CHAPTER FIFTEEN
OLIVIA
YES!
I’m making a comeback, baby. I’m like Cher in the 1990s. I’m Martha Stewart after she got out of prison, and Justin Timberlake after he left NSYNC. I’m the Boston Red Sox in the ninth inning of the 2004 World Series.
I am on top.
Or, in this case, being on the bottom is just fine with me too. Not even work or a fancy job opening can deter Professor and Mrs. West from getting their groove back, good and hard. With apple pie.
I hum a little tune as I get breakfast ready a few days after our hot kitchen encounter and Dean’s continued lessons, which have me on edge pretty much all the time now. Between that and remembering how it felt to sit on the counter and let him drive into me, my breasts jostling, his cock slamming into me again and again… I shiver. My heart thumps.
Oh, yeah. I still got it. Hot mama. Yummy mummy. MILF.
“B’nana!” Nicholas calls from the table.
My little fantasy breaks apart. “Just a sec.”
I grab a banana and slice it in half, removing the peel as I bring it to the table and set it on Nicholas’s plate. Dean left for campus early this morning, which is sort of a bummer since Nicholas is scheduled for daycare this morning. I could have dropped him off, then come back home and…
“Oat,” Nicholas remarks, digging into his cinnamon oatmeal.
A bolt of embarrassment hits me as I gaze at my beautiful, innocent son.
Good heavens, what kind of mother am I for being anxious to drop my kid at daycare so I can get sexy with my husband?
This isn’t an issue they’ve covered in Mommy and Me class.
I sit down and help Nicholas scrape up the last of his oatmeal before I get us both ready for the day. After running errands in the morning and working the afternoon shift at the café, I grab a takeout salad for dinner and head to City Hall to meet with the festival planning committee.
Things are falling into place, with Edison Power still reviewing my package for a high-level sponsorship, the food vendors secured, and the art booths organized.
I have a short list of things I’m going to ask Dean to help with. I’m happy about the idea that he and I will be doing something together that will benefit the town. We’ve always worked together for each other, our son, our marriage, and we restored the Butterfly House together, but we’ve never worked together for a greater cause, as it were.
It’s close to eight by the time the meeting wraps up, and I drive back to the Butterfly House. The porch lights are on, but the house is dark.
I go inside and turn on the kitchen lights. There’s a white covered box on the central island, with a note beside it.
I smile and pull the lid off the box. Nestled in tissue paper is a black lace baby doll edged with purple ribbon, sheer thigh highs, a black G-string, three-inch black pumps, and… a long beige raincoat.
I stare at the items in confusion for a second before shock hits me.
Omigod. I’m supposed to put these on and go meet Dean at a hotel bar wearing nothing else.
How wrong.
How wicked.
How scandalous.
Excitement ripples down my spine.
I’ve never been scandalous before. Heck, I’ve never even been risqué, unless you count the time Dean and I got hot and heavy on the seventeenth-floor balcony of an LA high-rise. Of course, the chances of anyone seeing us at that height were slim, but still, it was definitely a sexual adventure.
And while Dean’s and my sex life has always—mostly—been fantastically satisfying and explosive, we’ve never swung from the chandeliers, experimented with exotic sex toys, played kinky games…
Well, then. Maybe we should start.
My heartbeat kicks up a notch. I can’t imagine it.
Olivia West—thirty-three years old, the mother of a toddler, a respectable businesswoman and owner of a birthday party café, planner of the Mirror Lake Bicentennial Festival—getting kinky with her husband.
On the other hand… Why not?
Adventure awaits, right? This is certainly an adventure.
I grab the bag and hurry up to the bedroom. I take a quick shower and rub lotion all over my body before slithering into the skimpy panties, black stockings, and baby doll, which pushes my breasts together into a plump, deep cleavage before draping over my hips to the tops of my thighs.
Nice.
I brush my hair until it shines, leaving it loose around my shoulders because that’s the way Dean likes it. I apply more dramatic makeup than usual—smoky eyeshadow, red lipstick, black mascara—and slip into the black heels.
I go back downstairs to put on the raincoat. As I belt it around my waist, a wave of anxiety crashes over me.
No way. I can’t do this. What if I get a flat tire or a speeding ticket and have to deal with a police officer? Even if I do make it to the bar safely, I can’t sit there in a raincoat, knowing I’m half-naked underneath.
Or can I?
I take a deep breath and check my phone. No message from Dean, but a text from Kelsey appears. N’s playing drums w/Archer. Movie later. He’s having a ball. Enjoy your night w/o worry.
