CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Olivia
April 28
MY MOTHER MOVES IN WITH THE owner of the auto repair shop after she takes her car in to be fixed. Our apartment seems lighter without her, and though she still comes to help at the café on occasion, we don’t speak much after our argument.
I try not to think about the fact that she is very likely still here because she’s feeling the loss of her own mother in ways she probably never comprehended. And all her futile attempts to convince me to come with her again are a sad way of easing the loss. I try not to think about the fact that I might even pity her.
The day before Dean is scheduled to return, I go to the university for my meeting with Ben Stafford of the Office of Judicial Affairs. He is a slender, bearded man with a long, narrow nose who reminds me a little of Inspector Clouseau. This is rather comforting, as I’d been having images of me sweating under hot interrogation lights.
“Can you please tell me when you first met Professor Dean West?” Mr. Stafford asks, after we’re seated in his office.
“When I was a student at the University of Wisconsin.”
“First year?”
“Yes, but it was my junior year. I was twenty-four. It was my first year as a transfer student.”
“Your major?”
“Library sciences and literature.”
“How did you meet Professor West?”
“I had some trouble with transfer credits and was at the registrar’s office trying to work it out. He was there and offered to help.”
Ben Stafford peers at me. “How did he offer to help?”
“He suggested I go to the professors directly and ask them to approve the credits. I did, and the problem was solved.”
“When did you begin dating?”
“A few weeks later, after he came into the coffeehouse where I was working.” I’m starting to get nervous, which seems silly since I’m just telling the truth. But I’ve never talked to anyone about how I met Dean, let alone our relationship, and it feels like I’m divulging our secrets.
I know there has always been a teaching dynamic to my relationship with Dean, mostly because of our different world experiences, not to mention his sexual confidence and history. But never has that dynamic been controlled by a sordid sense of power.
I take a drink of water and try to steady my shaking hands.
“Did you ever take a class with Professor West?” Stafford asks.
“No.”
“Did you ever enroll in one?”
“No.”
“Any Medieval Studies classes?”
“No.”
He nods and makes a note on his legal pad. “Do you remember your first date?”
Seriously? How could I ever forget?
“Yes,” I say. “Dean asked me to attend a lecture he was giving at a local museum. We had dinner afterward.”
“At the time he asked you to attend the lecture, did Professor West make any implications about your class schedule or grades?”
“No.”
“Did you discuss your academic work?”
“During the date, yes, but just casually. Like what classes I was taking, that sort of thing.”
“Did you find it odd that a professor would ask a student out on a date?”
“No, because I wasn’t his student. I knew it wasn’t against university regulations.”
“At any time did Professor West indicate that your response to his requests would affect your academic work?”
“Never.”
Mr. Stafford scribbles notes again and asks more questions—how much did I know about Dean’s classes, did I ever interact with any of his students, what was my level of involvement in his work.
The questions go on for about an hour before Stafford seems satisfied. He asks me to sign a form before reaching to turn off the recorder. As I put the pen down, I notice a small framed picture on the desk of Mr. Stafford, a blonde woman who must be his wife, and two young girls.
“Your daughters?” I ask, gesturing to the picture.
He nods with evident pride. “Emma and Nellie. They’re seven and nine.”
“You should bring them to the grand opening of our café,” I suggest, taking a flyer from a folder inside my satchel. “It’s at the beginning of June, and we’re going to have all sorts of fun activities like face painting and a bouncy house. Lots of free food too.”
“Sounds like fun.” Stafford glances over the flyer as he walks me to the door. “I apologize again for having to involve you in this, Mrs. West, but you saved us some time by contacting me.”
“I assume you also have to investigate Miss Hamilton’s history as well.” I turn to shake his hand. “To see if she’s made such an accusation before?”
The second the words are out of my mouth, something jars loose in the back of my mind. I try to grab it as Stafford nods solemnly.
“We’re covering all bases, Mrs. West, I assure you. As I told your husband, please don’t try to contact or speak to Miss Hamilton. It’s best for all involved if you communicate everything through the OJA.”
