“’TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS, AND all through the house, Dean was feeling Liv up under her blouse.”
Dean’s deep voice rumbled over my skin as he slipped his arms around me from behind. I giggled, even though I knew I shouldn’t encourage him. I moved a few gingerbread men and women from the baking sheet onto the cooling rack and tried to ignore the fact that a gorgeous medieval history professor was starting to fondle my breasts. It was like trying to ignore fireworks exploding in the night sky.
“Mmm.” Dean nudged my ponytail aside and kissed my nape. “Can I have some?”
“When they’re cooled and decorated, yes.”
“I wasn’t talking about the cookies.”
“I was.” I gave him a half-hearted shove with my hips. “Don’t distract me.”
“I’m seducing you, not distracting you.” He rubbed my nipples through my shirt.
Delicious tingles rained through me. I picked up another baking sheet and slipped more gingerbread onto the cooling rack. The sweet, spicy aroma of ginger and molasses filled the apartment. Colorful lights, tinsel, and ornaments glowed from the ragged little tree we’d purchased from a Christmas tree lot, and a ribboned wreath decorated the front door. Fragrant pine garlands lined the fireplace mantel, above two plaid stockings with Liv and Dean written in somewhat uneven glitter paint.
The atmosphere was warm, lovely, and as fragile as a snowglobe. Dean and I were spending our first Christmas together while knowing it could be our last.
I pushed that dark thought aside, absorbing the sensation of him behind me.
“God, you feel good.” Dean slipped his hands under my shirt and touched the skin of my torso.
My breath shortened. His body heat spread through my veins, and already a pleasant ache was burgeoning between my legs. Not that my reaction was any surprise. In the four months Dean and I had been dating since we first met at the university registrar’s office, our physical chemistry had been growing stronger by the day. And now it was more potent than ever, since I had agreed to stay with him for two weeks of the month-long university winter break. This time together was a kind of test—a powerful declaration of how we already felt about each other, but edged with the painful understanding that our relationship had a time limit, one that had almost come too soon.
Dean and I had come perilously close to a break-up over the Thanksgiving holiday, when we had gone to visit his family in California. The weekend had ended in a brutal fight between Dean and his estranged, deadbeat brother—and their mother believed I was the cause of the conflict. Appalled at the implication I was responsible for family strife, I had been prepared to leave Dean for good.
But he refused to let me go.
“For two weeks of winter break, I want you to live with me,” he said. “Twenty-four hours a day. You and me. No classes. No work. Nothing and no one else.”
I pressed a palm to my chest. Electricity crackled in the air. Dean stepped closer to me.
“I want you for two weeks, Liv. Completely. I haven’t even begun to show you everything we’re going to do together. At the end of those two weeks, you’ll know exactly where you belong. And you won’t want to walk away.”
As a girl who’d had a lifelong struggle with belonging anywhere, the fact that I might belong in a university apartment with a medieval history professor who knew esoteric details about the Crusades and castle architecture… the thought alone was both a revelation and an uncertainty.
So I’d agreed to give Dean two weeks, and I fully expected that time to be filled with warmth and magic. But after the new year, Dean would be leaving for a research trip to France for the remainder of winter break, and I’d return to my tiny apartment near campus and my job at the Jitter Beans coffee house.
And I knew, not without regret and sorrow, that leaving the safe haven of us would let loose all the prickly fears and worries that had plagued me since that Thanksgiving weekend. Even if I could come to terms with Dean’s family difficulties, even if I didn’t want to walk away from him, the stark fact remained that he was a visiting professor with a one-year contract at the University of Wisconsin. In June, his contract would end and he would go… somewhere else.
But that was in the not-too-distant future. And in the here-and-now, an involuntary sigh escaped me at the sensation of his lips on my nape and the scrape of his whiskers against my skin. I was wearing red pajama pants and a matching shirt emblazoned with the message Merry Me, and I could feel every inch of his warm, hard body through the thin cotton.
“Dean.” I tried to inject a note of sternness into my voice. “I need to finish decorating these cookies for the cookie exchange tomorrow.”
In addition to stopping at a co-worker’s house for the cookie exchange, I was planning to do some shopping in downtown Madison. Christmas was the day after tomorrow, and I had yet to get Dean a gift. I’d been thinking about possibilities for most of the month, but had only come up with gift ideas that seemed either obvious or uninteresting—books, reproductions of medieval manuscript pages, a copy of one of those boring foreign films he liked so much.
I knew he’d love whatever I gave him, but since this was our first Christmas together, I wanted to give him something especially memorable. Heaven knew he’d made the last four months the most memorable of my life.
“You have plenty of time to make the cookies.” Dean nuzzled the sensitive juncture between my neck and shoulder. “I’ll even help.”