I send her a quick thanks and tuck the phone into my purse. I give myself a firm nod in the mirror. Sure, I’m a mother, a businesswoman, festival coordinator, member of a mom’s group, et cetera… but I’m also a wife.
More specifically, Dean West’s wife.
As I drive downtown to the Wildwood Inn, I remember the storm of emotions rolling through me when Dean and I got married. Excitement, overwhelming love, joy, pride, astonishment—and a deep, abiding certainty that every part of my life had been leading me right to the moment when Dean closed his hand around mine and told me he would never let go.
But I’d already known that. I’d known since the instant his fingers brushed the sleeve of my ratty gray sweatshirt the day we met. Once Professor Dean West takes hold of you, he doesn’t let go.
I pull into the hotel parking lot and spend about five minutes gathering my courage before I get out of the car. It’s a little chilly out, so at least the coat isn’t completely out of place.
I walk to the hotel entrance, making sure my belt is double-knotted and the coat is buttoned up to my neck. The doorman smiles at me and opens the door.
My stomach tightens with nerves. The lobby is hushed and quiet, a few guests sitting in the carpeted area near the oak staircase. Across from the reception desk, voices rise from the bar—an elegant, Old World-style room with stained-glass windows, plush chairs and couches, and glittering lamps.
I am not accustomed to frequenting such stylish places alone—much less wearing nothing but sexy lingerie under my coat—but I straighten my shoulders and enter the bar like I know exactly what I’m doing.
I look around quickly, hoping to spot Dean seated in one of the intimate, shadowed booths or at least waiting for me at the bar. He’s nowhere to be seen.
I glance at my watch. It’s nine-fifteen. Dean didn’t give me a specific time to be here, though I can’t imagine he’d expect it to be much later than this. In our normal routine, we do tend to be in bed by ten… sleeping.
But this is hardly our normal routine.
I walk to the bar, my heels clicking against the hardwood floor. Well-dressed patrons sit at the tables, sipping fancy cocktails, their conversations punctuated by low laughter. I maneuver onto a barstool as the surfer-boy handsome, blond bartender glides over to place a napkin in front of me. He smiles, his teeth as white as peppermints.
“Good evening, miss,” he remarks. “You can leave your coat at the front rack, if you’d like.”
A blush scorches my face.
“That’s okay.” I give him a bright smile. “I’m a bit chilly.”
“A drink to warm you up, then?” he asks, letting his gaze slip over me.
I figure I’d better limit my alcohol intake. Even though I’m not sure what Dean has planned, I do know I want to be entirely lucid for it.
“Club soda with lime,” I say. “Or can you make me something without too much alcohol?”
“I can make you anything you want,” the bartender replies with a wink.
I wonder if he’s flirting with me. Wouldn’t that be something?
“Should I surprise you?” he asks.
“Okay. Just not too much alcohol.”
“Are you under twenty-one?”
I laugh. “You’re closer to twenty-one than I am.”
“I don’t know about that.” He leans his elbows on the counter. “I’m going to have to see your ID.”
I shake my head in amusement, thinking he’s joking, but he doesn’t move, his gaze holding mine. With a shrug, I dig into my purse for my wallet and show him my driver’s license.
“Olivia,” he says, studying my license. “Pretty name.”
“And plenty old,” I add.
“Not so much.” He hands my license back. “You’re five years older than me. That doesn’t make you a cougar.”
A bubble of laughter rises into my throat.
“My drink?” I ask.
“Yeah, sorry.” He pushes away from the counter. “One low-alcohol surprise cocktail coming up.”
Still smiling, I turn to scan the bar again. The clientele is mostly men, though several women in shiny, sheath dresses and elegant gold jewelry sip martinis and cosmopolitans.
No sign of Dean yet. An older gentleman at a corner table catches my eye and raises his glass.
It takes me a second to realize that—aside from being conspicuous as the only woman in the bar wearing a raincoat—the coat has parted at the fold, exposing a significant length of my stocking-clad leg.
The man’s attention makes me wonder what would have happened if Dean and I had met like this—in a hotel bar with me showing off my assets, rather than outside a university registrar’s office with me picking myself up off the sidewalk.
“Professors have a lot of power,” he said.
I almost smiled. “Even medieval history professors?”
“Especially medieval history professors,” he assured me.
“Knights on horseback and all that?”
A responding smile tugged at his mouth. “And damsels in distress.”
Ours wasn’t a romance of cocktails and silk sheets. Ours was a romance of library call numbers, coffee cake, rainy weekends, history textbooks, and boring foreign films. We might not have happened any other way.
Some things, I think, were clearly meant to be.
A shiver of awareness ripples over my skin.
