by Nina Lane
She pokes at the remains of her chicken and glances at me. “What do you think?”
I don’t know how to answer that, so I play dumb. “About what?”
“Are we freakishly happy?”
Irritation pulls at me. She knows the answer, so why is she putting me on the spot? How the fuck can a couple be freakishly happy if the wife kisses another man? How can they be happy at all?
A swarm of anger fills my chest. I smother it with effort.
“If we were, we’d live in a circus,” I say, fighting to keep my voice even. “And no one on the outside looking in knows the full truth.”
It’s not what she wanted to hear. I can see the disappointment in her eyes, the slight hunch of her shoulders.
What the hell was I supposed to say? “Yeah, sure, we’re freakishly happy.”
Then she’d be mad because I was lying.
Fix this, West. Make it okay for her.
I go around to her side of the table and grasp her shoulders, pulling her up and against me. She settles easily into my arms like she always has, her hands sliding around my waist, her breasts pressing against my chest. She gives a little sigh of contentment that makes me want to both hold her forever and tear her clothes off right there.
Now I suppress the urge to do the latter. I tighten my arms around her.
“No,” I murmur against her hair which now smells like chicken piccata. “We are not freakishly happy. We are not freakishly anything. We’re two people who love each other. We had a tough time. We worked it out because we want to be together. Because we can’t imagine being with anyone else. Because we don’t want to be.”
She slips her fingers inside the waistband of my pants to stroke my lower back. Blood starts to pool in my groin, my prick pushing against her belly. She looks up at me, then reaches one hand down to palm my crotch. Although uncertainty flickers in her eyes, her tone is light.
“You want to hold that thought until I clean the kitchen?” she asks.
“Yeah.” I pull in a breath. “Sure.”
I close my eyes for a second, conjuring images of medieval saints and monastic architecture to will my erection away. Once I can move again, I help Liv clear the table before she gestures me out of the kitchen.
I go into my office and work on a paper about the Romanesque architecture of the Speyer Cathedral. Focusing on work has always been an easy out, a way to stop thinking about things I don’t want to think about. Years of study have taught me how to close off everything except triple-aisled basilicas and octagonal domes.
Liv would call that ability a “dorky professor thing.” I call it a survival technique.
Tonight, it’s nearly ten when I finally look up from the computer. The sound of the TV buzzes from the living room. I’d half-expected Liv to come find me, but she rarely comes into my office when I’m working.
I shove away from the desk and go into the living room. She’s lying on the sofa… asleep. She looks younger when she’s asleep and you can’t see the hint of shadows in her eyes. But I know they’re there.
Her ponytail is askew, fanning strands of long hair over the sofa cushion. I look at her face, her parted lips, the arch of her throat. Her breasts move with each breath. My prick hardens again. Her T-shirt has ridden up to expose the skin of her torso, pale and smooth.
I shift and wince as my erection grows thick against my thigh. I grab it and squeeze, feeling that familiar pull in my groin.
I tug a quilt over Liv, turn off the TV, and return to the bedroom. Close the door.
I stretch out on the bed and rub my dick through my pajama pants. Can’t help hoping Liv wakes up and comes into the bedroom. I want her mouth on mine, want to curl my fingers in her hair while she wraps her hand around my cock… Christ.
The images flash through my brain as I tug my erection out and start to stroke it. Urgency tightens my nerves. All I have to do is think of her—full, round tits bouncing in time to my thrusts, her lips parted and face flushed, the grip of her pussy around my shaft.
Pressure builds. I work my cock faster, driving myself toward release. My heart pounds. I imagine pressing my hands to Liv’s damp thighs, spreading her wider, sinking into her tight, wet heat.
I can hear her moaning my name, begging, pulling her legs up so she can feel every thrust, so she can take me deep. “Dean, fuck me harder… yes, just like that… oh, God… I’m going to come… I feel it… oh!”
I tighten my hand on my shaft and rub my thumb over the head. My spine tenses as the pressure snaps. I groan, semen spurting over my stomach as I imagine shooting deep inside Liv while she squirms beneath me and strains toward another orgasm.
I fucking love watching her come. Her whole body shakes, she wraps her legs around me, and digs her fingers into my back. Her throaty, little cries fire my blood all over again.
My wife.
I stroke my cock until the final pulses ebb. My breath is ragged. I grab a few tissues and wipe the dampness off, then stare at the ceiling.
Not long ago I’d have thought nothing of waking Liv up by rubbing her breasts or kissing her. She’d open her eyes and fall right into me, her mouth seeking mine. Instead, she’s asleep in the other room and I’m in here jacking off.
The last of the pleasure fades. Guilt pushes its way back in.
