by Raine Miller
Tension spools inside me, a thread pulled too tight, and then convulsions tremble through me from head to toe all over again. My inner muscles clench around his cock. Dean braces his hands on the bed, sweat trickling down his jaw.
“Liv.” His voice is strained, taut.
“Wait. I want to…”
Gasping, still shuddering, I push upward as his thickness slides out of me and he shoves to his feet. I close my fingers around his shaft and roll the condom off, then wiggle to the edge of the bed and open my mouth.
“Ah, fuck…” With a groan, he grasps the sides of my head and nudges his cock past my lips.
My chest heaves. I lean forward, closing my eyes and putting my hands on his hips. He’s big, and I have to remind myself to breathe slowly as I take him in. The salty taste of him fills me. His grip on my head tightens as I press my tongue to the vein throbbing on the underside of his shaft.
For a moment, he stills. Above me, his breath saws through the air and restraint cords his muscles. He fists his fingers in my hair. I slide my hands to grip his buttocks and encourage him to move. Then he does, gently at first, then faster.
Even in the heat of lust, he’s careful not to thrust too deep. I draw back to lick the hard knob and slacken my jaw, my mind filling with images of how we must look, sweaty and disheveled with him fucking my open mouth.
When he presses the sides of my head in warning, I pull back at the same time he does. I dart a quick glance at him, my blood swimming with heat at the sight of his raw, lust-filled expression and burning eyes.
I grasp his shaft again, sleek, pulsing, and begin to stroke. The air vibrates with his groan as he creams over my breasts, warm liquid dripping down my cleavage and tight nipples.
“God, Dean, that’s so hot…” I shudder, pressing my thighs together as the sight elicits a surge of excitement.
I fall back onto the bed and cup my breasts, smoothing my hands over them until my skin is glossy with his release. Dean sinks onto the bed beside me and reaches out to rub my abdomen. Our bodies ease into relaxation, our breath gradually slowing.
I roll to my side, loving the scent of him on my skin, the delicious soreness between my legs—evidence of his complete possession.
He pulls me closer. I slide against him, my bare leg falling between his as I press my face into his shoulder and run my hand over his damp chest.
“Don’t leave, beauty.” His voice is a rough whisper.
“Never.”
CHAPTER 3
August 16
“Okay, so that’s pretty much it.” Allie chews on a pen and slams the cash register drawer closed. “I get shipments about once a week, but they vary in size. Invoices go in that basket over there. I run a weekly ad for a fifteen-percent discount on one item, so if someone comes in with one, give me a holler and I’ll show you how to run it through. Any questions?”
“Nope.”
“I’m not going to extend my weekend hours just yet because I’ve got a… thing this Saturday.”
“A handsome thing?” I ask.
Her face gets pink, but she returns my smile. “Brent. He’s an assistant manager over at the Sugarloaf Hotel. He’s very cute.”
“Nice. Where’s he taking you?”
“We’re going on that dinner boat out on the lake. Ever been?”
“No, but I heard it’s great, especially at sunset.”
“It’s my first date with Brent, but if things work out maybe we could double sometime,” Allie suggests. “It would be fun.” She glances at my left hand, where I wear a platinum wedding ring. “I mean, if you’re…”
“I’m married,” I say, “but my husband occasionally likes to have fun.”
“Occasionally, huh?” Dean’s deep voice rumbles across the bookstore.
Allie and I both look up to see him strolling toward us, carrying a paper tray with two covered cups from a coffee joint.
He’s in full-professor mode, wearing a gray suit that perfectly sheathes his muscular body. His hair is brushed away from his forehead, framing his strong, clean-shaven features, and his brown eyes are creased with amusement.
I can feel the awe radiating from Allie as he approaches, and frankly I get a little tingly myself. The man not only looks gorgeous, he has a commanding presence that exudes both authority and sex appeal.
He sets the tray on the counter and addresses Allie.
“More than occasionally,” he assures her, “do I like to have fun.”
She smiles. “I don’t doubt it.”
He extends a hand. “Dean West.”
“Allie Lyons. Welcome to The Happy Booker.”
“I brought you both coffee, but had to guess what you’d like.” He pulls a cup out and hands it to her. “Two mochas with whipped cream.”
“Perfect.” Allie leans toward me and announces in a stage whisper, “I love him.”
I grin at Dean. “He’s okay.”
He winks at me and hands me the second cup. “You’re here all day?”
“No, just for the morning so Allie can show me the ropes. I’m volunteering at the library this afternoon. I’ll pick up something for dinner on the way home.”
“Call if you need me.” Dean glances around the area in front of the cash register and buys two magazines, a bar of gourmet chocolate, and a hardcover history of the Civil War.
After handing him the bag, Allie cranes her neck to watch him leave. I do too because the back of Dean is as appealing a sight as the front of him.
“I mean it,” Allie says. “I love him. Where’d you meet?”
“Madison. I was going to the UW.” I twist my wedding ring around on my finger. “He’s a professor at King’s. Medieval Studies.”
“No kidding? Like romances of knights in armor and courtly love and all that? Wow.” She gives a dreamy sigh.