I glance at the entrance to the bar. My breath catches in my throat. Dean is walking toward me, his stride long and assured, his muscular body sheathed in a navy tailored suit that fits him to perfection.
He’s not just in full professor mode; he’s in full Dean West mode with his perfectly knotted tie and air of complete authority. Other patrons glance at him as he crosses the room. The overhead lights burnish his hair and cast shadows on the masculine planes of his face.
My heart gives a wild, spinning leap. I turn on the barstool to watch him—my breathtakingly beautiful husband who commands attention like a king holding court, but whose eyes remain unwaveringly fixed on me.
Oh, Dean. I’ve missed you.
He stops in front of me and extends his hand. “Dean West.”
I smile. “Well, I know that.”
He raises an eyebrow, his hand still extended.
Oh!
“I’m Olivia… Winter.” I slip my hand into his. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Olivia Winter.” His deep voice envelops my name like dark chocolate spilling over a ripe cherry. “Pretty.”
“Thanks.” I’m getting a little breathless.
Dean’s fingers close around mine in a warm, secure handshake that sends a tingle clear up my arm. The scent of his shaving soap tickles my nose. I slip my hand slowly from his and gesture to the barstool beside me.
“Would you like to sit down?” I ask.
“Only if I can buy you a drink.”
“Okay.” I glance to the other end of the bar, where the bartender is still making my drink. “I just ordered.”
“And so will I.” He sits beside me, his sleeve brushing against mine.
My heart thumps with a slow, heavy beat. A hint of nervous excitement winds through me—as if he really is a strikingly handsome stranger whom I know nothing about except that I’m captivated by his presence.
“May I take your coat?” he asks, slanting his gaze over my body.
“Maybe later.” I give him a sultry, sidelong glance. “Mr. West.”
“You can call me sir.”
Yes, I most certainly can.
“Maybe later,” I murmur. “Sir.”
The bartender returns, faltering slightly when he sees Dean sitting beside me.
“Here you go, miss.” He sets a pretty, pink drink garnished with a cherry in front of me. “Grapefruit juice, sparkling wine, a touch of syrup.”
“Put it on my tab,” Dean says.
“Yes, sir.”
“And I’ll have a scotch on the rocks.”
“Yes, sir.” The bartender hurries to get the drink.
“So.” I shift, letting the raincoat display a bit more of my stocking-clad leg. “What do you do, sir?”
“I’m a venture capitalist and businessman,” he replies. “I own an international conglomerate of companies branded under the name the Beauty Group.”
“I think I’ve heard of that.”
“We have about five hundred companies,” he continues, nodding his thanks as the bartender sets the scotch in front of him. “Travel, multimedia, entertainment, finance, hotels.”
“Impressive,” I remark. “You must be quite wealthy.”
He shrugs, like he can’t be bothered to consider his billions-of-dollars net worth.
“And you?” he asks. “What do you do, Miss Winter?”
“I’m an actress.”
“Really?” He turns to face me, resting an elbow on the bar. “Stage or screen?”
“Stage, of course.” I toss my hair back over my shoulder. “Movies are so pedestrian. Stage acting is so much more intimate and challenging. There’s no room for error when you’re on stage in front of a live audience.”
“Hmm. A risk-taker, are you?”
“Under the right circumstances, I can be.”
“Interesting.” Dean puts his warm hand beneath my chin, turning my face toward his. “And what are the right circumstances?”
“Maybe…” I glance up at him from beneath my eyelashes. “You, Mr. West.”
“Ah.” He brushes his thumb across my lips, his eyes gleaming with something dark and dangerous. “Right or wrong, make no mistake, Miss Winter. I’m not a circumstance.”
“What are you, then?”
“I’m your goddamned destiny.”
He lowers his mouth to mine. All the breath escapes my lungs. But instead of the hot, hard kiss I’d been expecting—anticipating—his lips are gentle, caressing, a tease rather than an onslaught.
And yet the effect on me is devastating—my blood goes into full boil, heat pooling in my lower body. By the time Dean lifts his head and eases away from me, I’m dizzy with longing.
“Another drink?” The bartender’s voice slices through my haze as he plunks a bowl of salted nuts in front of us.
“Not for me.” Dean glances at me, his expression simmering with heat. “Miss Winter?”’
“No.” I pull in a breath. “No, thank you.”
The bartender nods and walks to the other end of the bar to assist another customer. Dean puts his hand on my thigh beneath the counter and finds the opening of my coat. His fingers brush against my leg, his touch sending heat shooting across my skin.
“So why the raincoat?” he asks, gliding his fingers discreetly up and down my leg. “Is that part of the risk-taking?”
