by Nina Lane
“Relax,” he whispered, pausing to rub my clit again. “Ah, you feel good, Liv. So tight. Open wider now… just like that.”
He sank in another inch, his jaw clenched. Sweat rolled down his temple, and in the flickering firelight, he looked almost dangerous with his rigid expression and burning eyes. Sweat gleamed on the planes of his chest. I clutched the sofa and spread my legs wider, letting him in, wanting him right there.
He took hold of my hips and started to thrust, every stroke of his cock firing me with hot tingles. The rhythm increased, his plunges feeling like they were going even deeper, reaching a place inside me that only he could. Moisture dripped down my thighs. My body jostled back and forth on the sofa, my breasts bouncing with every thrust.
“Dean,” I pleaded when he plunged in again, hard enough that I gasped. “Oh, God, more… harder…”
“Tighten your pussy around me,” he ordered. “Yeah, like that… I want you to come all over my cock.”
His raw words spilled into me, and with one more flick of his fingers, I came with a cry of pleasure, my hips bucking toward him. As I was still convulsing around his shaft, he thrust deep and stilled, his own body vibrating with an orgasm. He groaned, low and heavy, his lips capturing mine in a hot kiss as the sensations slowly ebbed.
Our bodies went slack, both of us struggling to catch our breath. Dean moved to the sofa and put his arm around me, pulling me right into the space against his side where I always fit so perfectly.
I woke at three on Christmas morning, snuggled against Dean’s warm, naked body. I lay still for a moment, absorbing the sensation of him beside me, the pure rightness of how we felt together. It had always felt that way with him. Both then and now and—
An idea bloomed bright and clear in my mind, like the first frost of winter glinting with sunlight. I slipped out of bed, leaving Dean sleeping heavily, and pulled on my Merry Me pajamas.
I went into the kitchen and scrounged around for everything I needed—thankfully, over the past few months, I had brought enough stuff to decorate Dean’s utilitarian apartment that I was not short of craft supplies. After putting a note on the inside of the bedroom door reading Knock Before Entering, I closed the door and sat at the kitchen table.
I had two empty mason jars, a swatch of fine-grained burlap, a spool of gold ribbon, and a stack of parchment paper I’d brought over one afternoon to do some drawing. I wrapped the jars in burlap, fastened them with the ribbon, and painted the lids with sparkling gold paint. Then I carefully tore the parchment into strips and began to write.
Within two hours, I had filled both jars with strips of paper, and my soul felt as if it were brimming over with silver glitter. I made a label for each jar and glued them on over the burlap.
I checked the clock, which was nearing five-thirty, about the time Dean usually woke up. I hid the jars beneath a branch under the Christmas tree, concealing them further behind the wrapped gifts Dean had placed there. I cleaned up the bits of paper and ribbon and was making a pot of coffee when a knock sounded at the bedroom door.
“Come in!” I called.
He emerged, all rumpled and gorgeous in his low-slung pajama pants and no shirt, his jaw bristly with stubble. I tingled all over just looking at him.
“Hey.” He appeared faintly baffled at the sight of me. “You’re up early.”
“Thought I’d make the coffee, for a change.”
“Why did I have to knock?”
“I was making something for you, but you have to wait to see what it is.” I went around the counter to approach him.
He met me halfway across the living room, and we exchanged a warm kiss that tasted like toothpaste and a warmer embrace that felt like a homecoming.
“Merry Christmas.” Dean kissed the tip of my nose. “Should we open presents now or later?”
“Later. I’m going to make French toast.”
“Wow. You’re all kinds of domestic this morning.” He slid his arms around me and rubbed my bottom. “The caveman in me kind of likes it.”
“Good, then you can really be macho and go build fire.” I thumped his chest manfully.
“Yes, mistress.” He detached himself reluctantly from me.
“Mistress, huh? The woman in me kind of likes that too.”
Dean gave me a wink and a smile that made me all fluttery inside before he went to build a fire in the fireplace. I made an easy version of French toast and fried some bacon, then we sat down at the little table for breakfast. One of Dean’s colleagues had invited us to a Christmas party later that day, but aside from that we had no plans, except to lounge around the apartment together. Exactly the way we both liked it.
After breakfast, we sat cross-legged on the floor by the Christmas tree to exchange presents. I was suddenly a little nervous, not sure what he’d think of my spontaneous gift. He gave me several gifts I knew I’d always cherish, no matter what happened when June rolled around. A book of Emily Dickenson poems, a personalized journal and planner, a framed illustration of a knight on horseback, and a soft knit scarf, hat, and gloves set that I’d admired over a month ago in a shop window.
As I’d expected, he was pleased with the leather notebook and pen set, but as he leaned in to kiss me, I put my hand up.
“That’s not all.” My heartbeat increased a notch. I dug behind the branches for the two jars and set them in front of Dean. “This is what I was making for you.”
He lifted the jars and read the labels. Past First Memories. Future First Memories.
After giving me a questioning look, he opened the Past First Memories jar and took out one of the slips of paper.
“The first time we saw the butterflies in the Botanical Gardens,” he read, then looked at me again. “That was a really nice day.”