I should have told her years ago about my first marriage. Of course I know that. Numerous times I almost did. Then she’d turn her warm, brown gaze on me, her “You’re my hero” look that broke my heart in two, and the confession disintegrated in my throat.
What if I told her and that look changed? What if she wondered how much I was to blame for the disastrous marriage? What if she questioned my ability to deal with conflict? To solve problems? To fix things?
What if she thought I was weak, hadn’t treated Helen right, hadn’t done as much as I could have? What if she wondered what was wrong with me?
The questions knotted my brain until I’d finally shoved it all down and told myself to forget it. To focus on Liv, make our relationship a haven of warmth and safety. To love and protect her. To keep anything from hurting her more than she already had been.
That was all I wanted. It’s all I still want.
But I’m failing. I have no fucking idea how to fix what’s gone wrong in our marriage. I have no idea if my wife will ever again look at me the way she used to.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Dean
November 21
“THIS ONE IS CRUELLA DE VIL. The Queen of Hearts. Poison Ivy. Maleficent.”
That was when I knew I could fall hard for her, this girl with the long, dark hair who named her houseplants after villains.
The girl who tried to make something good out of something wicked. Who made me want to know her as much as I just wanted her.
I watch Liv as she plucks dried leaves from the hibiscus beside the window and checks the soil. She hasn’t named her plants since we got married. I haven’t realized that before. Now she says, “My amaryllis needs water,” or “My violets bloomed.”
Liv goes into the kitchen and returns with a small watering can. She waters all the plants, then opens the curtain to let in the first rays of sun.
“What happened to Cruella de Vil?” I ask.
“Cruella de Vil?”
“You haven’t named your plants since we got married.”
“Oh.” She looks faintly surprised by the comment. “No, I guess I haven’t.”
“Why not?”
Liv shrugs and tips the watering can over the last plant.
“After we got married, I didn’t need to make something good anymore,” she says, heading back to the kitchen. “I’d already found it.”
I drop the newspaper onto the coffee table. Try to stifle the bitter shame and guilt.
“I’m working at the bookstore until six.” Liv pauses in the kitchen doorway. “Do you want me to pick up anything for dinner?”
“No. I can grab something on the way home.”
Liv nods and goes into the bedroom. I wait for her to finish getting ready before going in after her.
She looks pretty and autumn-like in a russet wool skirt and blue sweater with little pearl buttons marching up the front. As I watch her brush her hair, I have a sudden image of unfastening those dainty buttons one by one to expose the creamy swells of her breasts. I want her to look at me with heat brewing in those brown eyes. I want to taste her.
“I’ll see you tonight, then.” Liv drops the brush back onto the dresser and peers at herself in the mirror.
My heart is beating too fast. Tonight sounds like an eternity.
“You have time for coffee later?” I ask.
“Sure. My shift at the Historical Museum ends at twelve-thirty, but I have to be at the bookstore by two.”
“I’ll meet you downtown, then.”
As she passes me in the doorway, I grab her around the waist and pull her against me. I lower my head to kiss her hard. A gasp stops in her throat. My blood heats. I increase the pressure of my mouth until she opens for me. Her body arches, her hand spreading over my chest.
You’re mine, Liv. Remember that.
Before jealousy can burn me again, I ease away from her and rub my thumb over her lips. “I’ll call you around one.”
“Okay. Love you.” She slides her hand against my chest again before she leaves. A few seconds later, the front door closes.
I go take a cold shower and change into a suit and tie, then head to the university. The town’s awake, people easing into their days. Students traipse across the frost layering the quad, huddled into coats and hats, grasping paper cups of coffee.
I stop at the main office of the history department. Exchange a greeting with Grace, the administrative assistant, and a few comments about the weather. After collecting the papers and mail from my box, I head to my office.
Halfway down the hall, I see Maggie Hamilton coming toward me. Tension and anger fill my veins. We both stop.
“Professor West.” She gives me an uncertain smile. “I was just coming to see if you were in your office.”
For a second, I don’t know what to do. I don’t want her in my office. I also don’t want to do this in the corridor.
I step toward my office and push on the door, wedging it wide open. “Come in.”
She follows me in. I move behind the desk to put it between us. I remain standing and cross my arms. My spine is stiff enough to break.
“I heard you approached my wife recently.” I dig my fingers into my biceps. Try to keep my voice low. “That was entirely inappropriate.”
She nods, looking contrite. “I know. I was just… desperate, you know? Nothing I do seems to be good enough for you.”
“No excuse. I could write a letter to Dr. Hunter as department chairperson about this, but I won’t as long as you change advisors.”
Maggie stares at me. “I can’t change advisors. You know that. It’ll delay my degree even more.”
“You should have thought of that before you…” …lied about my integrity.
I have a sick feeling that will open another can of worms, so I leave it alone. And all I need is to remember that my wife didn’t know whether or not to believe those implications.