We thank each other again before I leave the office and go outside.
What the hell am I trying to remember?
As I walk back to the parking lot, I think of the day last fall when Maggie Hamilton confronted me. She’d gotten angry and made a nasty comment about Dean expecting more from his female students than good scholarship.
What else did she say? Why do I feel like I’m missing something important?
I get out my cell phone and leave Dean a message telling him that Stafford was polite and respectful, and the meeting was fine.
After I hang up, I push aside thoughts of the investigation and focus on my happiness that Dean is coming home. Despite my belief that his time in Italy did us both good, I know that he’s right, that the next step for us is learning how to handle all of this together.
I go to the café where Allie, Brent, and a few other friends are busy working. After greeting them, I head to a bathroom to change into ratty jeans and a T-shirt, then grab a paintbrush and get to work.
“Liv, that looks great.” Allie comes into the room where I’m painting the window trim. “Brent is bringing in more paint for the murals tomorrow, and Marianne wants us to meet her at the restaurant supply place sometime this week to finalize our order.”
“I’m free anytime after noon,” I tell her. “Just let me know.”
We discuss a few more business-related issues before I finish the windows and go out to pick up pizzas for everyone. After eating, I get back to painting until it starts to get dark.
“Liv, we gotta go,” Allie shouts up the stairs.
“I’ll stay and work for a couple more hours,” I call. Dean will be back tomorrow morning, and I want to be at home when he arrives. “I’m almost done with this room.”
“You shouldn’t stay here alone, so come on. We’ll finish it tomorrow.”
Knowing she won’t leave without me, I put my supplies away and head downstairs. I decline Allie and Brent’s offer of a ride and walk home, enjoying the fresh air. Streetlamps are starting to twinkle over the sidewalks, and the sky is covered with reddish clouds.
I pick up the mail and go upstairs to the apartment. The instant I step into the foyer, my heart leaps.
And I know. I know without needing to see him that Dean is here.
Anticipation fills me. I drop my satchel and jacket and go inside. His travel bag is by the sofa. I hurry into the bedroom just as the bathroom door opens.
Dean steps out, naked except for a towel wrapped around his waist, his hair damp and his chest glistening with water droplets.
“Oh.” I stop, my breath escaping on a rush. His masculine beauty strikes me right in the heart, flooding me with pleasure. “Hi.”
His dark gaze sweeps over me from head to toe, a slow appraisal that has my pulse kicking into high gear. It’s a touch, that look, sending a waterfall of shivers over me. A taut, leashed energy radiates from him. He hasn’t shaved yet, and the coating of stubble over his jaw combined with the coiled tension of his powerful body and the intense look in his eyes…
I swallow to ease the dryness of my throat. “I… I was expecting you back tomorrow.”
“You’d better expect me right now.” His voice is edged with roughness, like a torn piece of paper.
He steps toward me, his muscles steeling. I can’t move, can only stand there staring at him as he approaches me with a determination that has my whole body zinging with eagerness. His gaze pins me to the spot. Urgency builds in me like steam, and I’m aching to let my own gaze slide down the sculpted muscles of his torso to the front of his towel…
But I don’t—can’t—look away from those gold-flecked eyes that have always watched me with heat, love, tenderness. I can’t read them now, can’t see anything beyond the fierce, contained resolve that vibrates from every fiber of his being. A combination of anticipation and excitement twirls through me.
Dean stops inches from me. Heat emanates from his damp skin. The delicious smells of soap and him sink into my blood, warming me from the inside out. A drop of water slides from his hair over his smooth shoulder, and I’m seized with the urge to follow the path with my tongue, to lick the strong column of his throat…
He plants both hands on the wall behind me, caging me between his arms. He presses closer, pushing me to retreat until my back hits the wall. And then I’m surrounded by him, engulfed by the heat of his body, his mouthwatering scent, the desire coursing through both of us.
I lift a hand to touch his face, running my fingers over the whiskered planes of his jaw, over his lips, down to the hollow of his throat. My heart races. His gaze never leaves mine.
