Spiral of Bliss: The Complete Boxed Set Read online

  I toss my shoes in the front closet and go into the bedroom to peel off my clothes. I take a quick and lovely cool shower, then dress in yoga pants and a T-shirt.

  The knots in my shoulders loosen. Being at home always makes me feel better. I love our pillowy bed with the thick, flowered comforter, the tiny kitchen with the white wooden table I sanded and repainted myself, the living-room shelves stuffed with books, the curved balcony overlooking Avalon Street.

  I towel-dry my hair and grab a brush to work out the tangles. My hair is straight as straw, but long, thick, and a deep brown that matches my eyes (“the color of coffee with cream,” Dean told me during one of his more poetic moments). I don’t bother drying it further, but leave it loose because I know that’s the way he likes it.

  After heading to the kitchen, I lean against the doorjamb and watch Dean set out plates for dinner. He’s changed into jeans that hug his long legs and a T-shirt emblazoned with a San Francisco Giants logo.

  My husband is a handsome man, built like an athlete rather than a scholar. Nine years older than I am, he’s tall with hard muscles and broad shoulders, his dark brown hair threaded with a few distinguished strands of gray.

  He has beautiful eyes, chocolate-brown and framed with thick lashes that offset the strength of his cheekbones and jaw. He also has a great deal of self-confidence and dignity, which show in his straight posture and in the measured way he speaks.

  No wonder, considering the man’s impressive pedigree. Bachelor’s degree from Yale, PhD from Harvard, postdocs at the University of Wisconsin and UPenn, fellowship at the Getty Institute, guest lectures at European universities.

  Two years ago he was offered a tenure-track position at King’s University, a private, prestigious university in Mirror Lake. He’s spearheading a new Medieval Studies program, which is the reason King’s enticed him to their faculty with a top-level salary and promises of project funding.

  I wasn’t remotely surprised by how much they wanted him.

  Dean glances up and smiles. My heart gives a pleasant thump. When he looks at me like that, his eyes creased with warmth, all his illustrious distinctions fall away and he’s only the man who loves and wants me.

  “How was your day, professor?” I ask, moving in for a proper hug. “Did you finish your paper on the medieval sins of passion?”

  He kisses the top of my head. “Excavation and archeology of a town originated by a castle of the Teutonic Order.”

  Of course.

  I tighten my arms around his waist. “Mmm. Dirty talk.”

  “Urban hierarchy.” He slides a big hand down to squeeze my rear. He could say anything in that deep voice of his and I’d go all fluttery inside. “Vernacular architecture. Topographical analysis. Flexible growth.”

  He bends to nuzzle my throat, his stubble scraping my skin rather deliciously, then slides his mouth up to capture my lips.

  Ah, good. His kisses are always so good. He cups a hand behind my neck to angle my head so he can fit his mouth across mine. Arousal blooms inside me swift and hard, banishing my earlier frustration as I part my lips underneath his and accept the hot sweep of his tongue.

  With a mutter of pleasure, he slides his other hand to the small of my back and pulls me closer. I press my palm against his flat belly, easing my fingers into the waistband of his jeans. When I start to explore farther down, he catches my wrist and gives a husky laugh.

  “Watch what you start, beauty,” he murmurs.

  “I intend to.” But I’m also hungry for dinner, so I reach up to kiss his chin and then ease away. “So what else did you do today?”

  “Worked on a conference presentation and summer lectures.”

  “What conference?”

  “Didn’t I tell you?” He frowns. “Atlanta. October. I’ll be gone for three or four days.”

  He reaches up to take a glass from the cupboard. The material of his T-shirt stretches over his upper arm. I slide my gaze to where the shirt rises slightly to reveal his muscular lower back.

  “Sorry, Liv,” he says. “Thought I told you.”

  I shrug. “Doesn’t matter.”

  It doesn’t, except that we’re not apart often, save a couple of times a year when he goes to a conference or on a research trip. Neither of us likes the short separations, but they’re good for us—gives me a chance to be alone, gives Dean a chance to learn what else is going on in the field. If you’re into Visigothic Iberia and Old Norse poetry.

  Which he is.

  “What’re you talking about at the conference?” I ask.

  “Visual culture in the Crusades. I’m thinking of constructing a course around the topic.”

  I turn to open the containers of Chinese take-out he must have picked up on the way home. He’s still talking, and while I like the sound of his baritone voice—as, I’m quite certain, his female undergrads do—I don’t understand much of what he’s saying since I’ve never taken a medieval history course.

  Still, Dean has said before that talking helps clarify his thoughts and ideas. So I’m happy to let him ramble, and he’s happy to have an audience.

  We sit down to eat sesame chicken and fried rice, and I give him a play-by-play of the events that ended up with me getting fired. When he starts in with the whole “wrongful termination” thing again, I lean across the table to kiss him and stop his tirade.

  “We have better things to do with our time,” I say before shooing him out of the kitchen so I can clean up.

  After putting away the leftover food and doing the dishes, I head into the living room. Dean has taken over the second bedroom as his office, so my own narrow desk sits at the living room window and looks out over the rooftops to the mountains and clear expanse of the lake.

