Awaken: A Spiral of Bliss Novel (Book Three)

by Lane, Nina

  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, stretching me. I can’t move, can only grip his shoulders and hold on.

  Sensation drenches me—the wall against my back, my legs spread over his arms, his shaft thrusting up and into me again and again, his deep groans vibrating against my skin. Our bodies slam together, the slick sound of fucking filling my ears, the scent of sex flooding my nose. My head falls back, my hair sticking to my damp skin.

  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.

  He presses his forehead against mine, his chest heaving, his fingers digging into the undersides of my thighs. Sweat drips down his temple.

  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, my sex clenching around his thick shaft. 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.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Dean

  iv is still sleeping, half-buried under the covers, her hair spilling over the pillows. I bend to press a kiss against her cheek, breathe in her peachy scent.

  I go into the kitchen to start the coffee, liking the familiarity of being back in our apartment. I haven’t been here in weeks. Out of habit, I glance at the clock a few times, even though I have nowhere I need to be anytime soon.

  Deflecting a stab of irritation, I take two mugs from the cupboard. I’ve never had nothing to do, nowhere to go. There have always been classes, work, lectures, research, meetings. As much as I hated being away from Liv, she was right when she told me I had to go to Altopascio or I’d go crazy just sitting around.

  “Is it really almost seven?” Liv shuffles out of the bedroom in her nightshirt, rubbing one eye and yawning. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

  “I didn’t know I should. You’re never up before seven.”

  “These days I’m up by six,” Liv says. “Got work to do. Oh, hey, look at you standing in our kitchen all shirtless and sexy.”

  I smile and extend my arms to her. She walks into them, burrowing against my chest, her body warm and soft. I press my mouth to her hair and tighten my arms around her. Exactly where we both belong.

  To my unexpected pleasure, we fall into our old routine with ease, as if we’ve never been apart, as if I’ve been here all along. I pour the coffee, she sets the table, I make eggs, she gets out the bread for toasting and brushes up against me whenever she passes by.

  Exactly the way it’s supposed to be.

  After breakfast, Liv gets ready and leaves for the day. I answer emails and phone calls about the Altopascio dig before going to meet Frances Hunter at a nearby coffeehouse.

  “Sorry I’m late, Dean.” Frances stops by the table, trying to balance a coffee, a wet umbrella, and her bag.

  I stand to help her, and she mutters a few complaints about the rainy weather before settling in across from me.

  “You look tired,” she remarks.

  “Jet lag.”

  “How’s Liv?”

  “Fine.” Better than she’s ever been, probably. That thought eases my apprehension about what Frances might have to tell me this time.

  “How’s her café coming along?” Frances asks. “I read an article in a professional women’s magazine about it.”

  “The article is out already?”

  “The
latest issue came out just a couple of days ago,” Frances says. “It was a great article, all about the history of the building and the tearoom, and how Liv and some friends are turning it into a children’s café.”

  My pride in my wife knows no bounds. I make a mental note to stop at the store and buy the magazine.

  “Well.” I pull my cup toward me. “All the more reason I need to put an end to this nightmare.”

  “Just a few more weeks, Dean,” Frances says. “May twentieth.”

  “What about it?”

  “That’s when Ben Stafford will make his recommendation about the case.” Frances removes the lid from her coffee and takes a sip. “If he determines there’s enough evidence against you, he’ll go to the board of trustees and recommend that they pursue the case. If not, he’ll close the file.”

  “Then what happens?”

  “Either you get formally suspended or you return to your job.”

  Her tone is so matter-of-fact—either you get regular or decaf—that I almost laugh.

  “That’s it?” I ask.

  A smile cracks her face. “Easy, huh?”

  “Christ, Frances.” I shake my head and take a gulp of coffee. “With Hamilton like a fucking bloodhound… What if he keeps up with his own damned investigation?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugs. “Really, though, I don’t imagine he’d discover anything that could be used against you. At least, nothing Ben Stafford wouldn’t also know about. Unless there’s something you haven’t told us.”

  “Nothing relevant to this. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “For what it’s worth,” Frances says, “the board of trustees is very impressed with your work on such a prestigious dig, not to mention your IHR grant and the conference. Even if Stafford does recommend further investigation, I’m certain the board will be… lenient. None of the board members want to lose you, Dean.”

  My jaw tightens. “But if this cluster-fuck gets turned over to them, everyone knows about it. And with Hamilton still dangling his donation to the law school in front of them… Forget it, Frances. I’m screwed.”

  She doesn’t respond, but we both know it’s the truth. Even if by some miracle I escape this alive, any confidentiality would be shattered. Faculty, students, administration… all of them would know that a female student accused me of harassing her.

  And as much as I hate Crystal Winter, she was right about one thing. The stigma will never go away.

  “Will Stafford interview my other students?” I ask.

  “Not unless he recommends that the board pursues the case.”

  “Which we both know he will.” I stare out the window. “This is a fucking nightmare, Frances.”

  “I know.” She hesitates. “Look, if it’s any consolation, your reviews are outstanding. I’ve no doubt every one of your students will vouch for your integrity.”

  Sure. While they’re being asked questions like, Has Professor Dean West ever made suggestive comments to you or touched you inappropriately?

  “There’s not much recourse against a false claim of sexual harassment, Frances,” I say. “Even my lawyer admitted that. The fallout is brutal.”

  She doesn’t respond.

  “Jessica Burke told me Maggie is spreading shit about me to the other students,” I continue. My chest is tight. I have the sick, pervasive sense again that there’s no way out of this. “It won’t be long before something gets out about me harassing her, even if Stafford doesn’t want the board involved.”