“I… I just came from the theater,” I reply, making an effort not to squirm on the barstool. “I’m still in costume.”
“What kind of costume?”
“One I can’t show a stranger.”
“Too sexy?” He moves his hand up my thigh far enough to reach the edge of my stocking.
My breath shortens. Dean slips his fingers into my stocking. His eyes darken with growing heat.
“Too… slutty,” I murmur.
“Tell me,” he orders, easing off the barstool to stand beside me, blocking me from view of the rest of the room.
“It’s a black lace baby doll with purple ruffles,” I whisper, tensing a little when his hand glides toward my inner thigh. “It’s… well, it’s a little tight around my breasts, but I kind of like that because it feels really good on my nipples. And I’m wearing a flimsy little G-string, and thigh-high stockings.”
“Hmm.” A faint growl rumbles in his chest. “What role were you playing?”
“The wife of a medieval history professor who acts out all her husband’s dirty fantasies. It’s called The Secret Life of Professor West. You should come see it sometime.”
“Maybe I will.” Amusement sparks beneath the heat in Dean’s eyes as he slips his hand between my thighs, urging them slightly apart.
A gasp catches in my throat. I curl my hand around his wrist, glancing nervously past his shoulder to see if anyone notices exactly what we’re doing over here.
“You shouldn’t do that, sir,” I say.
“I’ll stop if you unbutton your coat and show me your breasts.”
Oh my God. Desire bolts through me, centering in my core. I swallow, tightening my grip on his wrist.
“I don’t think I can do that.”
“Not all the way. Just a little.”
He nudges his groin against my thigh. He’s already half-hard. I almost moan aloud, suppressing the urge to slide my hand down the front of his gorgeous suit and cup his growing erection in my hand.
I glance around again to make sure no one else is paying attention to us, then I quickly unfasten a few buttons of the coat to reveal the V of my cleavage. Shielding me with his body, Dean gazes at my breasts with hot appreciation before pressing his mouth close to my ear.
“Are your nipples hard?” he asks, his voice echoing deep inside my blood.
“Yes,” I breathe, shifting and trying not to press my legs together.
“And are you wet?” He slides his hand over my thigh.
“God, De… sir.”
“Are you?”
“Yes. Oh.” I writhe a little on the barstool, my clit pulsing with every beat of my heart. “Wet and… hungry, sir.”
Dean smiles. I half expect him to ease the raincoat open farther and start fingering me, but instead he lowers his mouth close to my ear again.
“You’re a bad girl, Olivia Winter,” he whispers, his breath stirring the tendrils of my hair. “And you’re the hottest, sexiest woman I’ve ever seen in my life. I’d fuck you right here on the bar if it wouldn’t get us arrested.”
A shudder rocks through me. I flick my tongue out to lick my dry lips. My nipples are so hard they’re starting to chafe against the mesh fabric of my bodice.
“Well,” I murmur, “is there somewhere else we could go?”
“I’m in the luxury suite.” Dean puts his big, warm hand on the nape of my neck. “But I’ll only take you there if you agree to do whatever I say. And I should warn you I’m very demanding.”
Demanding.
A bubble of excited anticipation rises in me.
“I’ll do whatever you say, sir.”
“Good.” He moves closer, his eyes brewing with lust. “Now kiss me.”
Before I can take a breath, his mouth comes down on mine again—this time with possessive force. A thousand fireworks explode inside me, my whole being filling with warmth and love. I lift my hands to the sides of his face as he urges my lips apart and delves his tongue into my mouth. Ah, bliss…
He tastes like scotch and sex. The noise of the bar recedes, the lights fading as the world compresses to the movement of our lips together—a warm, lovely kiss edged with the promise of hot passion.
When Dean lifts his head, we’re both breathing heavily, and a faint dizziness washes over me. He brushes his thumb across my lips and puts his hand under my elbow.
I slide off the barstool, shuddering as the pulse between my legs intensifies. Dean straightens the folds of my raincoat and tightens the belt.
I slip my hand into his as we cross the room, and I’m distinctly aware of the glances tossed in our direction. I suppress a giggle at the thought of what these people would think if they knew our true story.
But this is our true story. Everything we do is part of our story.
We go into the mirrored elevator, and Dean swipes a key card into the reader. The elevator whisks us to the top floor, the doors gliding open right at the foyer of a fancy suite. Dean steps aside and ushers me to precede him.
I go into the foyer, inhaling a breath of delight and awe at the sight of the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the midnight expanse of the lake and the glittering view of downtown. The furnishings are gorgeously elegant—damask wallpaper, sheer taupe curtains, intricately patterned carpet and plush sofas. A carved open door reveals a huge bed piled with silk, tasseled pillows and a bedspread that looks thick and soft as a cloud.
