by Raine Miller
The way she’s always made it for me. The way she never had it as a kid.
That’s the thing about Liv. She’s pure. Despite experiences that could have irrevocably fucked her up, turned her into someone hard and jaded, she’s still wholesome. She has a wary edge, a guard against the world, but it never affects her core of innocence.
I love that about her. When she looked at me over the counter at Jitter Beans, her brown eyes glowing with sincerity (“Room for cream in your coffee, sir?”), I felt like my heart was about to pound out of my chest.
She might as well have said, “Room for me in your life, sir? Room for me in your bed?”
Yes. And hell, yes.
Sure there was some Neanderthal instinct. Not just for sex, though that was powerful. There was also an urge to make her mine, to claim her so she’d never belong to another man. So she’d never want another man.
Which is just one reason her thing with that cook is still messing with my head.
What the fuck did I do wrong? How did I fail?
It was more than not having told her about my first marriage. It had to be more than that. If that was it, then maybe I shouldn’t have told her at all because I can’t for the life of me figure out how to fix any of this.
“Can you get the top branches, Dean?”
I set down my mug and go to help her hang the lights. We decorate the tree together with shiny glass balls and ornaments Liv has collected over the years. She tells me where to hang the mistletoe and spreads the holly over the fireplace mantel, then digs around for the stockings.
I sit on the sofa and watch her for a few more minutes. When the decorations are finished, glittery and sparkling, I crook a finger at Liv.
“Come here.”
She sits beside me and folds her body against mine, her hand sliding over my thigh. I tangle my fingers in her hair and pull her head up to mine for a kiss. She tastes like chocolate, her breathy sigh warm against my mouth before she eases back to look at me.
I know that look in her eyes. It’s a look that makes my blood heat.
“It’s been too long,” she says.
I take her wrist. “You feel okay?”
“Fine. My hand doesn’t hurt at all anymore. I just… you know. I miss you.”
Ah, hell.
I tuck my fingers beneath the waistband of her jeans. “How about I just make you feel good?”
“You always make me feel good. But I want you, Dean.” She shifts around until she’s facing me and straddling my lap, a position that makes me burn. “Badly.”
“Liv.”
“Come on.” She rocks her hips. “Fuck me.”
Christ. Raw words from her pretty mouth, and I’m hard in an instant.
She starts working the buttons on my jeans. Her nipples tent her sweater, and her breathing is getting faster. Just watching her get turned on makes me hotter.
By the time she has my prick in her hand, I know I’m done for. She moves off my lap and kneels on the sofa beside me.
“It’s always so good with you.” She swipes her tongue across the head of my cock. “Especially when it’s been a long time.”
A bolt of shame, embarrassment, hits me hard. It’s been a long time because I fucked up. I let my screwed-up relationship with Helen dictate how I treated the love of my life.
I kept a big secret from Liv because I wanted to protect her. I only ended up hurting her, driving her to kiss another man. If things hadn’t blown up when they did, who knows what else might have happened…
A growl starts low in my chest. Possession and lust flood me. I grab Liv’s hair and yank her up to me, kissing her hard enough to make her gasp in surprise. Although some part of me is aware enough to be mindful, I’m none too gentle as I slide off the sofa and bring us both to the floor.
Not only does Liv not care, she wraps her arms and legs around me like tentacles and opens her mouth under mine. My prick pulses hard against her thigh. She twists her hips.
“Take off my jeans,” she says, reaching for the hem of her sweater. She pulls it over her head, and my heart kicks into high gear at the sight of her breasts straining against her bra.
She unwraps her legs from my waist and rises onto her elbows to watch as I yank her jeans off. I press my hand between her thighs. Heat burns through her panties. She spreads her legs, watching me. As much as I want to rip her underwear off and sink into her, I want even more to make her beg. I slip a finger beneath the elastic of her panties and tease her cleft.
A visible shudder ripples through her. I nod toward her bra.
“Now you take that off.”
She flicks at the clasp, and the white straps falls off her shoulders. Jesus. Every time I see her naked breasts, I can’t wait to touch them, pinch her nipples, feel them pressing against my chest. Can’t wait to watch them bounce in time with my thrusts.
I stop, my breath hard. Liv stares at me, then reaches for the drawer of the table beside the sofa. She grabs the package of condoms inside, rips one open, and moves back toward me. Her face is all flushed with heat, her hair spilling around her shoulders as she rolls the condom onto my erection.
“Dean.” Her voice is strained.
“Tell me.”
“I want you.” She lies back and stretches her arms over her head in a pose that’s sexy as hell.
“Say it.” I pull her panties down her legs.
“Fuck me.” She hooks her feet around the small of my back. “Please.”
I move between her thighs. Our prolonged abstinence makes the flame of pleasure stronger. I sink my cock into her, all thought dissolving into pure urgency as her hot tightness grips me. She shifts, opens wider, grabs the sides of my head and pulls me down closer.
Her tongue pushes into my mouth as I thrust into her. Need boils through me. She hugs my hips with her thighs and bucks upward. It won’t last long, not for her or me.