  “I’m sorry, Dean,” Frances says.

  Though I know she really is sorry, I also know there is nothing she can do.

  I push away from the table. “Anything else?”

  “No. Just hang in there.” She looks down at her coffee, her face etched with lines of frustration and disappointment.

  Guilt stabs me. Frances was the one who hired me. And now she’s had to waste a ton of time and energy on this investigation. If it goes to the board, she’ll take some heat too, not to mention having to be the one to explain it all to the rest of the history faculty and all the students.

  As I pass her chair, I pause to put my hand on her shoulder. Apologies crowd my throat. Finally I manage to say, “Thank you.”

  She puts her hand on mine and nods. “Say hello to Liv for me, Dean.”

  Liv.

  I have a sudden urge to see my wife. I say goodbye to Frances and head outside. The rain has stopped, sunlight breaking through the gray clouds and warming the spring air. I walk down Avalon Street and turn toward the café.

  As I approach the Historical Museum, a white-haired lady in a pink suit and little hat crosses the sidewalk to the front steps. She pauses and peers at me with one of those I know you looks that elderly ladies often have.

  “Nice afternoon,” I offer.

  “Yes, it is,” she agrees. “Aren’t you Olivia’s husband?”

  “I am.” I extend my hand. “Dean West.”

  “Of course.” She smiles as she closes her gloved hand around mine. “Florence Wickham. I’m on the Historical Society’s board of directors. We met at last year’s holiday party.”

  “I remember. It’s nice to see you again.”

  “You too. I thought you were out of town.”

  “I was. I’m back now.”

  “Lovely. We adore Olivia, Dean. Her new café sounds just delightful.”

  “She and her partners are doing amazing work.”

  “I told her that my granddaughter is the assistant superintendent of the Rainwood school district,” Florence informs me. “She has many contacts in the area with parent organizations, and she’s very excited about the Wonderland Café. And even with all that work, Olivia has been so helpful with our Butterfly House campaign.”

  Heat slides through my veins at the memory of what Liv and I did at the Butterfly House. I return Florence’s smile. “She’s been enjoying the research.”

  “You’re a historian, isn’t that correct?” Florence tilts her head toward the museum doors. “Would you mind giving me your opinion on something?”

  “Sure.” I hold open the door for her, then follow her inside and back to the offices.

  “We’re trying to raise the money to restore the house to its original structure.” Florence takes out a bunch of photos and documents and spreads them over a long table. “But we’re having a terrible time with the zoning laws and such, which is hampering our fund-raising efforts. And because it’s such a prime piece of land, we’re worried the city will pressure us to sell it to a developer, who would demolish the house.”

  “That would be a shame.”

  “Yes. We want to apply for government grants, but we must emphasize the historical value of the home. That’s what Olivia has been working on, and we’re going to submit photographs as well. As a historian, what elements of the house itself would you consider most important?”

  I pick up a photo and study it. “The architectural features that are most distinctive to the time period and house style. Like these decorated gables, the polygonal tower, the wraparound porch. And interior features like the wooden relief panels and plaster medallions.”

  Florence blinks. “We haven’t been inside yet.”

  “Uh, I meant… I assume the house has features like that.” I clear my throat. “Why haven’t you been inside yet?”

  “We need to thoroughly clean it, but we don’t have the money or staffing.” Florence shrugs. “That’s the reason most things are delayed.”

  “I could help with clearing it out.”

  She glances at me. “You mean the interior?”

  “Sure. I’d just need a dumpster. There’s some furniture you might want to keep and restore, but there’s also a lot of stuff from previous remodeling jobs that can be thrown away.”

  “How do you know that?”
>
  Though this might get me in trouble, I admit, “Liv and I went into the house a few weeks ago. Just to look around.”

  “Oh.” Florence looks intrigued. “And you say there’s still furniture?”

  “It’s pretty much a mess,” I tell her. “But if you want, I can start to go through it all. I’d be able to tell what’s worth saving and what should be tossed. Then I can take pictures of the interior features that are historically important.”

  “Oh, how wonderful, Dean!” A smile breaks over her face, crinkling her eyes. “We would love for you to do that. I’m afraid we don’t have the funds to pay you, but—”

  “I’m volunteering,” I say. “I’m on leave from the university this semester, so I’ll be glad to have something to do.”

  Florence claps her hands in excitement and gives me a warm hug that smells like talcum powder.

  “I’m heading to a board meeting right now,” she says, gathering up the documents and photos. “I’ll tell the other members about you. They’ll be thrilled. We’ve been wanting to get started on the interior, but just haven’t had the resources.”

  She pauses at the door. “Was Olivia able to locate the keys? I didn’t think anyone had found out where they are yet.”

  “No, but I don’t need the keys.” Though I realize I’m admitting to breaking and entering, I suspect Florence won’t mind. “There’s a way to get in through the side door. I just have to squeeze through.”

  “Oh.” She tugs one of her gloves up her wrist, eyeing me with speculation. “Well, you are quite the expert at squeezing into tight spaces, aren’t you, Dean? Out of them too, I imagine.”

  She gives me a smile and a little wave before heading off.

  I have no idea what she just meant by that, but then again I don’t have much experience dealing with elderly ladies.

  I take out my phone and text Liv that I’m heading up to the Butterfly House. I stop to get a toolkit and other supplies out of our storage garage, then drive to where the house sits on its huge parcel of land.