My chest tightens.
“… before you chose your topic,” I finish. “It’s no secret how you got into the program, Maggie. If I’d been the Medieval Studies professor at the time, I’d never have approved your admission.”
Angry tears spring to her eyes. “Look, I know I wasn’t the best student, okay? But I’m here because I have to get good grades and a master’s so I can get into law school. If I don’t, I’m totally screwed. I’m going to stay with my parents so I can—”
I hold up a hand to stop her. “Go talk to the registrar about changing advisors. That’s all I can tell you.”
There’s a movement at the open door behind her, and one of the other grad students peers in.
“Jessica.” Relief eases my tension. “Come in.”
“I don’t want to interrupt.” Jessica glances warily from Maggie to me.
“It’s okay.” I give Maggie a pointed look. “We’re done.”
Maggie swipes at her eyes, glowers at Jessica, then stalks out of the office. An awkward hush descends. I move a few books off the desk so Jessica can put her backpack down.
“Sorry about that.” I wait for her to take a seat before I sit down in my office chair.
“Sorry you got stuck with her,” Jessica replies wryly as she unzips her backpack. “I know she’s under pressure from her father, but… well, anyway, I wanted to check in with you about my paper before Thanksgiving break.”
“Sure. What’ve you got?”
She pulls out some notes, and we spend the next hour discussing Foucault, dedicatory prologues of medieval illuminations, and cosmic imagery. It’s a welcome respite, and by the time Jessica leaves, my jagged thoughts have eased.
I get to work for the rest of the day. Organize notes, give a lecture on medieval monasteries, and head a grad seminar on visual culture. There’s a Medieval Studies meeting in late morning, then a few of the other professors and I go to lunch.
After we’re done eating meatball subs and discussing a course on Latin paleography, I step outside and call Liv on her cell.
“Hi.” She sounds breathless. “Are you at work?”
“Just finished lunch at the Boxcar. Where are you?”
“Deli down the street,” she says.
“I’ll come and meet you.”
I shut my phone and head to the intersection of Avalon and Poppy Streets. The Italian deli is crowded with lunch customers, so I wait outside.
Through the window, Liv is giving her order to the young guy behind the counter. He says something that makes her smile. He smiles in return, then gestures with his hands. She laughs.
Jealousy floods me fast and hard. I know that kid. His dad owns the deli. He’s friendly to everyone. And I fucking hate that just the sight of Liv smiling at him makes me feel like… like this.
I stalk away from the window and wait at the curb. My blood is hot with anger at myself for not trusting her, at her for not trusting me.
It’s a knife-like stab, the memory of Liv’s hesitation when I asked if she believed Maggie’s lies. Five years ago, when Liv and I first met, she’d never have thought I was capable of wrongdoing. Never. She wouldn’t have given me a chance if she had.
Liv steps out of the deli with a paper bag in one hand. She gives me a little wave as she crosses the sidewalk. She tucks herself against me for a hug and kisses my chin. Some of my anger drains.
“How was your morning?” Liv asks.
“Good. Busy.”
“I picked up our Thanksgiving turkey before my shift at the museum. Anything else you want for dinner?”
“Whatever you make will be great.” I pull her closer. “Let’s get a coffee, and I’ll walk you to the bookstore. My next class doesn’t start until three.”
She slides her arm around my waist as we walk. I wish it were enough to make everything okay.
“This is it!” Liv circles the entire Douglas fir and reaches out to skim her hand over one of the branches. “Nice and fluffy. There’s this space back here, but we can turn that toward the wall. What do you think?”
“Looks great.”
“Good.” She beams at me. She’s all bundled into her winter coat with her cheeks red from the cold. “Let’s get it, then. I’m going to buy some holly and mistletoe too. You get them to wrap the tree up, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She trundles off to the shack to pay, and I flag down a guy to wrap the tree in netting. We haul it out to the car and get it secured on the roof before Liv comes out with a bag containing enough holly to fill our living room and a bunch of pine boughs tucked under her arm. She has always insisted in getting our Christmas tree the weekend after Thanksgiving, as if she’s trying to extend the holiday season as long as possible.
“I’ll make us some hot chocolate when we get home,” she says after unloading her bounty into the backseat.
At home, we drag the tree into the foyer and up the stairs. Liv disappears into the kitchen to make the hot chocolate while I set up the tree in its usual spot beside the window.
“Perfect! I love it.” Liv hands me a mug of chocolate and puts another one on a table. “Let’s get the lights up. I already checked them, and they all work.”
I watch her as she puts on a CD of Christmas carols and unwraps the lights. There’s a pretty glow about her, a sense of anticipation that she always gets around the holidays as she decorates and plans, making Christmas into a freaking magical winter wonderland.
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.