He moves even closer and lowers his head. I part my lips to draw in a breath, desperate for a strong, possessive kiss that will overwhelm me with lust and eradicate any barriers still lingering between us.
He touches his lips to mine. Lightly, almost not there at all, but I feel it, feel him, and I curl my fingers into my palms against the growing ache of need. The contrast between the hard urgency of Dean’s body and the restraint of his kiss is wildly exciting. The pulsing between my legs expands into a heavy throb.
Dean doesn’t take his hands from the wall behind me as he lifts his head to look at me again. He motions with his head to my clothes.
“Take them off.”
An intense surge of desire rockets through me. My hands shake. I unfasten my jeans and push them over my hips. Again, dammit, I’m not wearing my sexy lingerie. At least my legs are shaved this time, but I’d planned to meet him all pretty and perfumed-up, clad in my polka-dot panties and lace-edged bra…
I push my shoes off and wiggle quickly out of my jeans, kicking them aside. Dean nods at my T-shirt.
“And that.”
I grasp the hem and yank the ragged shirt over my head. My nipples push against the stretched fabric of my bra. I unhook the front clasp and toss the bra on top of my discarded clothes.
Cooler air sensitizes my nipples, which ache with the need to be touched. My blood pounds. I want Dean to cup my breasts in his big hands and twist my nipples while kissing me so hard and deep I forget my own name.
His eyes burn with lust. He pushes his knee between my legs. My heart jolts with arousal. Beneath the towel, his thick erection presses against my belly. I swallow and lean my head back against the wall. Dean’s lips brush mine, his tongue probing into my mouth, his chest rubbing against my taut nipples. Everything inside me softens and yields to him.
But his restraint is stretching my urgency to the breaking point. Sweat breaks out on my forehead. The core of my body is an unending pulse. I let my eyes close, breathe in the scent of him, and absorb the feeling of utter safety within the confines of his strong arms.
He moves his lips across my cheek, his breath hot. I run my hands over his arms to his shoulders. His muscles flex beneath my palms, and I’m seized by the urge to stroke down to his chest where I can trace all the slopes and planes of his sculpted torso…
“Dean, kiss me,” I plead, when he runs his tongue slowly across my lower lip.
“Kiss you?” he whispers, his voice guttural with restraint. “Or fuck you?”
A wave of heat washes over me. “Both. Oh, please… both.”
He doesn’t. He trails his lips over my cheek again, down the side of my neck, his stubble scraping my skin. I tighten my hands on his shoulders, a glow spreading in me like the rays of the sun.
He lifts his head again, his gaze tracking down to my bare breasts, my hard nipples. He shifts his hips, rubbing his cock against me. The friction of the towel combined with that hot bulge beneath it… a gasp catches in my throat. Then he grabs the knot of the towel and pulls it off, his erection springing up between us.
I melt, my knees weakening at the sight of his thick shaft. I close my hand around his cock and trace the pulsing veins with my fingers. He mutters something under his breath, pushing his hips forward.
“Tighter,” he orders hoarsely.
I increase my grip on him, running my thumb over the damp head of his cock in the way I know he likes. He pulls back and pushes forward again, fucking the vise of my fist. My breath burns through my chest, quivers centering in my lower body.
Dean puts his hand flat against my belly and slides it down between my legs, his forefinger pressing my clit through the cotton of my underwear. I sink back against the wall. Every cell in my body strains toward the intense, deep bliss that only he can give me. He shifts closer, his lips against mine, his finger probing deeper as his tongue does a hot, slow sweep of my mouth.
He eases his hand beneath my panties, and then he’s inside me, stroking me with two fingers. Pressure builds in me like steam, scorching my blood. I surrender, clutching at him as the strain breaks and floods me with sensation. Dean captures my cry of pleasure, pressing one hand to the small of my back as vibrations shake me to the core.
Gasping, I sink against him, my heart pulsing as he strips off my underwear. Tension ripples through him, the beat of urgency that I know so well. He moves away only long enough to roll on a condom, then grabs my waist and pushes me back up against the wall. His eyes are almost black, seething with heat. Before I can even take another breath, he hooks his arms beneath my thighs and lifts me off the ground, plunging his cock into me at the same instant. Another cry wrenches from my throat at the sensation of him filling me.
