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  My breath quickens. I shift to the side so I can pull his trousers and boxers off and drop them to the floor. He’s watching me, his chest rising and falling with his own rapid breaths.

  I grasp his shaft and lower my head to take him in my mouth. He tangles his fingers in my hair. The taste of him floods me. I close my eyes and breathe, tightening my fingers around him. He pushes his hips upward. I put a hand over his hipbones to keep him in place.

  I can feel his tension, his urge to thrust. He wants to fuck my mouth, but he won’t. Not yet. After a moment of adjustment, I slide my mouth over him, stroking my tongue over the pulsing vein on the underside of his shaft. My heartbeat resounds in my ears, a renewed arousal coursing through me.

  I wrap my fingers around his cock and pump, keeping my lips sealed around the tip. Dean fists his hand in my hair. A groan rumbles from his chest. Strain coils through his muscles. I take him in deep again, my hair falling across his thighs, his stomach.

  I sense it instinctively, that moment when his control is on the verge of breaking. I move off him, our gazes clashing with hot understanding. He grabs my waist and rolls me onto my back, nudging my legs apart with his knee.

  In one movement, he sinks into me, the sudden hard length of his cock jarring a cry from my throat. “Dean!”

  “Oh, fuck, Liv…” He shifts, muttering another curse as restraint winds through him. He pushes his hands beneath my thighs. “So damn good.”

  I writhe beneath him, my breath scorching my lungs as I take him in deep. The impact of his thrusts shake my body, the buttons of his open shirt gliding deliciously over my damp skin. I grip his shoulders, seeking his mouth with mine, wrapping my legs around his hips to lock our bodies together.

  I’ve spent the last weeks craving exactly this—the press of my husband’s powerful body against mine, the full weight of him on top of me. I’ve longed for him to take me, reclaim me, promise me I will always be his. I’ve been desperate to surrender to him again.

  He pulls out, pushes forward, again, again, until we’re rocking and thrusting in an exhilarating rhythm that is both familiar and gloriously new. I clench around his cock, the friction sparking excitement over my nerves.

  I need no other stimulation except my man on top of me, stroking me from the inside. Bliss explodes in a collision of stars at the same instant that Dean pushes so deep I feel him in my bones. His groan vibrates against my skin as he comes inside me, his fingers gripping my thighs.

  “Christ.” He rolls off me and we lie there, gasping as we catch our breath, still cocooned in the haze of lust.

  I push to one elbow, turning to face him. He looks beautiful, sated, with his shirt open and wrinkled, his skin damp with sweat. He pulls the shirt off and drops it to the floor.

  “Come here,” he says.

  I curl my body against his, gliding my hand across his abdomen.

  This is easy. If we could fix everything by pleasuring each other, we’d already be back in a place where there are no doubts, no mistrust. No fear. But as good as sex has always been between us, we both know it’s not enough. I don’t know what will be enough.

  “Dean…”

  “We’ll talk tomorrow, Liv.” He tightens his arm around me and brushes his mouth against my temple. “Right now I want you naked against me. I want to wake up cold because you’ve hogged all the blankets. I want to feel your leg between mine, your hair in my face, your arm flung across my chest. I want to find myself on the edge of the bed in the morning because you’ve sprawled all over the mattress. I want to sleep with you.”

  I move closer to him and tuck my face into the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Breathe in the scent of his skin. Feel his heart beating against my palm. This, at last, is right where we both belong.

  Christmas morning. The sheets are a cocoon of softness, warm from the heat of my husband’s body beside me. I turn to look at the clock. Four a.m.

  I’ve rarely woken early on Christmas morning. As a child, I hardly had a chance to believe in Santa Claus. I have a vague memory of being five years old, my father still alive, my parents still together. That was perhaps the last time I fell asleep on Christmas Eve with the excited expectation that there would be presents beneath the tree the next morning.