I brace my hands on either side of her head and pump harder. My head spins with the sensation of her clenching around my shaft. My whole body tightens with pleasure.
“Oh, Dean.” Her fingernails rake my back. “Dean.”
I slide a hand down her stomach, through her damp curls to her clit. Liv moans, her fingers digging in harder as I start to rub. Her body tenses, her breath catching hard in her throat, and then she sinks her teeth into my shoulder and comes hard and fast.
Her flesh vibrates around my shaft, milking an explosive orgasm from me that I can’t contain. Coming with her is like nothing I’ve ever felt, a deep pumping and release that shatters us both.
I manage to roll to the side, taking her with me and pulling her on top. Her naked body goes limp against mine, her chest heaving. I push her hair away from her face, stroke my fingers through the long tangles.
“So good,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to my throat. “It’s always so good with you.”
She never answered my question. When she confessed she’d kissed that bastard, I asked her if it was good.
Why the hell did I ask that? Why was that my first question?
“Are you sure you want me to answer that?” she’d replied.
Fuck no. But her non-answer made it worse.
Liv lifts her head to look at me. Her eyes darken.
“What is it?” she asks, but then comprehension and guilt pass across her face. She knows exactly what I’m thinking. She pulls away and reaches for her bra. “It’s never going to go away, is it?”
I push to standing and go into the bathroom to get rid of the condom. My heart’s pounding, but no longer from lust. The physical satisfaction disappears like smoke. I return to the living room and put on my boxers.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I say. Jealousy tightens my chest. “Was it good with him?”
Liv stops in the motion of pulling her sweater on, then slowly pokes her head through. She drags her fingers into her hair and twists it into a ponytail.
I can’t stand it. Can’t fucking stand the thought of another man getti
ng close enough to touch her. To kiss her.
My fists clench.
Liv rummages in a drawer and finds a rubber band. She’s stalling.
“Liv.”
She snaps the band around her hair. “Why do you want to know?”
Good question. Because I like torture?
“Answer me.” My fingers dig into my palms.
“Yes.” She fumbles with the cuffs of her sweater. “It was a decent kiss. It meant nothing, but it was fine. Nice.” Sadness and remorse flash in her brown eyes. “Is that what you wanted to hear? Does that make it better?”
There’s no answer to that.
I turn away—away from the Christmas tree, the holly on the mantel, the mistletoe tied with a red ribbon. Away from Liv.
CHAPTER 22
Dean
November 28
Snow falls outside my office window. The history and art history departments are housed in a classical old building, and I’m fortunate to have an office that overlooks the lake. The light snow gathers onshore and caps the mountains.
I finish filing some papers and collect a few books to return to the library. I have a lecture in an hour, then a meeting about the conference we’re hosting. So far we have an impressive roster of attendees, including several scholars from Germany, Italy, and Spain. And possibly my ex-wife.
I don’t want to see Helen again, not even at a conference, but it’s been… what? Almost fifteen years? We made some bad mistakes, had some rough times. At least we ended it before we managed to bring any kids into the world and risk screwing them up through our own horrible marriage.
I stop that thought before it goes any farther. I don’t want to think about it, to relive any part of it. Don’t want the guilt to stain my current life more than it already has.
I get through the lecture and meeting, then grab a duffle bag from my office and head to the campus gym. After changing clothes, I run the indoor track, forcing the thoughts to disappear into the pounding of my heart.
Still it’s not enough and I lift weights until my muscles burn, then work the rowing machine as the light outside the windows fades.
“Good Lord. Take a break, why don’t you?” Kelsey strides into the gym, a duffle over her shoulder and her coat dusted with snow. “How long have you been here?”
I stop rowing and grab a towel to wipe the sweat off. My blood hammers, my muscles ache. “Don’t know. What time is it?”
“Almost six. I stopped by your office to see if you wanted to play racquetball, but you were already gone.”
“Yeah. I should get home. Liv’s probably trying to cook lasagna or something.” I swipe down the machine and loop the towel around the back of my neck.
I don’t like the way Kelsey is looking at me. Too sharp, too penetrating.
“Racquetball tomorrow, okay?” I say. At least if we’re playing racquetball, she can’t interrogate me. “I’ll meet you here.”
“Sure.”
To my irritation, she falls into step beside me as I head to the locker room.
“You and Liv want to catch a movie or something this weekend?” she asks.
“I don’t know what she has planned, but I’ll check.”
“There’s also the holiday art fair,” Kelsey suggests, “if you can stand Christmas wreaths and wooden Santas and enough goodwill to make you want to throw up.”
That makes me grin. “Sounds great.”
“Okay, then.” She stops before the door of the women’s locker room. “Racquetball tomorrow at four?”
“Be ready to get creamed.”
“You know I don’t mind being creamed by you, Dean.” With a wink, she heads into the locker room and lets the door swing shut behind her.
I head toward the men’s locker room. At least my relationship with Kelsey is the same. If I’d ever tell anyone what Liv and I went through, what we’re still going through, it would be Kelsey. The fact that I won’t underscores just how shitty it all is.
I shower and dress, then drive home. By now, I’ve come to expect the smells of cooking drifting from the kitchen, but there’s nothing except the scents of pine and holly.
