Always (Spiral of Bliss #7)

by Nina Lane

  Dean comes into the kitchen and stops, his eyes warming with appreciation as he looks at me, sliding his gaze over my body as if he’s already touching me. My skin tingles.

  I expect him to cross the room and haul me into his arms—just the thought leaves me breathless—but instead he continues watching me in that way of his, a look of both tender warmth and awe, as if even after all these years he still can’t believe the girl from Jitter Beans is his wife.

  I know, because I often look at him the same way.

  “Give me a kiss, beauty,” he says.

  With a smile, I close the distance between us. Our lips meet in a kiss as warm and good as hot cocoa on a snowy night, ear massages, the scent of cinnamon, honey melting over fresh-baked bread.

  When we slowly part, he tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear.

  “There’s a medieval doctrine of philosophy called illuminationism,” he tells me.

  I lift an eyebrow. “Is there?”

  “The philosophy states that humans need divine grace to aid their thoughts,” he continues. “Saint Augustine was an early proponent of the idea. He said a man couldn’t have full knowledge of the truth without heavenly intervention. The philosophy is also related to the idea of a divine light that banishes darkness and illuminates everything good and true.”

  I reach up to smooth his disheveled hair away from his forehead, gazing into his chocolate-brown eyes that will forever hold the key to unlocking my soul.

  “And do you possess this divine illumination?” I ask.

  “Of course.” He lowers his head to brush his lips across mine. “Her name is Liv West.”

  My heart goes into a slow, curving free-fall, like a feather knowing it will come to rest right in the palm of this man’s hand.

  “You are my eternal grace.” He brushes his lips across mine. “My divine light, the illumination of everything good and true.”

  He slides his hand up my midriff to my breast. “And you are without question my most heavenly body.”

  “Well,” I murmur, spreading my hand over his chest, “you’re definitely getting lucky tonight, professor.”

  “I’m already lucky. Luckier than I could ever have imagined.”

  I smile, curling my fingers into his T-shirt as our lips meet in another kiss. He moves his hands to the sides of my neck, tilting my head to just the right angle before delving his fingers into my hair. I sink against him, my body curving along his with the ease of a flower stem bending to the wind.

  The world slips away, distilling into the familiar touch of our lips together, the irrepressible desire that floods between us. Only when the timer on the stove dings do I pull away from him, pressing a series of kisses over his jaw.

  Twilight shines through the windows, dusky and golden, and birdsong rustles on the breeze. I dish up plates of pasta, Dean pours the wine, and we sit at the garden table to eat under the glowing lights.

  In the woods beyond, The Castle Two sits nestled in the trees, still beloved after all these years and kept in good condition for—maybe one day—our future grandchildren.

  Because both Bella and Nicholas have keys to the house and could change plans any second and come home, Dean and I go upstairs to the bedroom after dinner.

  He locks the door behind us, and we step into each other’s arms, a move as natural as a heartbeat. I still experience a sense of relief when my husband’s arms close around me, as if we’re locking together, as if the earth is settling into place, as if the planets and stars are aligning.

  Of course they are.

  A slow, languid heat rises between us. Dean twists his fingers into the straps of my sundress, his touch warm against my bare skin. He trails his lips from my mouth across my cheek and down my neck to my shoulder.

  I shiver, loving the scrape of his stubble, the tickle of his thick hair against my bare skin. Heat radiates from him, as if he’s absorbed the summer sun. I pull him toward the bed, wanting his strong body on top of me so I can arch against him like a cat stretching in the sunlight.

  I love this, cherish it like breathing, the return to a private island where my husband and I shed the roles of mom, dad, professor, mentor, volunteer, lecturer, café owner, cook, advisor, board member, consultant…the place where we simply return to the beginning of what we became.

  Wrapped in Dean’s arms, intoxicated by his kisses, I’m just Liv again, the starry-eyed girl who melts at his touch, and he’s the captivating man who loves me with an adoration that is more powerful and eternal than time itself.