I decide not to burst her bubble by explaining that Dean is more interested in the concentric fortification of a castle. There was a time, however, when romances of knights captured his imagination. And courtly love… he is quite the expert on that.
I rub my arms against a shudder, remembering our hot encounter last weekend. Another tingle sweeps through me, and I’m already anticipating getting home to him tonight.
I started my period two days after I took the test, so I’m definitely not pregnant. And even though I’ve been unsettled by the pregnancy scare (why is it called a scare?), my new job and Dean’s work routine have settled things back to normal.
I think.
When Allie disappears into the backroom with instructions to “holler” if I need help, I make my way to the health section. Two shelves are filled with books about pregnancy and birth, while the shelf below is dedicated to child-rearing. I leaf through a couple of the I Want to Get Pregnant and I Am Pregnant—Now What? titles.
Then with a mutter of irritation, I push the books back onto the shelf and return to the front counter.
“A Miss Spider tea party!” Allie bounds out of the backroom, shoving her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Isn’t that a great idea? The kids can come dressed as their favorite insect and we can serve juice in tea cups and, like, bee-shaped cookies and gummy worms. Oh, and we can get some of that Halloween cobweb stuff for decorations.”
“Do you have kids, Allie?” I ask.
The suddenness of the question makes her stop. “Kids? No, not yet. Why?”
“Just curious. You’re really good at all this kids’ stuff.”
“Oh, yeah, I love thinking up things like this. My mom and I always had these elaborate birthday parties when I was growing up. My favorite was our Alice in Wonderland party when I turned ten. We had little cups with ‘Drink Me’ on them and a Red Queen cake. We played croquet, of course, and my uncle dressed up as the Mad Hatter. My dad even built this rabbit hole out of plywood and shrubbery, and the kids had to go through it to get to the party in the backyard.”
“Sounds nice.” It sounded more than nice. It sounded like a freaking Disney movie.
The memory of my own tenth birthday stabs the back of my head. I suppress a tide of nausea and focus on straightening the piles of bookmarks on the counter.
“Do you and Dean have kids?” Allie asks.
“No.” I’m not sure whether I should add not yet. “No kids.”
“Pity. You really need to ensure the propagation of your gene pool.”
Although she’s teasing, I think about what she said for the rest of the afternoon. Maybe that’s all it is, this weird preoccupation I have now. Maybe I just have a sudden urge to propagate Dean’s and my lineage.
When I get home, I set the table for dinner and divide portions of a store-bought roasted chicken and a green salad from the deli.
Dean comes home around seven and drops his briefcase and keys on the counter. He sheds his suit jacket, loosens his tie, and drags a hand through his hair.
He’s got that rumpled, “I have been thinking very, very hard about something esoteric” look to him. It’s a look he wears extremely well.
As self-possessed as he is, when he’s tired from working too hard, his whole demeanor softens with vulnerability… which makes me want to tuck him right beneath my heart and hold on tight.
The way he has always done with me.
He crosses to the kitchen and curves one arm around me, pressing a warm kiss to my temple. He pulls a glass from the cupboard and pours a couple fingers of scotch—his one vice, and only when he’s beat.
“How was your day?” I ask.
“Long. Yours? Bookstore job was good?”
I nod. “I like Allie a lot, despite the massive crush she has on my husband.”
“A crush, huh? She has good taste.” He winks at me and tilts his head back to take a drink. I watch the column of his throat as he swallows, the ripple of scotch sliding to his chest.
“She does, indeed,” I murmur.
Heat simmers through me, though I tamp it down because Dean and I need to talk first. I occupy myself with cleaning the living room and give him an hour or so to wind down before we have dinner.
As I spoon out a portion of seasoned rice, I glance across the table at him. “So I gave Dr. Nolan a call.”
A frown creases his forehead. “About what?”
“My period being late. Just because I’m usually so regular.”
“Did she think it was a reason for concern?”
“No. She said to keep track of my cycles and let her know if the irregularity continues. She said she could put me on birth control pills to regulate them, if it becomes an issue.”
“The pills made you sick, remember?”
“Yeah, well, I… I was wondering if maybe you wanted to give it a go without any birth control at all.”
That didn’t come out quite the way I’d expected.
My heart is pounding hard as Dean looks up. That shutter descends over his face again, like a transparent shield that allows me to look at him without really seeing him. My insides twist.
“You want to try and have a baby?” he asks.
I haven’t even explicitly asked myself that question yet. I poke at a grain of rice.
“Liv.”
“I don’t know,” I admit.
“If you don’t want to use birth control, you should know.”
Of course he’s right. Silence stretches taut between us.
“Liv.” Dean reaches across the table and tilts my head up to look at him. “You told me before we got married that you didn’t want children.”
“That means I can’t change my mind?”
“Have you?”
“I don’t know.” For some inexplicable reason, tears spring to my eyes. I push away from the table and stalk to the living room, tension coiling through me. “What if I did?”
“Then we’d have a lot to discuss.” Dean follows me and stops in the doorway, his gaze level. “Is this all because your period was late?”
