Allure Page 11

  “Is that… is that the way you touch yourself when you’re alone in bed?” she whispered.

  “When I’m thinking about you, yeah.” I tightened my fist, pressure collecting in my groin, my head flashing with raw images of all the things I wanted to do to her.

  “Do you think about me a lot?” She twisted her nipples, still watching the movement of my hand.

  “Every night. Can’t during the day or I’d be arrested for obscene behavior.”

  She smiled. “You get turned on whenever you think of me?”

  “Can’t help it.” I slid my hand up the shaft of my aching prick and rubbed my thumb over the head. “You make me hot.”

  “You make me hot too.” She squeezed her breasts again, then squirmed a little and pressed her legs together.

  “Are you wet?” I asked.

  She exhaled a shaky breath. “Yes.”

  “Come here.”

  “What?”

  “I need to touch you.” I needed her to touch me too.

  She rose and approached me. She looked incredible, all flushed and aroused with her naked breasts swaying and her ponytail spilling over her shoulder. She gathered her skirt, pulling it up before she straddled my thighs and sat back on my knees. Her desire-filled eyes tracked down my torso to where my cock stood up rigidly between us.

  I loosened my fingers from my shaft and reached out to touch her. She shuddered. My prick throbbed as I flicked my thumbs over her nipples, rubbing the soft underside of her breasts. I wanted to thrust my cock into her cleavage.

  She clasped the material of her skirt. She wiggled her ass against my thighs. I could feel the heat burning through her panties. I eased my hands under her skirt, moving my palms slowly up the smooth length of her legs. She was looking at me, her breathing rapid.

  “Okay?” I asked.

  She nodded and put her hand on my chest, then leaned in to kiss me. Her soft mouth opened over mine. A moan spilled from her as I edged my finger under the elastic of her panties where it encircled her thigh. Lust fired my blood when I touched her cleft. Her kiss deepened. She slipped her tongue into my mouth before lifting herself up and brushing her fingers over my erection.

  My teeth clenched. “Wait.”

  “Sorry, did I—”

  I grabbed her waist. “Come closer.”

  She shifted closer and settled her hands on my shoulders. The sweet scent of her filled my head. I took one of her nipples between my teeth and tugged lightly. She gasped.

  “Dean, I’m…”

  I pushed her skirt up farther. No scrap of lace for her, but plain cotton panties that stretched down over her hips to cover her sex. I wanted to rip them away and sink deep inside her. Instead I took a hard breath and pulled her closer so my prick nudged between her legs. She trembled.

  “Go ahead.” I stared at the apex of her thighs where my straining cock pushed against the damp cotton of her panties.

  She flexed her fingers on my shoulders and gripped my shirt. Bracing her knees on either side of my hips, she shifted and rubbed herself against my erection.

  “Dean… you’re so big… that feels…” She shifted again. Her breasts bounced.

  Need pulsed through me. The friction of the cotton against the head of my cock increased the pressure. I slid my hands under her skirt to hold her ass and guide her down again. Her cleft rubbed against my shaft.

  She twisted her hips. Sweat trickled into the hollow of her throat. I yanked her closer so her breasts crushed against my chest. I could feel her nipples through my shirt. She worked herself harder, rubbing her cloth-covered pussy against my erection. Little moans emerged from her parted lips.

  “I need to touch you,” she gasped, reaching down to spread her hand over my shaft. “I need you… right here…”

  She wiggled closer and positioned herself so the head of my cock pressed her clit. The sensation of her wet heat through the cotton almost sent me over the edge. Blood pumped through my cock. The tension grew.

  I gripped her thighs. “Liv, I’m going to come.”

  “Wait. Let me…” She stroked the head of my cock against her, her muscles straining. Most of her hair had escaped her ponytail. The long strands fell over her face and forehead in a mess of tangles. “Oh God. I’m… oh.”

  She let out a cry as her body shook with tremors. Explosive pleasure boiled inside me. I grabbed my shaft. Liv kept writhing her clit against my prick. The sight of her all quivering and sweating was too much to take. Within seconds, I came with a groan, shooting all over her cotton panties.

  Liv shuddered, her chest heaving as she lifted her skirt to look at the semen dripping down her thighs. She rubbed a hand over my damp prick and glanced up at me with those big, brown eyes that revealed everything and nothing.

  “There is so much I want to do with you,” she whispered.

  A groan caught in my throat. I speared my hand into her hair and pulled her toward me for a hard kiss that made my blood pulse all over again. She softened against me, her body pliant and yielding.

  “You have no idea what I want to do with you,” I muttered.

  “Well, then.” She shifted, her naked breasts rubbing against my shirt, her ass sliding over my prick. “You’ll just have to show me.”

  Oh, I will. I breathed her in and sank my face against her shoulder.

  It was good for my ego, showing her how hot things could be, watching her arousal, getting her off. It was good for me too, this blinding spell of release. Staggered my senses. Obliterated everything except us alone.

  I tightened my hands on her hips. A sudden dizziness filled my head.

  Us. Alone.

  Exactly the way I wanted it then.