“It was also the first time you patted me on the ass, but I didn’t write that memory down.” I arched an eyebrow at him and plucked another paper from the jar. “Our first date dinner at the White Rose.”
“One of the best dinners of my life.” Dean took another paper and read, “The first brownie sundae we shared at that café in Mount Horeb.”
I moved to sit beside him as we read through all the memories we’d already compiled in the few months we’d been together. Some were spicy—the first time we made love… in the shower, in a car, in the kitchen… our first phone sex episode, the first time I came with you inside me.
Others were tender reminiscences I’d never forget. The first time you touched me, our first game of Scrabble, our first kiss, the first time you walked into Jitter Beans. The first time you spent the night on my sofa. Our first weekend away to Door County. The first time we shared a bottle of wine, worked the crossword puzzle together, danced, watched a movie. The first time we laughed so hard our stomachs hurt. The first time we stayed up all night. The first time you called me beauty.
When the scraps of paper were piled on the floor beside the jar, Dean reached out to put his hand on my knee.
“This…” He paused and cleared his throat. “This is amazing.”
My heart thumped. I put my hand over his. “There’s another one. But I don’t want you to think I’m…”
He paused in the motion of removing the lid of the second jar. “You’re what?”
“Um…” A flush heated my cheeks. “Moving too fast.”
Dean stared at me for a second before he gave a shout of laughter. “Olivia West, moving too fast? I’ve never waited for a woman as long as I waited for you.”
My flush deepened. It was true—I’d been so nervous and anxious that I’d asked him if we could take our relationship slowly, and had we ever. He had been exceedingly patient and kind, which was yet another reason I couldn’t imagine ever wanting to leave him.
“Make no mistake, beauty.” Still smiling, Dean leaned in to kiss me. “I’d wait for you an eternity longer.”
&
nbsp; Pleasure flooded my chest. Dean’s lips lingered on mine for a moment before he pulled away to open the second jar. He pulled out a scrap of paper.
“The first time we walk through the Louvre together.” He looked at me with faint surprise.
“Not now,” I said, tapping the label Future First Memories on the jar. “These are memories we still have to create… someday.”
Dean pulled out another piece of paper. “The first time you kiss me on a gondola in Venice. The first time we host a party, go to a baseball game, visit the Art Institute. The first time we call each other when you leave Madison.”
He paused. “Liv…”
“There’s more.” I gestured to the jar.
A lot more. I’d imagined so much about our future together, and only now—with the knowledge that our relationship didn’t need to have any kind of deadline—could I believe those imaginings might one day come true.
“The first time we take a train trip,” Dean read. “The first time we listen to an audio book together. The first time we go to the top of the Empire State Building.”
The first time we see the Coliseum in Rome. The first time we drive across the country. The first time I send you a letter in the mail. The first time you learn one of my passwords. The first time we hold hands on a mountain. The first time we see the sunset over the Pacific Ocean. The first time we find a sand dollar, ride a Ferris wheel, carve our initials in a tree trunk.
When the jar was empty, Dean put all the scraps of paper back in and fastened the lid. Without a word, he leaned against the sofa and pulled me to him. I nestled against his side, spreading my hand over his abdomen. I felt his gaze on me, and I glanced up. His eyes glittered in the light from the fire. A warm, electric current crackled in the air between us.
“Wait for me,” he said.
An overwhelming sense of hope rose inside me, like a bright, shining glass ornament mirroring the world. I stroked my hand upward and pressed it right over his heart. His heartbeat thumped against my palm—strong, steady, everlasting. Just like him.
“I’ll wait for you,” I promised. I had the sense I would wait for him forever.
Dean moved his hand around to the back of my neck and eased closer for a warm, lovely kiss that both anchored me to the earth and made me want to take flight. When he lifted his head, we were both breathing hard, the promise of more like a tangible thing between us.
“Merry Christmas, Dean,” I whispered.
“Merry Christmas, Liv.” He tugged gently at a lock of my hair and pressed his lips to my forehead. “Thanks for giving me a present I’ll never forget.”
Thank you for reading ADVENT. Please consider providing a review on Goodreads. I hope you enjoy Liv and Dean’s story.
We loved with a love that was more than love.
—Edgar Allan Poe
CHAPTER ONE
March 3
EVEN FROM THOUSANDS OF MILES AWAY, I can feel my husband. I feel his thoughts brushing against my skin, the beating of his heart in rhythm with mine. I feel him in the world, a powerful, unyielding presence who will forever be my source of safety and warmth. And because of that, the distance between us doesn’t seem quite so vast, and my aloneness not quite so alone.
Mirror Lake is beginning to wake from the hibernation of winter. Colorful, adhesive tulips, butterflies, and robins plaster the windows of the shops lining Avalon Street. The frozen surface of the lake is starting to crack, ice floes melting under the increasingly warm sun. Piles of snow still cap the surrounding mountains and line the streets of town, but the promise of spring clings to the air.