“Oh, Dean.” I stop behind the sofa and turn to face him. “This is incredible.”
He smiles, his eyes creasing at the corners as he reaches out to tug a lock of my hair. I expect a tender, loving remark or kiss, but he points to a wing-backed chair facing the high windows.
“Take off your coat, Miss Winter,” he says. “And sit in that chair.”
My heart thumps. Despite his warm gesture, Mr. West’s iron-clad sense of command is fully intact. And I’m suddenly a little nervous because… well, he’s “very demanding.”
I step away from him, my breath shortening as I walk to the chair. The windows glow with both exterior and interior light, and I can see our hazy reflections in the glass. I stop by the chair and turn to face Dean, who is standing with his arms crossed and his expression unreadable.
I tug at the knot of the raincoat and push it off my shoulders to reveal the skimpy little baby doll that barely covers my breasts and the scrap of lace panties. Dean’s gaze rakes over me, slow and heavy.
“Slutty indeed,” he remarks.
I curl my hand around the back of the chair, shifting my legs a little because the throb of arousal is becoming more acute with every passing second.
“The outfit maybe,” I say, blinking at him. “But really, I’m quite innocent.”
A smile quirks his mouth. “Yes, I can tell, Miss Winter. Sit down, please.”
I turn and sit in the chair, resisting the urge to squirm again. I dart my tongue out to lick my lips. I can see my reflection in the window, surrounded by the elegant furnishings—my hair long and loose around my shoulders, my body newly sexy in the lacy lingerie and thigh-highs, my feet still clad in the black fuck-me heels. The intimidating, dark shadow of Mr. West behind me.
I shiver, my anxiety ratcheting up a notch. Goosebumps prickle my skin.
Dean approaches, his steps silent on the plush carpet, his tall figure moving ever closer. I watch him in the reflection of the window before he moves to stand in front of me.
My mouth goes dry as I find myself staring at the intimidatingly large erection pressing against the front of his trousers. A fire burns low in my belly, spreading heat outward into my blood. I reach up to touch him.
Before I can, Dean grabs my wrist.
“No,” he says, his voice deep and soft. “You don’t get to touch me unless I say you can.”
Though I’m not at all certain I can obey that order—after all, touching this man’s incredible, muscular body is one of my most favorite pastimes—I nod in agreement. He releases my wrist and reaches into his pocket, producing a length of red silk. Before I can ask what he intends to do with it, he wraps one end around my right wrist.
“Dean, what…”
He shakes his head and loops the silk around the chair arm, then the back, before bringing it around to my left wrist. Next thing I know, I’m lashed to the chair, the silk gentle but secure around my wrists. I move my arms experimentally. There’s very little give in the fabric.
“Where did you learn to tie knots like this?” I ask.
Dean catches my eye for half a second and winks. “Boy Scouts.”
Of course.
He reaches into his left pocket and removes another length of purple silk. This time I don’t have to ask what he intends to do with it, but my heart stutters when he places the cloth against my eyes and ties it at the back of my head. The world becomes darkness, and a faint fear rises along with the hammering of my heart.
Dean spreads his hands over the top of my head, the strong weight of his palms like a beatification.
“Okay?” he asks.
I take a breath and nod. He waits for a minute more, as if ensuring I’m not on the verge of real fear, before slipping his hands away. His lips touch my forehead in a warm, reassuring kiss. Then cooler air fills the space in front of me, and I know he’s gone.
A shudder rocks me. My nipples are still so hard, chafing against my bodice, my breasts full and exquisitely sensitive. I wait. And listen, straining my ears for a hint of what Dean might be up to. But all I can hear is the sound of my own breath, quick and heavy in rhythm with the beat of my heart.
He returns, the heat of his presence tangible in the space between us. I arch forward a bit, tensing with anticipation over what he will do next. Then something sticky and sweet-smelling brushes across my lips.
“Open,” Dean commands.
I open my mouth. He slips something inside, and my tongue floods with the taste of sugar and gooey fruit. Cherry pie.
“Mmm.” I bite down on the soft cherry, which is almost overwhelmingly sweet and tart, as if my sense of taste is heightened to acute levels since I can neither see nor move. I’m suddenly ravenous for more.
Dean’s finger brushes against my lower lip, as if he’s wiping away a sticky trace. “Want another?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Open.”
I open my mouth. He feeds me another cherry. The sweet, sugary flavor goes straight to my blood. Another bite has a bit of crust attached, the flaky pastry a delicious contrast to the gooey filling.