His mouth crashes down on mine, and I open in near desperation, needing every part of him inside me, his breath, his voice, his body. Sudden tears sting my eyes, and his name breaks from me on a sob. My legs ache. I cling to him, feeling him plunge so deep, all the way to the center of me, his cock pulsing and throbbing.
My body flares with a riotous combination of love and desire. I tighten my fingers into the muscles of his back as another orgasm rips through me. He thrusts again, the rhythm getting faster, even deeper, until a violent shudder racks his body. He groans, pushing forward, holding me against the wall.
Dean doesn’t let go of me, doesn’t release me. He puts his face against my shoulder, his breath rough. He lowers me slowly to the ground, but I’m shaking so hard that my knees buckle.
He tucks his hands beneath my knees again and lifts me against his chest, taking me a few steps to the bed. I wind my arms around his neck, bringing him down onto the bed with me.
He brushes my hair away from my forehead, stroking his palm over my cheek. As our breathing slows, I curl up against his side and absorb the pleasure of us back in our bed together. His muscular arm is heavy around me. I rest my head on his chest, falling asleep to the rhythm of his heartbeat.
When I wake, my body loose, my blood still pulsing, I feel Dean’s gaze on me. I look up into his eyes that are filled with a hundred emotions I can’t define. I press my hand against his jaw, moving my palm up into his messy hair.
“Your paper on the Notre-Dame chapels was about the socio-economic context of their construction,” I murmur. “You analyzed how the design of the chapels influenced their function and served as a standard model for French chapel architecture.”
The line between his eyebrows eases. “You read my paper.”
“I found all your articles in your filing cabinet.” I shift and move my leg over him so that I’m straddling his thighs. His gaze goes to my naked breasts.
“You’ve written a ton of stuff, Professor West,” I remark. “I even read your book on Romanesque cathedrals. I learned that Romanesque walls were very thick and… massive.”
“Yeah?” He strokes the curves of my waist and around to my back.
His body is hot between my legs. I run my hands over his powerful chest, skimming my fingertips across the ridges of his abdomen. I lean down so that my hair falls in a curtain on either side of his face.
“I learned a lot about medieval architecture from you,” I whisper, looking into his dark eyes.
“Like what?”
“All about groin vaults.” I kiss his chin. “And drum columns.”
“Mmm.” He squeezes my ass.
“Elevated naves.” I kiss his nose. “Enlarged piers.” I kiss his cheek. “Structural members.”
I trail my lips over his jaw to his ear and whisper, “Double bay systems.”
“Baby, that is so fucking hot.”
I giggle and squirm backward on his thighs, pressing my mouth to his neck, his smooth shoulders, the slopes of his chest. The sensation of his firm, taut skin and hard muscles has my own body responding with a surge of heat. I straddle one of his thighs and press my cleft against him. He groans, his hands flexing on my hips.
I move lower, spreading my hands over his stomach, until I can slide my lips over his cock and take him into my mouth.
“Oh, shit, Liv…” He tightens his hand in my hair as his erection swells in my mouth.
I love this, love the salty, male taste of him, feeling him harden, his muscles tensing beneath me. I lick his shaft, swirl my tongue around the tip, wrap my hand around the base. When I feel him straining toward me, I ease away to roll a condom onto him, then move back up to straddle him again.
His eyes seethe with lust as he clutches my waist to adjust my angle. I lower myself onto his cock, gasping at the sensation of him filling me, pulsing and hot. I brace my hands against his chest and ride him, our bodies thrusting, our breath rasping in the air. We fall into it at the same time, the overwhelming need and passion, the slick, easy way that we move together, the rhythm of us.
I lower myself onto him, my breasts rubbing against his chest. He tightens his grip on my hips as he pushes inside me, driving us both toward the explosive release that only we can create. When we’re on the edge, he grabs the back of my neck and brings my mouth to his as bliss shatters us both.