He spread one hand up over my midriff to my bare breasts. Shivers rained down my spine.
“This isn’t the kind of help I need,” I remarked.
“It’s working out well for me.”
I reached for a tube of white frosting, trying to ignore the sensation of Dean’s mouth sliding over my collarbone. I nudged my hips backward again as if to push him away, but of course the movement brought my bottom right up against his thighs. He murmured a noise of appreciation low in his throat. When he started to slide his other hand into the waistband of my pants, I felt my defenses sliding away like ice on hot glass.
“Dean…”
“Beauty.” He found the edge of my panties and dipped his fingers lower and lower…
I groaned inwardly, parting my legs to allow him access even as I told myself I needed to resist the temptation.
“I really need to decorate these cookies,” I said.
“I really need to finger your sweet, hot pussy.”
Heat bolted through me. “God, Dean.”
I felt his smile against the side of my neck as he slipped his fingers between my legs and found me already damp.
“Hmm,” he observed. “Baking cookies gets you hot, huh?”
I had the sudden sense that we were engaging in an erotic competition to see who would surrender first. And while I was pretty sure Dean had the advantage, I was determined to hold my ground for as long as I could.
I uncapped the tube of frosting and started outlining one of the gingerbread men. As if mimicking the movement, Dean ran his forefinger around my cleft, his touch deliberately slow and teasing. Little fires ignited in my veins. I licked a drop of icing from my finger and started spreading a round cookie with a green circle like a wreath.
“Can I have some yet?” he asked, pressing a row of kisses over the side of my neck.
Wordlessly, I held a cookie over my shoulder. He bit into it, rumbled a noise of pleasure that echoed right to my core, and eased his finger into my slit.
“Dean!” I dropped the frosting and grabbed the edge of the counter to steady myself.
He chuckled, moving away from me only so he could take hold of my waist and turn me around. My breath caught in my throat as I looked up at him—this brilliant, gorgeous man who gazed at me with such warm tenderness in his chocolate-brown eyes. His thick, dark hair was rumpled from him raking his hand through it, and his jaw was dusted with the coating of stubble I’d come to expect on long, lazy weekends.
“Hi,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
I smiled. “Hi.”
He moved closer, backing me against the counter. He was wearing a T-shirt and flannel pants, the front already bulging with an impressive erection. Anticipation lit in the air between us as he slipped his hands under my shirt. I gasped, my whole body zinging with pleasure as he massaged my breasts and rubbed my peaked nipples.
He moved closer, pressing his cock against my belly. One hand still under my shirt, he put his other hand beneath my chin and lifted my face for a kiss. A whimper escaped me when his mouth touched mine.
Oh bliss. He tasted like sugar and gingerbread, his tongue flicking out to press against the seam of my lips. I opened my mouth and let him in, my blood heating as he caressed my lips with his and delved his tongue inside for a deep, intense kiss. He gripped me around the waist and lifted me onto the counter before tugging at my shirt. I resisted a little, some part of my mind still focused on the cookies and the belief that maybe I shouldn’t cave quite so easily.
“Come on,” Dean murmured, tugging the hem of my shirt again. “Let me see your gorgeous breasts.”
Oh, all right…
Obediently I lifted my arms so he could pull the shirt off me, baring my breasts to his hot gaze. He let out a groan of appreciation. I looked down and watched his strong hands moving over me, fondling my stiff nipples, sliding into the crevice beneath my breasts, cupping their weight in his palms. Goosebumps prickled my skin. His erection was so hard against my thigh, his breath coming faster, as if in rhythm with the increase of my pulse.
Dean released me only long enough to grab a tube of green frosting from the counter. I stared at him as he uncapped the tube and squirted a stream of frosting right around my areola.
“Dean!”
He gave me a wicked smile and lowered his head to capture my nipple between his lips. Desire zinged through me. He sucked my nipple, then applied frosting to my other one before licking that off too, his tongue warm and wet on my sensitive flesh. I was almost panting by the time he finished cleaning the frosting off me. Then he hooked his fingers into the waistband of my pants and pulled them right off my hips, leaving me completely naked. I blushed, squirming as my bare bottom pressed against the cold granite counter.
“Ah, fuck.” Dean raked his eyes down the length of my body. “I never get tired of looking at you.”
He eased his hands between my thighs and pressed my legs apart. A rush of cooler air brushed against my damp cleft. I shivered. Dean muttered a curse, slipping his fingers into my pussy. Oh, he knew what he was doing. He’d always known. My breath came faster, quivers rippling through me as he fingered me, circling his thumb around my swollen clit before moving to the tight opening lower down.
“Let me in, beauty,” Dean whispered hotly against my ear, his finger still gently teasing. “I’ll make it so good for you.”