I put a coat on over my jeans and T-shirt and pull my long brown hair into a ponytail before heading outside. I stop at a coffeehouse to get two takeout coffees, then walk to Emerald Street and the Happy Booker bookstore. Big signs in the windows read Going Out of Business Sale.
I push open the door, deflecting a pang of regret. I’d offered to try and help my friend Allie Lyons save her bookstore by applying for a small business loan, but my loan application was denied, and we couldn’t bring in enough revenue to afford the raised rent on the building.
“Welcome to… oh, hi, Liv.” Allie straightens from a pile of books and pushes a tumble of red curls off her forehead. Twenty-seven years old and possessing an undaunted, boundless energy, Allie hasn’t let the loss of her business get her down.
“Morning, Allie.” I indicate that one of the coffees is for her and place the tray on the front counter. “What can I do?”
“I haven’t gotten to the children’s section yet,” she tells me. “The toys and stuff need to be packed up too, but let’s wait at least another week or so. Brent will be here in about half an hour with his truck to load some boxes.”
After taking off my coat, I head to the back of the store where the children’s section is located. The bookstore is closing for good at the end of the month, and we’ve started packing up returnable inventory and organizing sale tables and bins. I pick up an inventory sheet and get to work.
“Hey, Liv, there’s a bunch of freebies in the bin by the windows,” Allie calls. “I’m going to leave them outside starting tomorrow, so take what you want now. There’s something in there about medieval history that Professor Hottie might like.”
“Thanks.” I put a few picture books into a box and go to the bin filled with paperbacks.
I look through the books and set aside the one on medieval literature even though Dean probably already has it. I put a few more paperback novels in the stack.
“When’s he coming back?” Allie asks.
“Not sure yet. This phase of the job lasts until the end of July.” I try to ignore the clenching of my heart at the reminder that Dean is gone.
No, I remind myself. He’s not gone. He’s just away.
He had refused to leave, at first. It seemed as if nothing—not the dictate that he had to stay away from King’s University, not the threat to his career, not the sexual harassment accusation of a vindictive student—could force my husband to leave my side.
He’d spent the few weeks after the miscarriage hovering around me, desperate to do something to make it better. I soon realized that being there for me was his way of coping with the loss and his own anger, even though I held to the belief that he needed to be away from Mirror Lake. The opportunity to serve as an advisor on an archeological dig in Italy for the next six months was waiting for him, but he wouldn’t accept it, not if it meant being away from me.
Then one afternoon in mid-February, Dean went to King’s University to return some books. He saw Maggie Hamilton, the girl making the false harassment claim, at the library. Though they didn’t speak to each other, Frances Hunter, chairperson of the history department, came to our apartment later that day.
Frances was livid that Dean had dared set foot on campus when he’d been unofficially suspended. And she was even more upset by the fact that Maggie Hamilton’s father had contacted her with threats about obtaining a restraining order against Dean if he didn’t stop “stalking” Maggie.
“If you’re not careful, things are going to get worse than they already are,” Frances warned him. “A restraining order, Dean, for God’s sake. You won’t need a suspension from the university if Edward Hamilton hits you with a legal order forbidding you from going anywhere near King’s University. Do you think for one second we could keep that quiet?”
Then Frances had looked at me. Dean saw that look. And I knew exactly what hard conclusion he’d reached in that one instant—if he left Mirror Lake, if he removed himself as a target for Maggie Hamilton and her father, he had a better chance of keeping the arrows from hitting me. Protecting me was the only thing that could force him to leave.
He left for the airport at dawn the following morning. I could feel the sadness and anger radiating from him, and I almost wavered in my insistence that I couldn’t go with h
im because of my own responsibilities in Mirror Lake.
But I didn’t waver. He had to leave, and I had to stay.
“I don’t know where we go from here,” Dean said, reaching out to touch my cheek as we stood by the front door.
“I don’t know either,” I admitted. “But why does either of us have to know? There doesn’t always have to be a plan.”
“Yes, there does.”
I turned to pick up his travel bag. I know my husband. He likes plans and schedules. He needs to be in control. He’s accustomed to getting what he wants. The avalanche of recent events—our separation last fall, the miscarriage, and now the threat to his career—hit us both with unimagined and heart-wrenching force.
And he hadn’t been able to prevent or stop any of it.
In that moment, I thought of something I’d written in my manifesto a couple of months ago.
I will remember how it was when we first met.
How I cherished those early months of slow exploration, learning all the spaces of each other’s bodies and hearts. Feeling as if the world had narrowed to us alone, as if nothing could invade our intimacy. The place of Liv and Dean.
I followed him downstairs and out into the cold, gray morning. He unlocked the trunk of his car and hefted his suitcase and travel bag inside.
I watched him—my tall, handsome husband with his dark, rumpled hair and strong features enhanced by thick-lashed, brown eyes. His powerful body and broad shoulders that looked as if they could bear any weight in the world.
“Dean?”
“Right here.” He slammed the trunk closed, his shoulders tight.
“Remember the first few months of our relationship and how good we were?”
“I’ll never forget.”
“Me either.” I stepped closer to him. “So I was thinking that when you get back, maybe we could just… date.”