  Now I’m wide awake. I press a hand to my stomach. I listen to the rhythmic sound of Dean’s breathing. I think of my mother and wonder where she is.

  I ease closer to Dean and run my hand over his chest, down to his abdomen. I gaze at his face, all masculine planes and angles offset by his dark eyebrows. I brush my fingers over the rough whiskers lining his jaw. He shifts, his eyes opening. Beautiful eyes, chocolate-brown and laced with golden flecks like hidden treasures.

  “Merry Christmas,” I whisper. My whole body eases with the knowledge of how right it feels to be beside him again. How completely wrong our separation was.

  “Nice to wake up and see you here,” he says.

  “Nice to wake up and be here.” I hold up my left hand, palm out. “Remember?”

  “I remember.”

  He puts his left palm against mine. Our wedding bands make a soft click as they touch, then I slide my hand over so our palms align. We twine our fingers together. Dean rolls to his back and pulls me against his side, our linked hands resting on his chest.

  “Did you ever make any travel plans for winter break?” I ask. “You’d talked about wanting to get away. Someplace warm, maybe.”

  “I wouldn’t make plans without you. But we have time, if you want to go somewhere. The spring semester doesn’t start until February.”

  “No.” I rub my cheek against his shoulder. “I just want to stay here with you.”

  He kisses my forehead. “Hey, I haven’t had a chance to tell you my good news.”

  “Tell me.”

  “You know that fellowship from the Institute for Historical Research? Because of the success of the Medieval Studies program, the IHR committee recommended me to the board of directors. Found out last week that they awarded me a five-year grant.”

  I lift my head to stare at him. IHR grant recipients are the most respected, renowned scholars in their field, given the coveted award for their outstanding contributions to research. Every scholar wants an IHR grant, but only an exceptional few are chosen.

  “Oh, Dean.” My voice catches. “That’s wonderful.”

  He looks both pleased and slightly embarrassed. “Yeah, it’s a pretty big deal.”

  “No one deserves it more.” I give him a tight hug. “I’m so proud of you.”

  “Comes with a hefty stipend too, which never hurts.”

  “With this kind of award, King’s is bound to give you tenure soon.”

  Which means that his position at King’s University will be permanent, and Mirror Lake really will be… home.

  I’m not sure how I feel about that. I spent most of my childhood, most of my life before Dean, feeling displaced and unsettled. I never thought I’d find a place that would feel like home. Even now, the idea of living in the same town for the foreseeable future, of calling Mirror Lake our home, seems strange.

  “Some professors do get tenure after a short time, but I’ve only been at King’s a couple of years.” Dean shrugs. “Still, the grant is great for both my career and the department.”

  “And us.”

  “Always us.”

  I smile, both happy and not surprised by my husband’s seemingly endless accolades. I ease away from him and push the covers aside. “Just for that, I’ll even make the coffee this morning.”

  I feel the heat of his gaze as I climb out of bed. Awareness slides through me, so welcome after the strain of recent weeks.

  I catch sight of Dean’s wrinkled shirt lying on the floor. I pull it over my shoulders and slip my arms into the sleeves. The familiar scents of shaving
soap and Dean himself cling to the material. I button the shirt and roll up the sleeves, loving how the sensation of the cotton folds is like a memory of my husband enveloping me.

  I go to take a pair of panties out of my dresser.

  “No,” Dean orders, watching the curves of my breasts beneath the shirt.

  The burn in his eyes makes my nipples harden. The sheets are tangled around his legs, exposing his muscled chest and torso, the tantalizing line of hair disappearing beneath the edge of the sheet. Now more than ever, he takes my breath away.

  I shiver, aware of the lingering dampness of my sex, the pulsing in my blood. I can still feel him between my legs, a faint throb that reminds me with every step of how deeply he fucked me.

  “You want me indecent?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  He slides his gaze to my bare legs. Already desire is unfurling inside me again, like a bright purple streamer.