“It’s not all because of that.”
“Then what?”
“I just want to talk about it.” I turn to face him. “Haven’t you thought this might be a good time to consider starting a family?”
“No, because we’d never intended to have children.”
“But we’ve been married for three years, we’re settled here for the foreseeable future, you’re financially secure, you have a tenure-track job, and I—”
My voice breaks like a dry twig. I… what?
“You what?” Dean asks.
His question is low and quiet. I look at the floor.
I’d be a good mother? My doubts about my abilities are just one of the reasons I’ve never wanted children. I spent most of my own childhood yielding to my beautiful, self-centered mother, who was anything but nurturing.
“I was just thinking about it,” I mutter.
“Because you’re looking for something to do?”
I’m so shocked by this question that I can only stare at him. I can’t even speak. He continues looking at me, and worse than the actual words is the fact that he doesn’t try to apologize or take the question back—not that that would do any good.
“I’m…” My throat tightens. I force the words past the constriction. “That’s what you think?”
“I’m asking if that’s what you think.”
“No! No, of course not.” I can’t stop the rush of tears, the ache spreading through my entire being. “God, Dean, you think I brought up the idea of a baby just to give me something to do? What the hell?”
“You’ve never mentioned it before, Liv,” he says gently, but with annoying reason. “And I know you’ve been at loose ends, that you—”
“So I must think of a baby as a hobby? Something to pass the time in between soap operas and grocery shopping?” Anger erupts in me and I stride across the room to shove him in the chest. “I might not have an illustrious academic career, but I’m not an airhead, dammit. I’ve been thinking about a baby because I fucking love you and I thought we had a good life, and it’d be something we could go through, you know, together—”
“Liv, you don’t go through having a baby. There’s no end to it.”
“I meant…” What the hell did I mean?
I take a breath. “Look, we’ve gone through a lot already, right? You and I? But we’re happy now. Secure. Isn’t this the next logical step?”
Dean shakes his head. “Liv, I don’t think of having a baby as a step in some process. A baby would change everything, change us, forever. If that’s what you want, then yes, we need to talk. But stopping birth control and leaving things up to chance is a lousy way of going about it.”
Of course he’s right again. That makes it no easier for me to contend with this sudden tangle of emotions.
“Liv, you need to be sure about what you want and why you want it,” Dean says, his voice softening as he approaches me. “But there’s no hurry. The timing’s bad anyway.”
“Why is the timing bad?”
“I just started this job.”
“Almost two years ago.”
“Yeah, but I’m spearheading a whole new program with half-a-dozen other departments,” he says. “I’m organizing an international conference, I’ve got a book deadline, classes, journal editing. It’s a lot of work.”
“It’s not going to get easier, Dean,” I say, “if that’s what you think has to happen before we even consider having a baby. We’re settled here, right?”
“If the establishment of the Medieval Studies program goes well,” he replies. “If I’m not offered something better somewhere else. If I get tenure.”
“So we just put the idea on hold until you know the answers to all those ifs? That could take years.”
“It won’t take years.” He brushes my hair back from my forehead.
“Then how long?”
“I don’t know.”
That is not a phrase Professor Dean West often uses.
For a minute, we just look at each other. And then, because it seems like an earthquake is starting
to tremble beneath our feet, I lean my forehead against his chest and spread my hand out to feel his heartbeat.
Ugly thoughts pop and blister in the back of my mind. A shudder splits my heart. I try to breathe. Dean tightens his arms hard around me.
“Okay?” he asks.
The word fine sticks in my throat. This time, I can’t respond.
CHAPTER 4
August 20
The promise of autumn is in the air. Breezes sweep from the surface of the lake, trees rustle, and ducks waddle along the beaches. The tourists are leaving town, and university students bustle around with their backpacks and laptops. Dean is mired in planning fall semester classes, advising, department meetings, committees. We talk, but not about anything important. Not about us.
I’ve agreed to work three days a week at The Happy Booker, and I volunteer for a few hours at the public library and the Mirror Lake Historical Museum. After an afternoon spent organizing an exhibition on colonial currency, I stop at a coffeehouse for a mocha. The scent of roasting coffee beans makes me think of my first few months with Dean.
I was twenty-four years old and had been accepted to the University of Wisconsin-Madison as a transfer student. I’d spent the previous three years in rural Wisconsin, working at a clothing store and taking night courses at a community college to earn transfer credits.
When my application was accepted at the UW, I’d packed up everything I owned and moved to Madison to start what I hoped would be a new life. The day I registered for classes, a woman at the registrar’s office gave me a hard time about the transferability of my community college work.
I was upset, trying not to cry while pleading with Mrs. Russell to work out a solution.
“There must be something we can do,” I said.
“Miss Winter, the courses you took won’t cover the requirements,” she informed me.
“But I wouldn’t have taken them otherwise. If I can’t get them to transfer, it puts me behind an entire semester.”
“Look.” Mrs. Russell swept the papers into a stack and pushed them toward me. “It’s all in the catalog, if you have questions. We can’t retroactively allow the credits to transfer.”