  Exactly the way I want it now.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Olivia

  January 19

  ou’re sure you want to do this?” Over the phone, Allie sounds worried. And her anxiety doesn’t exactly inspire me with a bucketload of confidence.

  “Yes, but I can’t promise I’ll be any help.” I scroll down the loan application on my computer screen.

  I’ve filled out all the information as best I can, though I didn’t list any of Dean’s financial information as collateral. Shortly after we married, Dean merged our finances—or, more accurately, made me joint owner of all his accounts. I still have my own checking and savings accounts, but I haven’t used either very often since we got married.

  “Did you get the business plan I sent you?” Allie asks. “Brent helped me revise it, so it’s solid.”

  “Yes, I’ve already included it. Here’s the bank guy’s info, in case he contacts you.” I give her the name of the loan officer with whom I’ve corresponded about the application. “I’m sending it right now, so he said we should hear back soon.”

  “Okay. I’ll let you know if he calls. Thanks, Liv.”

  We chat for a few more minutes before hanging up. I turn off my cell phone and stare at the meager numbers on my loan application. I am struck, with sudden and unwelcome force, by the realization that I do not have collateral of my own… or much of anything else either.

  Dean pays the rent on our apartment, plus bills, groceries, and utilities. I have full access to our joint checking and savings accounts, credit cards, investment accounts, stocks, bonds—but all the money is Dean’s. He pays the credit card bill. He even pays for my subscriptions to a few gardening and entertainment magazines. His assets are the reason he established a living will and trust, and why he is already laying the groundwork for including the baby in everything.

  I take a breath and hit the send button to submit my loan application. Your information has been received and will be processed shortly.

  Fear ripples down my spine.

  Without my husband, I have so little of my own. I do
n’t know how I let that happen. All those years of trying to stay on my feet, plant myself somewhere—leaving my mother when I was thirteen, finishing high school, the full scholarship to Fieldbrook College, even battling the aftermath of what happened there, then finally graduating from the University of Wisconsin—all of that was supposed to set me on a path toward self-reliance.

  I close my laptop—a birthday present from Dean last year—and push away from the desk. The bedroom door is open, but no noise drifts up the stairs from either the kitchen or the living room. Dean has gone out for a run, and I have no idea where his mother and sister are.

  I also haven’t seen Helen Morgan since we arrived a few days ago.

  I go downstairs. Everything is silent and still, aside from the slight movement of the curtains in front of the open windows.

  Taupe walls and ceramic-tiled floors dominate the rooms, accented with mission-style, walnut furniture, colorful pottery and paintings, and lush area rugs. I look out onto the garden, which hasn’t changed since the first and last time I was here five years ago. Huge, potted plants line the terrace around wooden patio furniture tossed with bright, overstuffed cushions.

  Whoever decorated the West home would have a field day with that big house Dean wants to buy in Mirror Lake.

  I pause at the fireplace in the living room. Framed photographs line the mantel and the built-in bookshelves on either side. I remember them—all pictures of the Wests smiling at the camera or displaying some accomplishment.

  There’s one of Dean accepting his doctorate, another of Richard West shaking hands with the governor and various other people, Paige’s graduation picture, Joanna receiving some award. Archer West is the least represented, with only two photos of him as a gap-toothed boy and one of him in a formal family portrait.

  I stare at the image of Archer West. Dean had said that his brother was on his way back from LA. I assume that means he’ll be here any day now.

  Ignoring a flash of apprehension, I go into the kitchen and open the refrigerator. I have no idea what anyone’s dinner plans are, but I figure it won’t hurt to make something.

  Buoyed by the idea of being useful, I scrounge around and decide to make chicken with onions and garlic, roasted asparagus, and rice pilaf. I’m halfway through mixing up a marinade when the front door opens. Paige’s and Joanna’s voices drift into the kitchen.

  “Oh.” Joanna stops, her gaze going to the counter where I’m working on the mise en place. “Hello, Olivia.”

  “Hi.” I give her a little wave, keeping my voice cheerful. I am no fan of either Joanna or Richard West, but I’ll be damned if I’ll contribute to this family’s tension. I’m going to do exactly what I told Dean I would do—be here for him and prove myself to the Wests.

  “I just thought I’d make a few dishes,” I say.

  “That’s nice.” Joanna puts her handbag on the counter. “I’m going to go and take a little nap. Paige, don’t bother waking me for dinner.”

  After she leaves the kitchen, I glance at Paige.

  “How’s your father?”

  “Anxious to get the surgery over with.” Paige watches me as I start to peel an onion. “Helen is planning to join us for dinner.”

  “That’s fine. There’s plenty of chicken.”

  Paige gives a short nod before going into the living room. I peel a few cloves of garlic, losing myself in the mundane tasks of chopping, slicing, seasoning. The door bangs open again and Dean comes in, sweaty and energized from his run.

  “Smells great.” He grabs a bottled water from the refrigerator.

  I wrinkle my nose at him. “Unlike you.”

  “Point taken.” He drops a kiss on the back of my neck and goes upstairs.

  I finish marinating the chicken, wash and season the asparagus, and start the rice. Calculating I can have everything on the table in an hour, I follow Dean upstairs to change into something nicer for dinner.