He trailed a line of kisses over my cheek before covering my mouth with his. I moaned, relaxing my lower body. My slit opened, and he eased his finger inside me.
“Oh…” I gasped against his mouth, wiggling my hips to encourage his deeper penetration. He circled his thumb around my clit again while he thrust his finger in and out of me. A thousand shivers rained down my spine.
I gripped his strong arms, feeling my body tense and stretch toward the release of pleasure. A fire scorched me from the inside out. He rolled a swath of my hair around his hand and tugged me closer. Our mouths met, eased apart, and met again. He bit down gently on my lower lip. I slid my tongue across his.
Touch, lick, kiss, touch…
“Come on, beauty,” he whispered, his breath hot against my lips. “Nice and hard. Work yourself on my fingers… yeah, that’s it. So fucking sweet.”
I arched against his hand as my urgency built higher and higher. Within seconds, I came with a shriek of pleasure, my pussy clenching around his fingers. Explosions went off in my blood. Dean continued stroking me gently, easing the last sensations from me before lifting his head, his expression hot with lust and satisfaction. I reached up to kiss him and pressed my hand to his groin. His erection pulsed against my palm.
“Sofa,” I whispered.
He lifted me off the counter. I wrapped my legs around his waist, shuddering when my pussy spread open right against his torso. He grabbed my ass to hold me in place and strode to the living room, where our little Christmas tree glowed red, green, and gold in the corner. The room was warm from the wood fire crackling in the hearth, and the fresh scent of pine filled the air.
Dean lowered me onto the sofa, his hot gaze still on my naked body, his expression almost feral. He looked as if he were ready to devour me. My breath stuck in my throat when he shoved his pants down. His cock bobbed upward—thick, long, and fully erect. Tension and arousal spiked inside me again as he wrapped his hand around his shaft and stroked. The movement of his hand was so rhythmically sinuous that I was filled with the desire to watch him masturbate until he came.
But that wasn’t going to happen this time. Dean eased between my legs, reaching up to slide his hands up and down my torso. My skin was shiny all over with perspiration, and I could still taste his spicy, gingerbread kisses. I reached for him again at the exact instant the phone rang, the jangling noise cutting through my sensual fog.
“Ignore it.” Dean cupped my face in his hands and brought our lips together.
“Dean, it’s your mother.” Joanna West’s voice crackled over the speaker.
Dean bit out a curse and closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to mine. I tightened my hands around his wrists, my desire curdling into regret. If anyone could douse our lust with iced water, that person was Joanna West.
“Your aunt is so disappointed you’re not home for the holidays,” Joanna continued stridently. “And I need to know if Archer—”
With a groan, Dean pushed upward and grabbed the phone.
“What?” he snapped into the receiver.
A chill rippled over my skin. I pushed to my feet and retrieved my pajamas from the kitchen. I slipped them on and picked up a tube of frosting. My hands shook as I tried to refocus on decorating the cookies. Dean’s voice hardened.
“You really think he’d call me after what happened?” he asked his mother. “No, I’m not looking for him, and no, I’m not coming to California.”
He turned, catching sight of me at the kitchen counter.
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Mom,” he said into the phone. “And I guarantee that if Archer wants you to know where he is, he’ll call you.”
He ended the call and tossed the phone on the coffee table. “Sorry, Liv.”
I shook my head. “Are you all right?”
Dean nodded, coming into the kitchen. Though I was uneasy at the reminder of his conflict with his family, I went to slip my arms around his waist. He hugged me against him, rubbing his cheek against the top of my head.
“Well, that killed the mood,” he muttered.
I eased back to look at him. Faint shadows clouded the golden flecks in his eyes. I patted his cheek, as always wanting to banish the darkness that lingered after he had confrontations with his family.
“I need to finish the cookies anyway.” I poked him gently in the stomach with the tube of frosting. “That’s what you get for distracting me.”
“You, gingerbread, and frosting is a combination I can’t resist.” Dean leaned in to brush his lips across mine. “Hot, sweet, spicy, all rolled into one delicious package.”
A flush of pleasure rose to my cheeks. I picked up a decorated cookie and held it to his mouth. He took a bite and made a noise of pleasure.
“I really need to finish these,” I reminded him.
“You’re as hard-working and dedicated as an elf in Santa’s workshop,” Dean remarked, releasing me and taking the gingerbread from my hand. He leaned his hips against the counter as he polished off the cookie. “It’s kind of annoying.”
“You could help, you know.”
“I’d rather watch.”
“Suit your elf.” I shrugged.
Dean gave a half laugh, half groan and reached for another cookie.
“Stop it,” I said. “But I’m glad you like them. You’re good for my elf esteem.”
“I think I have to break up with you now, Olivia.”