  He undresses me slowly, working the buttons lining the front of my dress, his fingertips skimming across my bared skin. Delicious quivers rain through me. I shift to take off my bra as he slides my panties over my hips and lowers his head to press gentle kisses over my torso, up to my breasts, across my neck.

  He moves away only long enough to shed his clothes. Currents of heat pool in my belly as I gaze at his gorgeous body that I love so much—the smooth planes of his shoulders, his muscular chest, the thick erection that makes me clench my thighs with hot anticipation.

  Dean lowers himself on top of me, bracing his hands on either side of my head as I part my legs to let him inside. Our lips lock together in unison with our bodies, the push-and-pull movement that has the rhythm of the tides.

  I wrap my legs around his thighs, loving the heavy, deep thrust of his cock as he drives our need higher and higher. There’s no end to it, this pleasure that streams over us like water.

  I fall into the cascade, the world softening at the edges until there is only the delicious friction of our bodies, the press of his mouth, the feel of his hard chest against my breasts.

  Time coalesces, over twenty years falling away, and we’re in Dean’s former university apartment, indulging in each other for hours on a lazy Saturday afternoon. I’m twenty-four again, happy, excited, and eager to let this beautiful man show me how deliciously raw and uninhibited we can be together, how completely we can love each other.

  And oh, how we have loved across the years—often with the same hot, passionate fervor of our early days, but also with a rich, gentle elegance that over two decades together have given us, like a pearl slowly polished by time.

  My husband and I know and cherish everything—the flaring burn of lust that drenches us both in need; the easy, leisurely fucking like indulging in a decadent dessert; the emotional reconnection after a fight, the flirtatious teasing that leads to the sudden urgency of wanting each other right now, the sizzling excitement of dirty talk, the comforting predictability of turning to each other at the same time; the rough edginess of total control (his) and complete surrender (mine), the thrill of quick, secret interludes, and all the other unique, Liv-and-Dean nuances that paint our love with such intense, vivid colors.

  I thread my fingers through his thick hair as he lowers his head to press his lips across my throat, down to my breasts. His hands glide over me with smooth assurance, reminding me that in all of history, he—and only he—has ever possessed the instinct and knowledge to touch me in all the right ways. He is the man who has perfected the incomparable art of making love to me, of loving me.

  He thrusts into me again and again, his scruff tickling my skin, his muscles flexing beneath my hands. As the spool of bliss winds tighter, he stills, lifting himself over me and bringing his mouth down on mine the instant I come with a cry.

  Sensations tear through me, hot and intense, as I clench tight around him. He groans, burying his face against my neck as he surges deep inside me and surrenders to his own release.

  We fall against the pillows together, sweaty and breathing hard. Dean wraps his arm around me and pulls me into the space against his side where I will always fit so perfectly.

  As we catch our breath, his fingers linger on my left breast, absently tracing the decade-old surgery scar and radiation burns that are now concealed by a tattoo. An intricate design of flowers and vines surrounds an orange-and-black monarch butterfly, delicate wings arched and
poised to take flight. Nestled among the vines is an interwoven L and D.

  Dean has a smaller, matching version of the tattoo on the inside of his wrist, right where his pulse beats. We’d gotten the tattoos the fifth year I was declared free of cancer, and all tests and scans since then have come back clear. Though we never need reminding, the tattoos are small evidence of big things.

  Dean and I have walked through fire together and kissed in the moonlight, but one strong, glittering thread binds us more powerfully than anything else. Throughout this life of ours, we know we will always be us, one heart beating beneath all that we do and all that we are.

  A professor who showed a damsel in distress what it means to love and be loved. A student who learned how to trust that man alone with her body and her soul. A gentleman who waited for her. A barista who saved the freshest cookies for a certain handsome customer. A dorky medievalist who championed obscure foreign films. A girl who discovered she already had all she needed to become a woman. A man who protected her with every beat of his fiercely steadfast heart.