“More?” Dean asks.
“Yes, please.” I think I could eat the whole pie. I want to eat the whole pie.
I scoot forward as far as I can to the edge of the chair and open my mouth. This time when Dean slides a cherry past my lips, I close my mouth quickly so I can suck the juices from his finger.
He breathes out a mild curse and pulls his finger from my mouth with a pop.
“Behave, Miss Winter,” he warns.
I smile innocently, wishing I could see the expression on his face. He holds another cherry to my mouth. I eat a few more offerings before something different nudges at my lips.
And I’m so awash in the taste and deliciousness of cherry pie that it takes me a second to realize it’s the smooth, tight head of Dean’s cock.
I gasp. “Mr. West!”
“It’s bigger than a cherry,” he remarks.
I stifle a laugh, my heart hammering at the thought of sucking his cock without being able to touch or see him. For a second, I’m not sure I can do it, but overwhelming that uncertainty is the deep, abiding wish to do whatever he commands, to obey.
I inhale a deep breath, curl my hands around the arms of the chair, and open my mouth. Dean’s hands settle on the sides of my head, his fingers tightening against my scalp as he pushes slowly forward.
Oh, God…
I have no frame of reference, nothing else to focus on except the aching throb between my legs, the silk tied around my wrists, and the glide of my husband’s cock into my mouth. I moan, wanting desperately to reach up and touch him, to grip his hips and fist the base of his shaft like I always do, but all I can do is sit here and take him in.
Dean pauses, his breath rasping above me. I swallow and move my head forward to indicate it’s okay for him to go deeper.
And he does. Filling my mouth with his thick, throbbing shaft. The taste of him mingles with the sweet cherry juice still lingering on my tongue. I slacken my throat muscles and close my eyes behind the blindfold, feeling his tension, the grip of his fingers on my head.
When he starts to thrust, I’m ready for him, loving the sensation of him pumping gently in and out of my mouth. His restraint is palpable, as it always is, his care not to thrust too deep, but this time—maybe for the first time—I don’t want him to be gentle.
I start to ease back, and he pulls out at the same instant, the head of his erection brushing across my mouth. I wish I could see it.
“I don’t…” I swallow and lick my lips, my breathing rapid. “I don’t want you to be gentle, Mr. West.”
“You don’t, huh?”
“Not this time.” I squirm, wishing he would touch my breasts, rub my nipples. “I want you to fuck my mouth.”
A groan rumbles above me. “You’re sure?”
“Yes. Please.”
His hands tighten on my hair as he pushes forward again. Then the length of his cock is in my mouth as deeply as I can take him. I relax my jaw muscles and let him pull back and push forward again. He’s still gentle at first, before urgency coils palpably through his body and his thrusts increase in pace.
And oh my God, my blood fires with bolts of heat as I sit there, hot and dripping, tied up and blindfolded with silk, unable to do anything but suck the cock driving in and out of my mouth.
Dean’s breath is heavy and harsh, his fingers gripping my head so tightly it hurts. I struggle to take him in deeper, breathing through my nose, my wrists straining against the bonds lashing me to the chair.
When Dean pulls away from me, releasing his hold, a sudden bereftness and fear sparks in my belly.
“Dean?”
“Right here.” He puts his hand on the side of my neck, the gesture both reassuring and welcome. “Okay?”
I nod, my chest heaving with rapid breaths. I squeeze my thighs together, aching for the sensation of his cock pushing into me down there, so thick and hard…
God. A violent shudder rocks through me.
“Wait,” he says, lifting his hand from my neck.
I wait again, forcing my breathing to slow. Then Dean is in front of me, his hand slipping under my chin. The cool edge of a glass touches my lips. Obediently I open my mouth. The crisp, sparkly flavor of champagne spreads over my tongue. I gulp it down too fast, and a trickle spills down my chin to my neck.
With a soft laugh, Dean lowers his head, his faint stubble scraping my skin as he licks up the stray drops. The touch of his tongue creates a warm, swirling pool of desire in my lower body.
Then his lips brush against mine. I draw in a breath of relief when our mouths press together in a hot, familiar kiss that reminds me exactly why I’ve always been so willing, so eager, to let this man alone take me places I’ve never been before.
The kiss deepens, shifting from familiarity to an edgy lustfulness as Dean slips his hand down to cup my breast. A moan spills from my throat. I arch into his hand, aching for him to rub my tight nipples.