“Well, that’s a shame,” I remarked. “I thought we had a pretty good thing going. After all, when I think about you, I touch my elf.”
Dean laughed and gave me a gentle swat on the behind as I turned back to my work.
The morning of Christmas Eve dawned cold and bright, a light crust of frost decorating the windows. The aroma of coffee drifted from the kitchen, and beside the full pot was a note from Dean that he’d gone out for a run and would be back within the hour. I made myself breakfast and sat at the table, leafing through a home-improvement store catalog and wondering if he could use a power saw or a new toolbox.
I’d never gotten a man a gift for Christmas, aside from maybe some art project I’d made at school for my father. But that was more years ago than I cared to remember. I showered and dressed, then brought my stock of homemade cookies over to the cookie exchange and headed downtown.
I spent a few hours wandering in and out of the shops along State Street, looking at watches, books, clothes, camera equipment, even a funky desk lamp shaped like an electric guitar. Aside from the fact that I couldn’t afford anything too expensive, nothing really caught my eye.
Finally I decided on a pen set and a nice leather notebook. I knew Dean would both appreciate and use them both, but they still didn’t seem quite right.
When I returned to the apartment, he was on the phone. By the sound of it, he was talking to a colleague about his upcoming trip to Paris to study the Sainte-Chapelle cathedral.
“I have a meeting at the Centre des Monuments Nationale the morning after I arrive,” he said into the phone. “But I should be free in the afternoon. Did you talk to Philippe about the restoration panels?”
I walked past Dean into the bedroom, my chest tightening. Though I often teased him about the dorkiness of being a professor of medieval history, there was no question his work was often both grand and mysterious. He was one of the leaders of an elite, illustrious club whose members knew about vernacular literature and ecclesiastical authority, and who traveled the world to study the most esoteric parts of the past.
I waited until Dean was off the phone before returning to the living room. He was standing by the window, his arms crossed and a strangely set look on his face, as if he’d made a decision about something.
“So do you want to go out for a Christmas Eve dinner?” I asked. “Or I could make spaghetti and meatballs.”
“Come to Paris with me.”
My heart jolted into my throat. I stared at him.
“What?”
“Come to Paris with me,” Dean repeated. “You’ve never been there before, right?”
Mutely, I shook my head. Aside from a couple of brief excursions across the Canadian border with my mother, I’d never been out of the States.
“I’ll be there for about two weeks,” Dean said. “I’d love it if you’d come with me.”
Against my will, a thousand images filled my heart and mind. Dean and I walking hand-in-hand through the Tulieries. Stopping in front of paintings and sculptures at the Louvre while he explained all the details of their aesthetics and history. Sitting at a window table at a café, sipping cups of espresso and alternating our attention between the street outside and each other. Lamp-lit bridges, majestic facades, buttery croissants, intricate stained glass windows glowing with color and sunlight.
“You’re serious?” I asked.
“Of course I’m serious.”
“I’m… Dean, I can’t go to Paris with you.” The words almost hurt.
He frowned. “Why not?”
I paced to the other side of the room, trying to banish the images that had surfaced so easily. “I can’t afford it, for one thing.”
“You don’t have to. I’ll pay.”
“I can’t let you pay.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not right.”
“I can afford it, Liv. I’m inviting you, so I’ll pay. But if it makes you feel better, most of my expenses are covered by a grant.”
“But I… I have to work. I’m already on the January schedule at Jitter Beans.”
“So quit.”
“Quit?” Irritation stiffened my spine. “I can’t quit. Do you think I’m working there for fun?”
“No, I—”
“I need that job to pay my rent because my scholarship only covers tuition,” I interrupted. “And you think I can just quit and jet off to Paris with you? What the hell am I supposed to do when I get back?”
My brief imaginings dissolved under the harshness of reality. I’d always sensed the inequity of my relationship with Dean went beyond our obvious academic differences, and I’d been proven right during the Thanksgiving weekend with his family. Dean had a cultured edge, a pedigree I sorely lacked.
I’d spent most of my childhood as a homeless nomad, whereas he had grown up in a wealthy Bay Area suburb with a socialite mother and a father who was a justice on the California Supreme Court. Though like the proverbial worm in a shiny red apple, the Wests were dysfunctional on the inside and perfect on the outside, they existed in an entirely different world than mine. The chasm between Dean and me suddenly seemed wider than ever.
“Are you going to offer to pay my rent next semester?” I paced to the windows as my irritation solidified into anger. “Is that where we’re headed? After an all-expenses-paid trip to Paris, will you cover my room and board? Are you going to be my keeper now?”
His expression darkened. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Dean, do you really not understand? We agreed I’d stay with you for two weeks, and now you’re telling me to quit my job and go to Paris with you. I am a working student on a partial scholarship, not a career-driven professional like you. I don’t even know what I’m going to do when I graduate! What am I supposed to think about this fancy offer of yours?”
