, Dean.” I shift closer to him, not wanting to remind him that he also just took on a new responsibility as director of the train project. “Besides, even if it does work out, we won’t get started until later this summer, and I’ll be done with the festival by then. So it’s not like I’d be trying to do it right now along with everything else.”
Dean doesn’t look terribly mollified. I can see him bristling with the urge to argue, but to his credit, he only gives me a grudging nod.
“I’m watching you, Mrs. West,” he mutters. “And I’ll give you this one, but it’s clear you haven’t yet learned your lesson.”
“Maybe I need a time out.” I slide my hand down his muscular torso. “A big, thick, long time out…”
Renewed heat flares in his eyes as he lowers his head to slant his mouth across mine. Cinnamon, sugar, apples, and Dean. Again, I let the rest of the world fall away.