He grabs the straps of my baby doll and tugs them over my arms, baring my breasts. I shiver—even though I can’t see, I feel his gaze traveling over my body like a touch. I wiggle a little, spreading my thighs in the hopes that he’ll slip his fingers into my pussy and stroke me in the expert, precise way of his that makes me crazy with need—
His hands linger on mine as he works the knots of the silk ties. I swallow my questions about what’s going to happen next. He doesn’t remove the blindfold, instead lifting me up into his arms as if I’m light as a feather.
I wrap my arms around his shoulders and my legs around his waist, loving the solid strength of his body as he carries me across the room. His shirt is smooth and soft against my bare skin. For some reason, the thought of him still fully dressed while I’m half-naked and clad only in skimpy lingerie is shockingly arousing. A few seconds later, he lowers me onto the bed, the comforter plush and pillowy beneath my half-naked body.
“Don’t move,” Dean instructs, and he spreads my arms out to fasten the silk around my wrists again—this time, it seems, tying the other ends to the bedposts.
I shift, tugging experimentally at the cloth again but the knots are as tight as they were before. I pull in a breath, uncertainty flashing through me.
“Christ in heaven,” Dean whispers, his voice guttural and hot. “You have no idea how fucking sexy you are.”
My pulse hammers. I can imagine how I look—disheveled and blindfolded, my lingerie pushed to my waist to expose my breasts, my messy hair falling in a tumble over the pillows, my skin sweaty, and my inner thighs damp with arousal. I turn my head toward the sound of Dean’s voice, aching for the reassurance of his touch.
The bed shifts with his weight as he moves onto it. He touches my thigh, the edge of his sleeve brushing against my skin.
“I’m going to fuck you now, Olivia,” he says, his deep voice a wash of heat over me. “And you’re going to take my cock as deep as you can, over and over again. You’re going to twist and flex your gorgeous body as I pound my cock into your sweet pussy. You’re going to scream, moan, and beg for more… and if you’re good, I’ll give you more. Are you ready?”
My mouth is so dry, my pulse pounding so hard, that for a second I can’t even answer. I manage to nod, straining toward him.
“Please,” I gasp. “Sir. Fuck me. Now.”
A faint chuckle rumbles from his chest. The mattress shifts again as he moves, his fingers adept as he strips off my panties. There’s the sound of rustling cloth before he slides his hands against my inner thighs and spreads my legs apart. Obediently, I lift my knees, dizziness washing over me when I feel his cock pressing against my spread folds.
Oh God. Oh God.
I’ve made love with this man countless times, but this night is so drenched in erotic fantasy it’s almost impossible not to feel as if he’s a beautiful, domineering stranger who is about to fuck me for the first time ever.
I flex my hands, arching my hips upward. He pushes his cock into me with excruciating slowness, as if he wants me to feel every inch of his throbbing flesh. And I do. My nerves fire with sparks as he fills me, stretches me, going deeper, deeper… oh, so deep…
I draw in a heavy breath. Sweat trickles between my breasts. He pauses, and his hands spread over my hips, up my torso to my breasts. He pinches my stiff nipples at the exact instant that he plunges all the way into me, his testicles slapping against my pussy.
Electric currents arc through me. I whimper, aching for the exquisite friction of his thrusts, but he stills. His shaft throbs, sending heat rippling to my blood.
“Please,” I whisper, my voice barely audible past the heaviness of my breath. “Fuck me hard, sir.”
“I’ll fuck you hard.” His grip moves to my waist. “I’ll fuck you rough.”
He pulls back and plunges inside me again, the rhythm edged with lust and the drive toward release. Again, I can do none of the things I would normally do—grip his arms, pull him against me, gaze into his desire-drenched eyes, watch his gorgeous muscles flex and strain. All is darkness, except for the bright, glowing light burning right in the center of my soul.
I twist my hands so I can hold on to the silk ties as his thrusts increase in pace, jostling my body back and forth, each push and pull firing me with fresh heat. I draw my legs up, letting him go as deep as he can and knowing I can take as much as he can give.
His breath rasps harshly in the air above me, echoing the rhythm of my own breath. He pauses once to circle his thumb around my aching clit. I moan, arching into his touch. My eyes dampen behind the silk blindfold.
“I need you so badly,” I gasp, pulling ineffectually against the restraints, desperate to touch him. “Oh, please…”
He pulls out of me, and I feel his fingers working at the knots of my ties. When they’re loosened, he grabs my hips and turns me around before fastening the silk back around the bedposts.
Air brushes against my naked bottom. I tighten my hands into fists—this position has always made me feel intensely vulnerable, even at home with Dean, and now that sense of helplessness hits me harder than ever.
I sink my face into the pillow, shivering when his big hands stroke over the length of my back.