  I drop the panties back into the drawer and go to brush my hair and teeth. I peer at myself in the mirror, pleased to see that I look exactly the way I’m supposed to—a tousled, well-satisfied woman whose eyes hold the expectation of even more marital bliss.

  After splashing water on my face, I head into the living room. I switch on the Christmas tree lights, then go to make coffee.

  It’s a cold morning. I turn up the thermostat and look out the window. Puddles of light spill from the streetlamps lining Avalon Street. No new snow, but the promise of it clings to the air.

  “Did you check under the tree for a present?” Dean is standing in the bedroom doorway, his chest bare and pajama bottoms slung low on his hips.

  “Yes, but you weren’t under there.”

  He grins. It’s the old, hint-of-wicked Dean grin that I haven’t seen in far too long, and it melts any wariness still threading my heart. I go to peer underneath the tree. A large box wrapped in blue paper and a red ribbon is pushed behind the tree and concealed by the branches. A smaller box sits on top of it.

  “Dean, what…”

  “Don’t lift them. They’re heavy.”

  He nods toward the sofa for me to sit down, then picks up the boxes and puts them on the coffee table in front of me. The big red ribbons are perfectly tied.

  “When did you get these?” I ask.

  “About a week ago. Open them.”

  I tug the ribbon and tape off the bigger box. Slowly I peel the paper away and stare at the contents. It’s a set of gorgeous, top-of-the-line, stainless-steel cookware—two frying pans, a sauté pan, two saucepans, and a stockpot.

  “This… this must have cost a fortune.”

  “If you’re going to cook well, you need the best equipment.”

  Tears sting my eyes as I open the smaller box to reveal an eleven-piece set of exceptional Shun knives.

  Cookware and culinary knives. Maybe not romantic to anyone else, but no other gift from my husband could say more. And he bought them a week ago, before our still-fragile reconciliation.

  “Thank you.” I look up at him. “Thank you so much.”

  He reaches out to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. “Well, if you cook, I get to eat. It’s a win-win.”

  “I didn’t get you a present.”

  “Yeah, you did.” He bends to kiss my forehead.

  Ah, lovely warmth. I wrap my arms around his waist and press my mouth against his hard, ridged torso. He tangles his fingers in my hair and laughs.

  “Careful.”

  “I love you.” I squeeze his very nice rear, then pull away to gather the torn wrapping paper. “Thank you.”

  “Now you have to make me eggs and bacon for breakfast.”

  I open the cookware box to take out a shiny frying pan. “Yes, sir.”

  “Sir, huh?” He winks at me. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  It takes me an hour to get breakfast going because I have to read all the instructions on how to wash and care for the cookware and the knives. Since it almost seems like a shame to use such expensive equipment for a meal as mundane as scrambled eggs, I get out a flowered linen tablecloth and set the table with white plates and cloth napkins.

  Then I fry the bacon and scramble the eggs with some parmesan cheese and dried basil. It’s unexpectedly sexy to be making breakfast for my husband while wearing only his shirt and nothing else.

  I fill Dean’s mug with coffee, then take a pad of paper and draw:

  I stick the note to the mug as Dean approaches the kitchen, sniffing the air.

  “Wow,” he remarks. “Smells good in here.”

  “You’ve done it now.” I hand him the mug. “You’ll never get me out of the kitchen.”

  “I never want you out of the bedroom either, but I’m open to negotiation.” He reads the note and smiles, leaning over to kiss me. “Great drawing.”

  I pat his cheek, then set our food on the table while Dean sits down. When I return to the table with a plate of toast, there’s a note beside my fork.

  I laugh. “Lovely sentiment, but why did you draw a picture of a smiling butt?”

  “A what?”

  “A smiling butt.” I hold out the note.

  “That’s a coffee bean.”

  “Oh.” I squint at the picture. “Well, I guess I finally found something you can’t do very well.”

  He frowns. “I’ll have you know I used to draw intricate comic books when I was a kid.”