“You’re supposed to think I want to be with you,” he snapped, striding across the room to stop in front of me. “I don’t make a habit of asking women to come to Paris with me.”
“Oh, well, in that case, allow me to express my undying gratitude for being one of a few,” I retorted, hating the idea of him asking other women for anything, even the time of day.
“Goddammit, Liv.” Frustration darkened his eyes. “I didn’t mean to imply anything except that I’ll be gone for the rest of winter break and I want you with me.”
“So much so that you want me to quit my job?”
“Yes!”
His response seemed to shock him as much as it did me. Silence fell as we stood there staring at each other. My earlier emotions whipped through me again—longing and a fear that could slice me to the bone.
I wanted to go with him. I couldn’t deny that. But if I did, if I let him sweep me away… I would topple ever farther into the warm, rich illusion of a future with him.
“Liv.” Dean let out a sigh and dragged a hand down his face. “I’m sorry. I’m going about this all wrong. I’m not trying to manipulate you. I told you to quit because I’m a selfish bastard who wants you all to myself.”
Even though my heart zinged with his words, I laid out the obvious in a flat tone. “And because you’ve never had to worry about how to pay for your education.”
Dean stepped closer to me, his gaze on my face.
“I would give anything to pay for the rest of your education,” he said. “I’d do it today, if you’d let me. Covering your expenses wouldn’t make a dent in my finances.”
“No.” My throat felt thick and hot. Tears stung my eyes.
He held up a hand. “I know you won’t take it, Liv. But let me buy you a ticket to Paris. Consider it a Christmas gift.”
I almost laughed, thinking of the notebook and pen set I’d just bought for him.
“A Christmas gift is a… a music box or a book, Dean. Not a ticket to Paris. No. No, I can’t go with you. I won’t.”
“Why the hell not?”
I stared at him. “You really don’t get it, do you? I’m not… I don’t want this to be about you giving me stuff. And I won’t let you take me to Paris and do all these fancy things for me because that implies…”
My voice trailed off at the sudden hardness in his expression.
“Because it implies you’re mine,” he finished, his eyes flashing as he grabbed hold of my arms. “I’ve got news for you, Liv. You are mine. You’ll always be mine. I told you that in California, I’m telling you now, and I’ll keep telling you until you admit it’s the goddamned truth.”
His pronouncement filled me with a riotous combination of hope and fear. I wanted so badly to be his—and in the secret corners of my soul, I knew I’d never belong to anyone else—but I was scared of so many things that could break us apart. We’d proven strong enough to withstand his family, but what about future distances, new jobs, other people, career opportunities? Life?
“I’m not quitting my job, Dean.” A weight pressed against my heart, pushing it ever downward. “I can’t. Besides, your university contract ends in June.”
“So?”
“So you’ll have to move somewhere else.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m going to the moon,” he said. “It doesn’t mean we can’t see each other again.”
I blinked. “But you’re leaving.”
“I’m leaving Madison. That doesn’t mean I want to leave you.”
“Well…” I tried to ignore how fast my heart was beating, tried not to hope too hard even though the implications of his statement spun wildly through my mind. “When your professorship ends, you won’t have a choice.”
“My job will end, Liv.” He relaxed his fingers on my arms and shook his head. “Not my ability to make a choice.”
“I have another year of classes to take, if not more.”
“So?”
“So…”
“Liv.” Dean put his hand under my chin and lifted my face so I would look at him. His dark eyes brimmed with the warm tenderness I loved so much. In my entire life, no other man—no other person—had ever looked at me the way he did. The weight inside me lifted, allowing light and color to swirl around my soul again.
“I’m applying for a bunch of other post-doc and permanent positions,” Dean said. “I’ll know by March where I’m going next. But that doesn’t mean you have to assume we’re not going to see each other again.”
“What else should I assume?”
Amusement creased his eyes. “Well, you could assume we’ll find a way to stay together. And you could assume I want to give you stuff and take you to Paris because I like you, and that it’s not some sort of payment just because you’re sexy as hell.”
I smiled. “So you think we’ll still be together?”
“I do. I hope you’ll still want to be with me.”
My heart thumped. I was beginning to think I wanted to be with him always.
“June is six months from now,” I said.
“Yes, it is.”
“That’s a long time.”
“Yes, it is. And I don’t want to spend that time expecting not to see you again.” He paused, his gaze searching mine. “I want to spend it being with you. Right here. Right now. Like this.”
He lowered his lips to mine again in a kiss that was both tender and gentle. A warm, rich sensation like melted honey filled my veins. Dean put his hands on my hips and pulled me closer, fitting our bodies together like the pieces of a puzzle. My breasts pressed against his chest, my nipples budding in response to the heat we generated so quickly. He murmured a noise low in his throat and guided me backward.