  I power up my laptop and scan a few job sites. Web designer. No. Paralegal. No. Real-estate agent. No. Spanish teacher. No. Welder. Lord, no.

  “What about the library over at SciTech?” Dean suggests. He’s lying on the sofa, an intricate web of string like a cat’s cradle pulled taut between his palms.

  “Already applied. They turned me down because I don’t know whatever database system they use.”

  “I can ask about job openings around the university.” Dean tucks his forefingers into the string to create another pattern.

  “No.” I rest my chin on my hand and click another job site. “I’ll find something.”

  Sales associate. Cashier. Stock clerk.

  I’ve been hoping for more than retail, a job that will start me on a path toward something, but my lack of work experience makes that a daunting prospect.

  “There’s that bookstore over on Emerald Street,” I say, injecting a breezy it’ll be fine tone into my voice. “I’ll stop by tomorrow and see if they could use some help. And I can pick up a few more volunteer hours at the Historical Museum.”

  “With all the work you’re doing for the museum, you’ll be their first pick when a job opens up,” Dean says. “Same with the public library.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so. And remember that college kids have most of the summer jobs now. You’ll have more options when the fall semester starts.”

  Maybe. Feeling sort of down again, I close the laptop and push away from the desk. Dean unravels the string from his fingers and tosses it onto the coffee table.

  “Come here, beauty,” he says. “You need to be kissed.”

  I go to the sofa and sprawl out on top of him with a sigh. He feels so damn good. He has a gorgeous body—he’s all lean, tensile strength with a solid chest that makes me want to stretch against him like a cat in the sun. He puts his hand on the back of my neck and brings my mouth down to his.

  The disappointment drains from me. He’s right. I need to be kissed, and he’s the one who needs to kiss me.

  His lips
are warm and firm against mine, and shivers race over my skin as his hands slide down to grasp my hips. I part my lips on a sigh and let our tongues tangle together. He closes his teeth gently on my lower lip, eliciting a delicious little twinge that shortens my breath.

  I wiggle around, rubbing my breasts against his chest. He tightens his grip on my hips before moving his hands to the waistband of my pants. With a smooth stroke, he delves inside and spreads his palms over my bottom, pressing his fingers into the crevice. An ache pools through my lower body.

  “I think…” I lift myself to look down at him, my blood heating at the sight of the lust brewing in his eyes. “I think I need to be more than kissed.”

  “Yes, you do.” Dean pushes his hands underneath my T-shirt and opens the clasp of my bra with one twist, then rubs a hot, friction-laced path over my naked back. “I’ll take care of you.”

  “I know you will.” I sink against him and lower my mouth to his again.

  Our kiss grows urgent, Dean’s body tightening beneath mine. He eases a hand between us to work the buttons of his jeans. I uncoil to sit back on his thighs and watch the quick movements of his fingers. My heart hammers at the sight of the bulge pressing against his jeans, especially since I know well what’s underneath.

  “You’ve been waiting for me, huh?” I ask breathlessly.

  “Always.”

  I move off him to tug the jeans over his long legs. His erection tents his boxers, and I palm the hot, heavy length. Sparks fly through me with the anticipation of his tight flesh embedded inside me, stroking and pulsing.

  I inhale sharply and look up at Dean. His eyes are glazed with lust, his chest heaving with the force of his breath. He gestures toward my breasts.

  I grasp the hem of my T-shirt and pull it over my head, tossing it on the sofa along with my bra. His gaze rakes over me, and my nipples harden in delicious response. In one movement, Dean grabs me around the waist and brings us both to the floor.

  Even better than lying on top of him is the sensation of his weight on me, strong and powerful. He splays his hands over my breasts, rubbing his thumbs across my nipples before he bends to capture one in his mouth.

  I gasp and clench my fingers into his hair. Heat cascades through me, centering in the core of my body. I twist beneath him until he tugs at my pants and lowers them over my hips along with my underwear.

  “Ah fuck, Liv, you’re so ready.”

  His fingers brush against my damp sex, his cock pressing against my thigh. A flush sweeps me from head to toe when he kneels between my spread legs and pulls off his shirt, then shoves his boxers down.

  His erection is beautiful—long and thick, the heavy sac pulled tight. He opens a drawer of the end-table and takes out a foil packet. My pulse pounds as I watch him roll on the condom.

  He glances up at me, his eyes tracking over my naked breasts to my face. He puts his hand against me again, dipping one finger into the slick opening of my body.

  “Dean.” I push upward to deepen his immersion.

  A slight smile curves his mouth as he explores farther. His thumb swirls around my clit, his forefinger moving up one side and down the other. He knows exactly how to touch me, and within seconds I’m panting and gasping as the spool of bliss winds tighter.

  “Dean, I’m…”

  “What, beauty?” A teasing note underlies the lust in his voice.

  “So close…” I breathe.

  He lowers himself over me, his mouth coming down on mine, his tongue sliding across my lips. I grip his biceps and arch against him, craving that explosion of pleasure dangling just beyond my grasp. One press of his fingers and I come with a cry, my inner flesh tightening around him.