  “Of course you did.” I put the note on the table and sit down. “Superhero knights, right?”

  “Captain Lancelot Versus Dr. Mordred was my most epic work.”

  I smile. My white knight. Both tenderness and heat soften my heart as I look at him, all rumpled masculinity with stubble coating his jaw and his hair curling over his ears. He meets my gaze, a responding warmth filling his eyes.

  I pick up my mug to take a sip of coffee. Dean reaches across the table to take the cup away from me.

  “What…?”

  “We’ll have to buy some decaf,” he says. “You’re not supposed to have caffeine when you’re pregnant.”

  Crap. I forgot. There’s probably a lot of things I’m not supposed to do now that I’m pregnant.

  I eye Dean with a touch of wariness. As unnerving as it is to admit, I know that neither of us is ready for a baby.

  I started thinking about having a baby a few months ago, but then everything went to hell between me and Dean. I found out he’d kept a previous marriage a secret from me, one that involved three miscarriages and a bitter divorce.

  Then in the midst of my own confusion and hurt, I made the mistake of kissing the man who was teaching a cooking class I’d enrolled in. Dean and I have barely gotten past all that, let alone figured out whether we want children.

  Too late for that now.

  We haven’t talked about the pregnancy since I discovered it only yesterday. I haven’t even processed the idea, and probably neither has Dean. Especially since just the subject of a baby caused conflict between us, not to mention that we hadn’t agreed to try…

  My stomach knots with apprehension and guilt. I rub the scar on my left hand, the physical evidence of how wrong things went between me and my husband. Dean glances at the movement. His mouth tightens.

  “So, um, how about that?” I pick up my fork. “I’m pregnant.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Fine, actually. I only checked because I missed my period. I should make an appointment with Dr. Nolan, I guess. I know she handles prenatal care and delivery, in addition to family practice.” I can’t read Dean’s expression. I can’t make sense of the sudden jumble of emotions crowding my chest. “Will you go with me to the appointment?”

  “Of course I’ll go with you.” A crease appears between his eyebrows. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

>   “I didn’t know.” I poke at the eggs with my fork. “I’ll call Dr. Nolan tomorrow, if the office is open.”

  I sense his gaze on me and glance up at him. He puts his hand on my arm.

  “I’ll take care of you, Liv,” he says. “No, we didn’t plan on having a baby right now. Yes, we’re still getting back on our feet. But I’ll do whatever it takes to make this easy for you. Whatever you need, whatever you want, I’ll do it. We’re going to be fine.”

  His voice is a deep caress of certainty. Though I’m grateful for his assurance, I’m aware that I don’t share it. Yet.

  “We’ll talk to the doctor first and go from there,” Dean says. “Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I squeeze his hand and we finish eating our breakfast. We spend a quiet day together—we clean the kitchen, play Scrabble, make love again, watch a movie. Dean does some work in his office, and I wash and organize the rest of my new cooking equipment. I also open the present from the holiday party, which turns out to be a gift certificate for one of my favorite places in Mirror Lake—an old-fashioned tearoom called Matilda’s Teapot.

  “Do you want to pick up the rest of your things from Kelsey’s?” Dean comes into the kitchen, looking scruffy and delicious in torn jeans and a faded T-shirt.

  I close the cupboard door and turn to face him. I don’t want to ask the question, but I have to. “Do you think… do you think maybe it’s too soon?”

  “No, I don’t think it’s too soon.” He frowns. “Do you think it’s too soon?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “As much as I miss you, with this pregnancy now and… well, everything else...”

  “I want you to come home, Liv.”

  “I know. I want to come home, too.” I’m also scared to come home. Scared of what we have to deal with, scared of hurting each other again, scared that things won’t be the same as they once were.

  Dean moves closer and tugs me into his arms. My whole body weakens as I press my forehead against his chest and breathe in his familiar scent. He puts his hand on the back of my neck and kneads the tense muscles.