  Everything Dean and I were once upon a time, we are at this moment. We’ll forever be a white knight and his beauty who battled monsters and won. We’ll always be a husband and wife who never gave up, who still believe in library call numbers, rainy Saturdays, houseplants, string figures, coffeehouses, and lists of Important Things.

  We’ll always be Liv and Dean, who knew at first glance that we would do more than simply live a life together.

  We knew we would create a life together, one in which promises are kept, blessings are counted, and our marriage is the blissful haven to which we always return. We knew we would laugh, hold hands, cry, learn, argue, grow, cherish, and kiss an awful lot.

  And so we’ve done all those things and more. As the years pass, the medieval history professor and the girl from Jitter Beans will continue, with wild passion and tenderness, to love so very happily ever after.

  Thank you for reading the Spiral of Bliss series. I hope you enjoyed reading Liv and Dean’s story as much as I loved writing it. Please consider leaving a review, as they are always helpful and appreciated. Thank you!

  Click here to leave a review for ALWAYS ♡

  As I wrote this series, I loved the imagery of cupcakes, flowers, gardens, and Paris that emerged as part of Liv and Dean’s marriage.

  I’m delighted to have those themes revealed in THE SPIRAL OF BLISS COLORING BOOK, which features intricate illustrations hand-drawn by artist and author Victoria Colotta. A visual expression of hope and love, this is the book Liv creates when she draws pictures of “things that make her happy.”

  Proceeds from the sale of The Spiral of Bliss Coloring Book will be donated to the following breast cancer organizations: The Wisconsin Breast Cancer Coalition, Hope Chest for Breast Cancer, and The Metastatic Breast Cancer Network.

  A woman fleeing scandal. A town’s mysterious recluse. Lust and secrets collide in THE SECRET THIEF.

  Click here to discover this provocative romance.

  READ AN EXCERPT OF THE SECRET THIEF

  “Anything else for you?” A young man in his early twenties with a nametag reading Alex punches a few keys on the cash register.

  “I’ll have a coffee.” I study the chalkboard menu behind the café counter. “Café latte, please. For here.”

  “Ma, café latte for here,” Alex calls to a blonde woman in her forties who is putting cookies into the cold case.

  “Coming up.” The woman waves me toward the counter. “Two percent okay?”

  “Sure.” I pay for the books and hitch myself onto a stool. “You wouldn’t happen to be hiring by any chance, would you?”

  “Sorry.” She turns on the machine to steam the milk. “We’re a family operation, just me, Ned, and Alex when he doesn’t have classes at Ford’s. In the summer we sometimes hire another college kid or two, but we’re heading into our slow time of year.”

  She sets the coffee in front of me. “Did you try over at Seagull Inn? They sometimes start looking for holiday hires right about now.”

  “I’ll look into it,” I reply evasively. As if I’ll ever set foot in the inn or restaurant again. “I’m Eve, by the way. Just moved here about ten days ago.”

  “Welcome to Castille, Eve.” She extends her hand for a shake. “I’m Carol. What prompted your move?”

  “I inherited my uncle’s house over on Sparrow Lane,” I explain. “So does the job market pick up around here over the holidays?”

  She shrugs. “Depends. We used to get more people in town for winter, but tourism has dropped off a lot lately. What kind of job are you looking for?”

  “Anything I can get,” I admit.

  “There’s usually jobs over at the Hillman ski resort,” Alex calls from the cash register area. “When winter sports pick up, at least. Snowmobiling, ice fishing, snow-shoeing.”

  Given that I know nothing about winter sports, except that they’re cold and involve things like blades and poles, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be at the top of a hire list. Then again, beggars can’t be choosers.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I say. “Thanks for the tip. And the coffee.”

  I pick up my books, slide off the stool, and head toward the door. Buttoning my coat, I push it open. Just as I step outside, my body comes up against something rock-solid and strong.