He eased me onto the sofa, his breath increasing as I slipped out of my T-shirt and bra. Shivers washed over my skin. I watched as he tugged my skirt and panties over my legs, then ran his hands up and down my thighs in a soothing, rhythmic motion.
I gazed up at him, my body hot and aching. We had taken our sex life slowly in the past couple of months, as Dean had known from the start about the reasons behind my fears and inhibitions. But here on our first Christmas Eve together, I no longer wanted to be afraid or inhibited with him. I wanted to be open, honest, free.
Dean started to go down on his knees in front of me, but I put my hand out to stop him. Our gazes collided through the thick air. A sudden, palpable desire seized me, one laced with both fear and longing. I swallowed hard and reached for the button on his jeans. My pulse hammering, I unfastened his fly and tugged his jeans over his hips and down.
His cock sprang up between us like a living thing, so long and thick that all I could do for a moment was stare at it. The shaft was smooth and veined, the mushroom-shaped head damp.
“Liv.” Dean’s hand tangled in my hair.
Ignoring the faint concern in his voice, I reached out and wrapped my trembling fingers around his cock. He let out a heavy breath and put his hand over mine, tightening my grip. Instinctively, I slid my hand up and down the pulsing shaft and rubbed my thumb over the glossy head. I loved the sensation of his stiff flesh against my palm, the rasp of his breathing above me, the slow urgency building in his body.
“Liv, you don’t have to…”
“Yes, I do.”
It was the final declaration of my absolute trust in him, an acknowledgement that he alone could bring me out of the shadows. Only for him would I battle the clawing fear of oral sex that had lodged inside me since that day eight years ago when I’d been forced to my knees in a cramped laundry room and ordered to suck a frat boy’s penis while another waited his turn.
Dean would banish that fear. He would slay that monster alongside me.
I eased aside and gestured to the sofa. “Could you lie down?”
He did, tension coiling through his body. His cock stuck straight upward, intimidatingly big and hard. I knelt on the floor beside the sofa and pressed a hand to his stomach in a silent signal for him to be still. He settled back, his hand still tangled in my hair, his fingers spread over my scalp.
Anxiety lanced into me. No. I closed my eyes and breathed.
I remembered the first moment I saw Dean, crouching beside me on the sidewalk, his hand so close to my arm. I remembered how the sunlight gleamed off his dark hair, the way his smile creased his brown eyes.
A rush of perfect memories swept me. The sensation of Dean’s hand on the small of my back. The knot of his silk necktie as it nestled at the base of his throat. The way he held my face when he kissed me for the first time. The intensity of his eyes when he looked at me, as if I were the only person in the world. The way he made me laugh and feel. The easy glide of his fingers, the slow, tight thrust of his body into mine.
“Ah, Liv.” His voice was deep and husky. “So good…”
I reached for his hand. His fingers locked with mine. I lowered my head and enclosed the head of his erection between my lips. A salty tang filled my mouth.
Breathe, Liv. Breathe.
My heart pounded fast, but with an unexpected, exciting rush of power. Sweat trickled between my breasts. I took another breath and closed my mouth around him again, tightening my hand on the base of his shaft. I lowered my head another inch and pressed my tongue against the vein throbbing against the underside of his cock.
A dizzy sensation filled my head. I knew what I was supposed to do. I slid my lips up, then back down again in a rhythm that was almost pleasant. His erection was smooth, pulsing, as I stroked him in and out of my mouth. Another flood of emissions coated my tongue.
Dean. Dean. It’s him. It’s you.
Dean muttered something and shifted, his fingers gripping mine. I could tell he was trying to restrain himself from thrusting into my mouth. A heady sense of anticipation overcame me as I realized the effect I was having on him, the effect I wanted to have on him.
“Liv…”
I pulled back and inhaled a breath as I worked up the courage to look at him. He was watching me, his eyes dark with smoldering heat and something else, an indefinable emotion I’d seen before and that lodged right into the gentle area around my heart.
The heat of the fire warmed my skin. I shivered and lowered my head over him again. This time, he caught me by the back of the neck and drew me up to him, as if to tell me he didn’t expect more, not now. Our lips met in a kiss that flooded me with light and the feeling of something releasing, letting go. Unlocking.
Dean pushed upward, shifting us to change positions so I was lying on the sofa and he was beside it. He pulled me right to the edge of the sofa. My bottom slid against the soft cushion, and I spread my legs so he could edge between my thighs. He splayed his hand over my sex and circled my clit with his thumb.