  With trembles still coursing through me, I wrap my legs around his hips and pull him closer. He thrusts into me hard and deep, his groan rumbling against my neck.

  “Oh!” I clutch his back and lift my thighs, swimming in the heat and sensation of him driving into me.

  I fall, swirling, swept into the exquisite pleasure of us rocking together, his flesh slamming against mine, the push-and-pull cadence of his hard plunges. My arousal spikes again, the friction lighting my nerves as his thrusts slow into the rhythm of his impending release.

  I edge my hand between our bodies to rub myself to another sharp orgasm, then glide my fingertips against his pulsing shaft. Our eyes meet with a sizzle in the instant before he slides out of me, rolling the condom off before grasping his cock.

  I’m hot all over watching the slick, easy movement of his hand, the tensing of his muscles and the way his thumb brushes the damp head of his cock. To ratchet up his urgency, I squeeze my breasts together and twist my nipples, then writhe around with shameless little movements that I know will send him over the edge.

  He groans deep, thrusting heavily into his fist as he comes long and hard over my belly. Panting, I push to my elbows to watch him finish himself off. After riding the final pulses, he braces his hands on either side of me and leans in to press his lips to mine.

  “You were right,” I murmur against his mouth. “I needed to be kissed.”

  “Very glad to help.”

  He lowers us both to the floor again, our mouths still locked together, then eases to the side so I can fold myself against him. A lovely, warm feeling like melted honey slides through me—a feeling I have only ever experienced with this man of mine.

  Once upon a time I didn’t know people like Professor Dean West existed. There had been no one like him in the tangled woods where I once lived, a place in which night fell too early and ogres lurked behind skeletal trees.

  He pulls me closer, his arm around my shoulders. His body is enveloping, protective. I fit perfectly, as always, into the space against his side.

  CHAPTER TWO

  August 9

  AFTER DEAN LEAVES FOR WORK, I clean the apartment and water the potted plants on the balcony, which is a lush little jungle of pansies, geraniums, daisies, and lantanas. Then I spend an hour curled up on a chair by the window, leafing through the Help Wanted sections of a couple of newspapers.

  Exotic entertainer. Plant manager. Sandwich artist. I circle “marketing assistant” and “animal care attendant,” even though I know nothing about marketing or animal care.

  It’s discouraging, this spread of black-and-white rectangles that each announce a profession I either can’t do or didn’t know existed (mold setter?).

  I toss the paper aside with a sigh. After Dean and I got married, I wanted to support him, wanted to be his solid ground while he established his career. I’ve been happy to do that for the past three years—I’ve enjoyed making warm, pleasant homes out of the utilitarian apartment we lived in during his fellowship position and now our little above-shop place in Mirror Lake.

  I’ve loved being Professor Dean West’s wife, watching his success and growing renown in academia. And I haven’t minded my temporary part-time jobs, because I’d planned to start a career path as soon as Dean settled into a tenure-track position.

  Except now we’ve been in Mirror Lake for almost two years and I’ve hit barriers at every turn: I freelanced for a local magazine that went under, I’ve been rejected for several jobs due to lack of experience, the King’s agriculture majors do all the work at gardening centers, and I quit a cashier’s job at a clothing store so I could take the assistant position at the art gallery.

  So much for that plan.

  After changing into shorts and a T-shirt, I walk several blocks to the gym where I work out five… okay, two times a week. I sweat through an aerobics class, shower, and go to meet my friend Kelsey March for lunch.

  Kelsey is an atmospheric scientist at the university, and of course I met her through Dean because they’re academic soul-mates and have known each other for years. She is one of the few people who refuses to fawn over him, whi
ch is just one of the reasons we both like her so much.

  She’s pacing in front of the Italian restaurant where we agreed to meet, her thumbs working the buttons of her smartphone, her stride brisk.

  As is her style, she’s wearing a tailored suit and button-down shirt, but she has this vibe that makes you think she’s sporting sexy lingerie beneath. Her frosted blond hair is cut in a sleek pageboy and embellished with a single streak of navy blue, which she flips back as she watches my approach.

  “You’re late,” she says, blinking at me through her rimless glasses.

  “Am not. Your watch is fast.”

  She punches a few buttons on her phone and holds it up. “Greenwich mean time.”

  “Because you would never consult Greenwich nice time.”

  “You got that right.” Kelsey smirks and shoves her phone into her bag as we head into the restaurant.

  We get settled into a booth, peruse the menus, and place orders of chicken marsala for Kelsey and butternut squash ravioli for me.

  “Hey, sorry about your job,” Kelsey says, poking a straw into her soda. “I can get you something at the AOS department if you’d let me.”

  “No, thanks.” I always balk at her and Dean’s suggestions that they can “get me” a job at the university. I know they don’t think I can’t find something on my own, but accepting their help might make me think that. “I have a few leads I’m looking into.”

  “Let me know if you change your mind,” Kelsey says. “The professors are pains in the ass, but overall the department’s not horrible to work for.”

  “Well, with that kind of resounding endorsement, it’s a wonder the AOS department doesn’t have applicants lined up around the block.”