  I stumble backward, my heel tilting off-balance. My bag of books falls to the sidewalk. Two large hands close around my arms, steadying me. Though the touch is one of mere polite assistance, my reaction is totally disproportionate as my heart crashes against my ribs and shock floods my veins.

  “Easy.” His voice is deep and all-encompassing, like the roots of an oak tree spreading beneath the earth.

  Easy? The word sounds odd, incongruous to my life. Nothing has been easy of late.

  I struggle to regain my composure and pull away from his grip. Aside from a few brief handshakes, I haven’t touched, or been touched, by a man in close to a year. I’ve smothered all my desire and physical urges, blaming them for instigating my downfall. If I hadn’t been attracted to David, if I hadn’t let him do what he did, none of it would have happened.

  Now I don’t know what to make of my reaction to a stranger. Even with a foot of space between us, my pulse is racing and my skin is hot.

  Trembling, I reach for the books I’ve dropped. He bends at the same time and picks them up before I do. He straightens and hands them to me. Our fingers brush, sending a shiver clear up my arm.

  “Are you all right?” he asks.

  I nod. He’s big, well over six feet tall, his presence blocking the street, his shoulders broad and his chest wide beneath a charcoal button-down shirt. I force my gaze from his shirt front up to his face.

  A hot sensation breaks open inside me, melting the ice lodged inside my chest. Gray eyes, the color of a granite wall, regard me from beneath thick black eyebrows. His features are strong and bold, the angles of his cheekbones sloping down to a square jaw dusted with stubble and a well-shaped mouth. His dark hair, long enough to brush the back of his collar, is messy in an unintentional way, as if he’s been dragging his hand through it.

  The rest of the world fades into black and white, all color distilling into the gray of his eyes.

  A sense of unreality washes over me, as if I’ve seen him before, but through a dream blistered with eroticism, the kind I used to wake from hot and aching.

  He steps away, then stops. His gaze arrows in on my face with a perception that is shockingly intimate, as if he can penetrate right down to my core. That look arcs into me like a shooting star, exploding heat through my blood.

  What the…?

  I can’t move, can’t break my gaze from his. Sudden tension laces through his body, tightening his shoulders.

  ““I…I need to go,” I stammer.

  “Wait.” He moves forward, closing his hand around my wrist.

  I should be alarmed, but his grip is warm and tight, his fingers resting
against the pulse beating wildly under my skin. Rather than controlling, his hold is steadying, the way an anchor keeps a boat from drifting. I catch his scent—all things I like. Salt and citrus, autumn leaves, the faintly bitter smell of ink.

  “What’s your name?” Urgency threads his voice, like he not only wants to know my name, he has to know. Is compelled to know.

  “Eve.” Why am I telling him?

  “Eve.” He says my name as if he’s tasting it, rolling the letters across his tongue, over the surface of his teeth, before swallowing them whole.

  I have the sudden sense he can do the same to me, like Red Riding Hood and the wolf.

  I drag in a breath and twist my arm from his grip. The loss of contact, the sudden cold, reminds me who I am and why I’m here.

  “I have to go,” I repeat.

  He backs away, one hand up as if he doesn’t want to scare me. Not that he could. I’m afraid of men who wear tailored suits, of lawyers, consultants, administrators, board members. He doesn’t seem like any of those things. With his dark, messy hair and whiskered face, his storm-gray eyes, he’s like a force of nature, untamed and unkempt.

  Move, Eve. Walk back to the car. But moving would require breaking eye contact, dissolving the hot sensation melting inside me, letting the cold back in.

  My god. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to feel.

  I tighten my grip on the books. “Who are you?”

  His mouth compresses, a shutter coming down over his gray eyes. “No one you want to know.”

  Stepping back, he breaks the spell holding us together. He walks away, his long stride taking him to the end of the block in seconds. He turns a corner and is gone.

  I pull in a breath. A surreal feeling washes over me, as if I’d imagined that whole encounter. Dreamed it up from some deep part of me that still longs to be touched.