“Oh…” I squirmed, loving his touch on the most intimate parts of my body. “Dean, hurry, please…”
My pulse hammered, the drumbeat echoing in my core. I could still taste him on my tongue—salt, maleness, Dean. New, powerful swirls of arousal coursed through my nerves. He moved away from me only long enough to roll a condom onto his thick cock. I gripped the edge of the sofa, my breath sticking in my throat when he started pushing inside me. I felt my body stretching, widening, filling with his hard flesh.
“Relax,” he whispered, pausing to rub my clit again. “Ah, you feel good, Liv. So tight. Open wider now… just like that.”
He sank in another inch, his jaw clenched. Sweat rolled down his temple, and in the flickering firelight, he looked almost dangerous with his rigid expression and burning eyes. Sweat gleamed on the planes of his chest. I clutched the sofa and spread my legs wider, letting him in, wanting him right there.
He took hold of my hips and started to thrust, every stroke of his cock firing me with hot tingles. The rhythm increased, his plunges feeling like they were going even deeper, reaching a place inside me that only he could. Moisture dripped down my thighs. My body jostled back and forth on the sofa, my breasts bouncing with every thrust.
“Dean,” I pleaded when he plunged in again, hard enough that I gasped. “Oh, God, more… harder…”
“Tighten your pussy around me,” he ordered. “Yeah, like that… I want you to come all over my cock.”
His raw words spilled into me, and with one more flick of his fingers, I came with a cry of pleasure, my hips bucking toward him. As I was still convulsing around his shaft, he thrust deep and stilled, his own body vibrating with an orgasm. He groaned, low and heavy, his lips capturing mine in a hot kiss as the sensations slowly ebbed.
Our bodies went slack, both of us struggling to catch our breath. Dean moved to the sofa and put his arm around me, pulling me right into the space against his side where I always fit so perfectly.
I woke at three on Christmas morning, snuggled against Dean’s warm, naked body. I lay still for a moment, absorbing the sensation of him beside me, the pure rightness of how we felt together. It had always felt that way with him. Both then and now and—
An idea bloomed bright and clear in my mind, like the first frost of winter glinting with sunlight. I slipped out of bed, leaving Dean sleeping heavily, and pulled on my Merry Me pajamas.
I went into the kitchen and scrounged around for everything I needed—thankfully, over the past few months, I had brought enough stuff to decorate Dean’s utilitarian apartment that I was not short of craft supplies. After putting a note on the inside of the bedroom door reading Knock Before Entering, I closed the door and sat at the kitchen table.
I had two empty mason jars, a swatch of fine-grained burlap, a spool of gold ribbon, and a stack of parchment paper I’d brought over one afternoon to do some drawing. I wrapped the jars in burlap, fastened them with the ribbon, and painted the lids with sparkling gold paint. Then I carefully tore the parchment into strips and began to write.
Within two hours, I had filled both jars with strips of paper, and my soul felt as if it were brimming over with silver glitter. I made a label for each jar and glued them on over the burlap.
I checked the clock, which was nearing five-thirty, about the time Dean usually woke up. I hid the jars beneath a branch under the Christmas tree, concealing them further behind the wrapped gifts Dean had placed there. I cleaned up the bits of paper and ribbon and was making a pot of coffee when a knock sounded at the bedroom door.
“Come in!” I called.
He emerged, all rumpled and gorgeous in his low-slung pajama pants and no shirt, his jaw bristly with stubble. I tingled all over just looking at him.
“Hey.” He appeared faintly baffled at the sight of me. “You’re up early.”
“Thought I’d make the coffee, for a change.”
“Why did I have to knock?”
“I was making something for you, but you have to wait to see what it is.” I went around the counter to approach him.
He met me halfway across the living room, and we exchanged a warm kiss that tasted like toothpaste and a warmer embrace that felt like a homecoming.
“Merry Christmas.” Dean kissed the tip of my nose. “Should we open presents now or later?”
“Later. I’m going to make French toast.”
“Wow. You’re all kinds of domestic this morning.” He slid his arms around me and rubbed my bottom. “The caveman in me kind of likes it.”
“Good, then you can really be macho and go build fire.” I thumped his chest manfully.
“Yes, mistress.” He detached himself reluctantly from me.
“Mistress, huh? The woman in me kind of likes that too.”
Dean gave me a wink and a smile that made me all fluttery inside before he went to build a fire in the fireplace. I made an easy version of French toast and fried some bacon, then we sat down at the little table for breakfast. One of Dean’s colleagues had invited us to a Christmas party later that day, but aside from that we had no plans, except to lounge around the apartment together. Exactly the way we both liked it.
After breakfast, we sat cross-legged on the floor by the Christmas tree to exchange presents. I was suddenly a little nervous, not sure what he’d think of my spontaneous gift. He gave me several gifts I knew I’d always cherish, no matter what happened when June rolled around. A book of Emily Dickenson poems, a personalized journal and planner, a framed illustration of a knight on horseback, and a soft knit scarf, hat, and gloves set that I’d admired over a month ago in a shop window.