  I pull off my jeans, glancing at myself in the full-length mirror on the wall. I’m nine weeks pregnant and definitely growing. My belly bulges outward and my breasts are tender, but my nausea has waned. And I feel sexy, which is unnerving since it seems wholly inappropriate to want to be turned on when my husband is in the middle of a family crisis.

  Then again, sex has always been an important part of our relationship—an intensely personal dynamic that we established early on. Even if hormones account partly for my lustiness, there is also the undeniable knowledge that Dean and I haven’t yet had a chance to focus entirely on us again.

  Soon, I promise myself, thinking of the fantasy exchange I suggested and the possibility of renewing our vows. Or getting matching tattoos.

  Amused by the idea of Professor West sporting a tattoo of an anchor or a heart, I dress in a gray skirt and white blouse. I smooth the skirt over my hips and hope it doesn’t look as tight as it is beginning to feel. I’m fastening on a pair of earrings when Dean’s cell phone rings on the nightstand.

  “Your phone’s ringing,” I call over the sound of the shower.

  “Can you get it?” he shouts back. “Might be the realtor.”

  I pick up the phone and look at the caller ID, not recognizing the number. “Dean West’s phone.”

  There’s a crackle of noise, then a man’s deep voice. “Hello? Is that Liv?”

  “This is Liv, yes.”

  “Liv, it’s Simon. Simon Fletcher.”

  “Simon?” I smile with affection, picturing the big, bearded friend whom Dean has known since his graduate school days. “Where are you?”

  “Tuscany. Can you hear me?”

  “Yes. Hold on a sec.” I move toward the window under the unscientific belief that it will improve the connection. “Simon, how are you?”

  “Great. I’m on sabbatical for the year to work on a dig. Medieval monastery not far from Lucca. Been here for three months now, spent the holidays in Rome. It’s good to hear you. How’re you and the professor?”

  “Fine, thanks. We’re in California right now, visiting his family.”

  “Yeah, I called King’s, and they told me he’d be back when the semester starts. I wanted to congratulate him on his IHR grant and see if I can talk him into a trip out here. Tried to get him to join us last semester, but he said things were too busy. I just heard a group from Cambridge is coming down in the next month. They’ve got enough money to bring Dean on as advisor when we start excavating a new area. Bunch of people here’d like to see him again too.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful.”

  “I’m sending him an email with all the info. You want me to CC you on it? I’ll send the link to the excavation diary.”

  “Sure, I’d love to read about it.” I turn at the sound of Dean emerging from the bathroom. He’s rubbing his hair with a towel as he looks at me inquisitively.

  “Simon Fletcher,” I tell him, pointing to the phone. “Simon, hold on. Here’s Dean.”

  Dean tosses the towel onto a chair and takes the phone from me. A grin breaks out on his face as he hears Simon’s booming voice. “You’re calling from Altopascio? How’s it going? What have you found?”

  They engage in a great deal of talk about the Camaldolese monastery—excavation of a perimeter wall, a burial site, sacred objects, plans for the different areas—before Dean falls silent, apparently listening to Simon’s proposal to join the team.

  I watch my husband, recognizing his anticipation at the thought of an excavation, the uncovering of secrets hidden in each new discovery. He hasn’t had much chance to do fieldwork since earning his doctorate, and I know he misses it. He loves being outdoors, going on field surveys, the manual labor of digging in the ground and working with tools, the diversity of consulting with technicians, excavation crews, scientists.

  “I don’t see it happening this semester, but maybe sometime la
ter,” Dean says into the phone.

  I shake my head to stop his refusal and indicate that he should call Simon back. They talk for a few more minutes before Dean ends the call with a promise to be in touch. He tosses the phone onto the bed and looks at me.

  “Dean.” Even though I know this is a long shot, I feel the need to try. “You should go.”

  “No way.”

  “I could come with you.”

  “Liv, I’m not going to Italy when you’re pregnant. And neither are you. Besides, I have classes this semester.”

  “King’s would let you take a few weeks off, especially with the IHR grant.”

  “It would be more like a few months, if I agree to serve as advisor.” Dean reaches for the towel and loops it around the back of his neck. “California is as far as either of us is traveling. And as soon as we get back to Mirror Lake, we’re staying there until the baby is born.”

  “You won’t go on a dig anytime soon after the baby is born either,” I say. “This might be your last chance for quite a while.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Dean approaches me. The delicious, soapy scent of his skin curls through me like a ribbon. “I’m not going.”

  I gaze at the hollow of his throat, where a single drop of water lingers. He puts his hand beneath my chin and lifts my face so our eyes meet.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks gently.

  “I just feel like this is something you should do.”

  “I don’t want to, Liv.”

  “If I weren’t pregnant, you would go.”

  “What’s the point of thinking about what either of us would do if you weren’t pregnant? You are pregnant. I couldn’t care less about a dig. You’re all that matters, and I’m not leaving you.”

  “It’s strange though, isn’t it?” I reach out to brush the drop of water from his throat. “Thinking about all the stuff that will change.”

  “Yes, it is. Which is exactly why I’m not leaving you.”