“On your knees, Olivia,” he orders softly.
I swallow, pulling myself onto my knees, my head and shoulders still lowered onto the pillow. There’s enough give in the silk ties that I can rest my arms on either side of my head, but the tension pulls my muscles tight.
“Ah, fuck.” Dean’s voice deepens with lust, and I feel the burn of his gaze on my upturned ass. He nudges his knee between my thighs. “Spread them wide.”
Wincing, I do, feeling my damp cleft open for his view alone. His breath escapes in a rush.
Oh, how I want to look over my shoulder and see him—all sweaty and muscular, his eyes burning with lust as he stares at my spread pussy, his cock sticking straight out and his hand stroking up and down the shaft…
But I can’t see him. I press my face into the pillow again and wait. The head of his cock rubs deliciously against my folds before he sinks into me again with a rough groan. I shriek, my whole body jerking forward as he grips my ass and starts to thrust.
In this position, he’s harder to take, impossibly big, his cock firing me with both need and apprehension. I grip the silk ties and struggle to take him, my head filling with the wet, smacking sound of our bodies slapping together. Cries spill from my throat with every deep plunge, my nerves blazing with heat.
“Fuck, you feel incredible,” Dean mutters. “Like a tight, hot glove... look at how you spread your legs so well… such a good girl… so fucking perfect.”
His words pour over me, flooding me with pleasure, lust, love. Sweat drips into my eyes. Despite the shocking sense of vulnerability, I know I could crouch here forever, letting him drive into me over and over again, but the pressure inside mounts, coiling through me like a whip ready to strike.
“Please, sir,” I beg, turning toward him over my shoulder even though I can’t see him. “I’m so close… I need to come…”
“You don’t get to come first,” he says, giving my ass a little stinging spank. “I do.”
A shudder rocks through me. “Then I… oh, I want to feel it, sir, please let me. Come inside me, come on my ass… wherever you want. Whatever you want… please.”
He plunges into me once and pulls out, and I know he’s stroking his cock. A burn scorches me as I see him in my mind’s eye, his head back and his hand wrapped around his shaft as he thrusts into the vise of his fist. His shout vibrates against my skin the instant before warm seed splashes over my ass. I moan, wiggling my lower body, desperate to escape the restraints.
“Dean.” My voice cracks, on the verge of breaking.
He moves swiftly to unfasten the ties and pulls me against his sweaty body, his arms coming around me in the strong, secure haven I know so well. I sink against him, panting and still aching for release. He lowers his lips to my ear and slides his hands over my breasts.
“I love you,” he whispers, his breath hot. “You’re so goddamned beautiful you break my heart in two. I will climb mountains and cross oceans to get to you. You fill every fucking part of me, my blood, my heart, my soul. I will slay monsters for you until the end of time. And I will make you come so hard you’ll see stars.”
I can’t speak. I’m shaking, trembling, aching. And when Dean slides his hand between my legs and rubs my clit, I explode like a rocket. A scream rips from my throat as I buck against his hand, a torrent of vibrations trembling violently through me.
Dean’s voice is a low, deep whisper against my ear, a stream of praise filling me with as much bliss as the physical release. Tears stream down my cheeks and dampen the blindfold. I turn, pressing my face against Dean’s chest as the sensations slide from my body.
We lie there for a long time, his arms around me, our bodies pressed together. Then he tugs the blindfold off me and brushes my hair away from my sticky forehead. I blink, momentarily off-balance as my eyes adjust to sight and light again. The bedcovers are rumpled, the silk ties tangled on the pillow.
Dean cups his hand beneath my chin and lifts my face to his. Love floods me at the sight of him—his beautiful, gold-flecked eyes warm with tenderness, the sharp angles of his cheekbones flushed with heat, his hair tousled and falling over his forehead.
“Hey, beauty,” he says.
I smile. “Hi, professor.”
Dean kisses my forehead and pulls me to him. All thought slides away as I relax against his solid strength, and we settle together into the fluffy pillows.
Before long my eyelids start to droop. As the haze of sleep descends, I have the fuzzy thought that I need to call Kelsey and at least say goodnight to Nicholas…
I wake with a start, disoriented and confused until I feel Dean’s warm body next to mine. He threads his hand through my hair.
“Midnight,” he murmurs, his voice husky with sleep. “Tomorrow is Saturday, your day off. Archer and Kelsey are taking care of Nicholas until late afternoon.”
“Oh.” Relief washes over me, and I sink against him with a sigh. “You mean we can stay here all day?”
“We’re going to stay here all day,” he replies, skimming his fingers down my spine. “Now that I have you, I’m not letting you go.”