As I’d expected, he was pleased with the leather notebook and pen set, but as he leaned in to kiss me, I put my hand up.
“That’s not all.” My heartbeat increased a notch. I dug behind the branches for the two jars and set them in front of Dean. “This is what I was making for you.”
He lifted the jars and read the labels. Past First Memories. Future First Memories.
After giving me a questioning look, he opened the Past First Memories jar and took out one of the slips of paper.
“The first time we saw the butterflies in the Botanical Gardens,” he read, then looked at me again. “That was a really nice day.”
“It was also the first time you patted me on the ass, but I didn’t write that memory down.” I arched an eyebrow at him and plucked another paper from the jar. “Our first date dinner at the White Rose.”
“One of the best dinners of my life.” Dean took another paper and read, “The first brownie sundae we shared at that café in Mount Horeb.”
I moved to sit beside him as we read through all the memories we’d already compiled in the few months we’d been together. Some were spicy—the first time we made love… in the shower, in a car, in the kitchen… our first phone sex episode, the first time I came with you inside me.
Others were tender reminiscences I’d never forget. The first time you touched me, our first game of Scrabble, our first kiss, the first time you walked into Jitter Beans. The first time you spent the night on my sofa. Our first weekend away to Door County. The first time we shared a bottle of wine, worked the crossword puzzle together, danced, watched a movie. The first time we laughed so hard our stomachs hurt. The first time we stayed up all night. The first time you called me beauty.
When the scraps of paper were piled on the floor beside the jar, Dean reached out to put his hand on my knee.
“This…” He paused and cleared his throat. “This is amazing.”
My heart thumped. I put my hand over his. “There’s another one. But I don’t want you to think I’m…”
He paused in the motion of removing the lid of the second jar. “You’re what?”
“Um…” A flush heated my cheeks. “Moving too fast.”
Dean stared at me for a second before he gave a shout of laughter. “Olivia West, moving too fast? I’ve never waited for a woman as long as I waited for you.”
My flush deepened. It was true—I’d been so nervous and anxious that I’d asked him if we could take our relationship slowly, and had we ever. He had been exceedingly patient and kind, which was yet another reason I couldn’t imagine ever wanting to leave him.
“Make no mistake, beauty.” Still smiling, Dean leaned in to kiss me. “I’d wait for you an eternity longer.”
Pleasure flooded my chest. Dean’s lips lingered on mine for a moment before he pulled away to open the second jar. He pulled out a scrap of paper.
“The first time we walk through the Louvre together.” He looked at me with faint surprise.
“Not now,” I said, tapping the label Future First Memories on the jar. “These are memories we still have to create… someday.”
Dean pulled out another piece of paper. “The first time you kiss me on a gondola in Venice. The first time we host a party, go to a baseball game, visit the Art Institute. The first time we call each other when you leave Madison.”
He paused. “Liv…”
“There’s more.” I gestured to the jar.
A lot more. I’d imagined so much about our future together, and only now—with the knowledge that our relationship didn’t need to have any kind of deadline—could I believe those imaginings might one day come true.
“The first time we take a train trip,” Dean read. “The first time we listen to an audio book together. The first time we go to the top of the Empire State Building.”
The first time we see the Coliseum in Rome. The first time we drive across the country. The first time I send you a letter in the mail. The first time you learn one of my passwords. The first time we hold hands on a mountain. The first time we see the sunset over the Pacific Ocean. The first time we find a sand dollar, ride a Ferris wheel, carve our initials in a tree trunk.
When the jar was empty, Dean put all the scraps of paper back in and fastened the lid. Without a word, he leaned against the sofa and pulled me to him. I nestled against his side, spreading my hand over his abdomen. I felt his gaze on me, and I glanced up. His eyes glittered in the light from the fire. A warm, electric current crackled in the air between us.
“Wait for me,” he said.
An overwhelming sense of hope rose inside me, like a bright, shining glass ornament mirroring the world. I stroked my hand upward and pressed it right over his heart. His heartbeat thumped against my palm—strong, steady, everlasting. Just like him.
“I’ll wait for you,” I promised. I had the sense I would wait for him forever.
Dean moved his hand around to the back of my neck and eased closer for a warm, lovely kiss that both anchored me to the earth and made me want to take flight. When he lifted his head, we were both breathing hard, the promise of more like a tangible thing between us.
“Merry Christmas, Dean,” I whispered.
“Merry Christmas, Liv.” He tugged gently at a lock of my hair and pressed his lips to my forehead. “Thanks for giving me a present I’ll never forget.”
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