Liv’s curled on the sofa watching the news. She turns to watch me enter.
I drop my duffle and briefcase on the table. “Hey. How was your day?”
“Okay.”
Her eyes are all puffy. She’s been crying.
Shit.
I sit beside her and pull her against me, brushing my mouth across her temple.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
She lets out a shaky sigh. “Me too. How are we going to fix this?”
The only thing I can think of is that I need to get the hell over it, but I don’t know how. All I know is that I drove her toward another man and… anger floods my throat.
“Will you come with me to counseling again?” Liv asks.
I want to say yes. I should say yes.
But I can’t stand the idea of a counselor gnawing at my problems. Expecting me to talk about more than I want to. Making Liv go through it all again. Telling me this is all my fucking fault.
“Maybe,” I finally say.
I pick up Liv’s hand and rub my fingers across the scar on her palm. Guilt punches me in the stomach. If I hadn’t stalked into her cooking class like a barbarian out for revenge, she wouldn’t have lost her concentration, wouldn’t have sliced her hand open with a knife.
Thank God there was no permanent damage, but she’ll always have the scar.
I need to stop punishing her. As much as I hate the thought of her kissing another man, this whole mess has been my fault.
I want to protect Liv from everything, but I can’t protect her from the truth. No matter how ugly it is. I know that now. I just need to remember it.
I run a hand down Liv’s back. “Hey, Kelsey wants to catch a movie or something this weekend. She also mentioned the holiday art fair.”
“The art fair’s this weekend?” Liv’s eyes light up. “I love the art fair. I’ve been wanting a new wreath for the front door. Oh, maybe we can meet Kelsey for breakfast first. The tearoom down on Poppy Street has a Saturday special with free cinnamon lattes. I’ll send Kels an email to set it up.”
She scrambles off the sofa and heads for her laptop. Her excitement eases some of my apprehension. For now.
***
Matilda’s Teapot is a nightmare of chintz tablecloths, china cups, frilly curtains and at least five tables filled with pink-cheeked grandmas. A plump woman in a floral dress and lace apron—quite possibly Matilda herself—guides us to a table.
As we sit down on the curved Victorian-style chairs, Kelsey shoots me a look. I shrug in defense and tilt my head toward Liv to indicate this was her idea.
“I heard they’re closing this place soon because the owner is retiring and there’s no one to take over,” Liv says. “It’s a shame because it’s such an institution.”
Kelsey rolls her eyes and opens the pink menu. “Do they have steak and eggs here?”
“Try the crepes,” Liv suggests. “With homemade berry preserves. They’re delicious.”
“I need something more substantial if I’m going to wade through piles of cheesy reindeer ornaments,” Kelsey says.
Liv looks a little crestfallen. “I thought you wanted to go to the art fair. Dean said you were the one who suggested it.”
Kelsey has the grace to appear contrite. “I know, I know. You’re right, it’ll be fun. They always have someone selling great fudge.”
The waitress brings our free lattes—both Kelsey and I also ask for black coffee—and we place our orders. Crepes for Liv, eggs and toast for me, quiche for Kelsey. Liv orders a side of scones and cream and a selection of tea.
I look at her. She’s leaning across the table, telling Kelsey about the holiday exhibition at the Historical Museum. The sight of her hits me in the chest. So pretty with her long hair and bright eyes. And so pure and damaged at the same time, like a priceless vase threaded with cracks.
“Dean?” Liv nudges me with her elbow. She and Kelsey are looking at me expectantly.
“Sorry.” I swallow some coffee, fighting the anger. “What?”
“Kelsey has tickets to Handel’s Messiah next weekend,” Liv says. “Do you want to go?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Kelsey frowns. “Why are you so spacey these days? Liv, did he tell you I beat him at racquetball twice this week? Mr. Competitive hardly tried to get off an offensive shot.”
Liv shoots me a glance. “He has a lot on his mind with the conference next year and his book.”
Kelsey’s frown deepens as she looks from Liv to me. I smother a rush of shame and turn to my food. Liv and Kelsey chatter on all through breakfast before I pay the bill and we head to the art fair.
Every year it’s held in a huge room at the convention center, with tables of arts and crafts for sale. The place smells like pine and cinnamon. Christmas music wafts from overhead speakers. We leave our coats in the coatroom and wait in a short line to buy tickets.
“I want to look at the wreaths first.” Liv grabs a basket at the entrance and heads into the crowd.
Kelsey and I follow. She tucks her arm through mine. “It’s still the baby thing, isn’t it?”
I haven’t even thought about the baby thing in weeks. “No.”
She doesn’t look as if she believes me. I watch Liv as she examines a table filled with Christmas wreaths. Her hair is pulled back in a messy knot, her cheeks flushed from the outside cold and inside warmth. She’s talking with one of the vendors, gesturing to a wreath, smelling some sort of flower.
“She’d be an amazing mother,” Kelsey remarks.
“Yeah.”
I feel her looking at me. “And you would be an amazing father.”
I don’t reply. She pulls me to a halt and turns to face me.
“You would, Dean,” she insists. “I know it.”