For the First Time: Twenty-One Brand New Stories of First Love (24 page)

A flush of pleasure rose to my cheeks. I picked up a decorated cookie and held it to his mouth. He took a bite and made a noise of pleasure.

“I really need to finish these,” I reminded him.

“You’re as hard-working and dedicated as an elf in Santa’s workshop,” Dean remarked, releasing me and taking the gingerbread from my hand. He leaned his hips against the counter as he polished off the cookie. “It’s kind of annoying.”

“You could help, you know.”

“I’d rather watch.”

“Suit your elf.” I shrugged.

Dean gave a half laugh, half groan and reached for another cookie.

“Stop it,” I said. “But I’m glad you like them. You’re good for my elf esteem.”

“I think I have to break up with you now, Olivia.”

“Well, that’s a shame,” I remarked. “I thought we had a pretty good thing going. After all, when I think about you, I touch my elf.”

Dean laughed and gave me a gentle swat on the behind as I turned back to my work.

*     *     *

The morning of
Christmas Eve dawned cold and bright, a light crust of frost decorating the windows. The aroma of coffee drifted from the kitchen, and beside the full pot was a note from Dean that he’d gone out for a run and would be back within the hour. I made myself breakfast and sat at the table, leafing through a home-improvement store catalog and wondering if he could use a power saw or a new toolbox.

I’d never gotten a man a gift for Christmas, aside from maybe some art project I’d made at school for my father. But that was more years ago than I cared to remember. I showered and dressed, then brought my stock of homemade cookies over to the cookie exchange and headed downtown.

I spent a few hours wandering in and out of the shops along State Street, looking at watches, books, clothes, camera equipment, even a funky desk lamp shaped like an electric guitar. Aside from the fact that I couldn’t afford anything too expensive, nothing really caught my eye.

Finally I decided on a pen set and a nice leather notebook. I knew Dean would both appreciate and use them both, but they still didn’t seem quite right.

When I returned to the apartment, he was on the phone. By the sound of it, he was talking to a colleague about his upcoming trip to Paris to study the Sainte-Chapelle cathedral.

“I have a meeting at the
Centre des Monuments Nationale
the morning after I arrive,” he said into the phone. “But I should be free in the afternoon. Did you talk to Philippe about the restoration panels?”

I walked past Dean into the bedroom, my chest tightening. Though I often teased him about the dorkiness of being a professor of medieval history, there was no question his work was often both grand and mysterious. He was one of the leaders of an elite, illustrious club whose members knew about vernacular literature and ecclesiastical authority, and who traveled the world to study the most esoteric parts of the past.

I waited until Dean was off the phone before returning to the living room. He was standing by the window, his arms crossed and a strangely set look on his face, as if he’d made a decision about something.

“So do you want to go out for a Christmas Eve dinner?” I asked. “Or I could make spaghetti and meatballs.”

“Come to Paris with me.”

My heart jolted into my throat. I stared at him.

“What?”

“Come to Paris with me,” Dean repeated. “You’ve never been there before, right?”

Mutely, I shook my head. Aside from a couple of brief excursions across the Canadian border with my mother, I’d never been out of the States.

“I’ll be there for about two weeks,” Dean said. “I’d love it if you’d come with me.”

Against my will, a thousand images filled my heart and mind. Dean and I walking hand-in-hand through the Tulieries. Stopping in front of paintings and sculptures at the Louvre while he explained all the details of their aesthetics and history. Sitting at a window table at a café, sipping cups of espresso and alternating our attention between the street outside and each other. Lamp-lit bridges, majestic facades, buttery croissants, intricate stained glass windows glowing with color and sunlight.

“You’re serious?” I asked.

“Of course I’m serious.”

“I’m… Dean, I can’t go to Paris with you.” The words almost hurt.

He frowned. “Why not?”

I paced to the other side of the room, trying to banish the images that had surfaced so easily. “I can’t afford it, for one thing.”

“You don’t have to. I’ll pay.”

“I can’t let you pay.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not right.”

“I can afford it, Liv. I’m inviting you, so I’ll pay. But if it makes you feel better, most of my expenses are covered by a grant.”

“But I… I have to work. I’m already on the January schedule at Jitter Beans.”

“So quit.”

“Quit?” Irritation stiffened my spine. “I can’t quit. Do you think I’m working there for fun?”

“No, I—”

“I need that job to pay my rent because my scholarship only covers tuition,” I interrupted. “And you think I can just quit and jet off to Paris with you? What the hell am I supposed to do when I get back?”

My brief imaginings dissolved under the harshness of reality. I’d always sensed the inequity of my relationship with Dean went beyond our obvious academic differences, and I’d been proven right during the Thanksgiving weekend with his family. Dean had a cultured edge, a pedigree I sorely lacked.

I’d spent most of my childhood as a homeless nomad, whereas he had grown up in a wealthy Bay Area suburb with a socialite mother and a father who was a justice on the California Supreme Court. Though like the proverbial worm in a shiny red apple, the Wests were dysfunctional on the inside and perfect on the outside, they existed in an entirely different world than mine. The chasm between Dean and me suddenly seemed wider than ever.

“Are you going to offer to pay my rent next semester?” I paced to the windows as my irritation solidified into anger. “Is that where we’re headed? After an all-expenses-paid trip to Paris, will you cover my room and board? Are you going to be my keeper now?”

His expression darkened. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Dean, do you really not understand? We agreed I’d stay with you for two weeks, and now you’re telling me to quit my job and go to Paris with you. I am a working student on a partial scholarship, not a career-driven professional like you. I don’t even know what I’m going to do when I graduate! What am I supposed to think about this fancy offer of yours?”

“You’re supposed to think I want to be with you,” he snapped, striding across the room to stop in front of me. “I don’t make a habit of asking women to come to Paris with me.”

“Oh, well, in that case, allow me to express my undying gratitude for being one of a few,” I retorted, hating the idea of him asking other women for anything, even the time of day.

“Goddammit, Liv.” Frustration darkened his eyes. “I didn’t mean to imply
anything
except that I’ll be gone for the rest of winter break and I want you with me.”

“So much so that you want me to quit my job?”

“Yes!”

His response seemed to shock him as much as it did me. Silence fell as we stood there staring at each other. My earlier emotions whipped through me again—longing and a fear that could slice me to the bone.

I wanted to go with him. I couldn’t deny that. But if I did, if I let him sweep me away… I would topple ever farther into the warm, rich illusion of a future with him.

“Liv.” Dean let out a sigh and dragged a hand down his face. “I’m sorry. I’m going about this all wrong. I’m not trying to manipulate you. I told you to quit because I’m a selfish bastard who wants you all to myself.”

Even though my heart zinged with his words, I laid out the obvious in a flat tone. “And because you’ve never had to worry about how to pay for your education.”

Dean stepped closer to me, his gaze on my face.

“I would give anything to pay for the rest of your education,” he said. “I’d do it today, if you’d let me. Covering your expenses wouldn’t make a dent in my finances.”

“No.” My throat felt thick and hot. Tears stung my eyes.

He held up a hand. “I know you won’t take it, Liv. But let me buy you a ticket to Paris. Consider it a Christmas gift.”

I almost laughed, thinking of the notebook and pen set I’d just bought for him.

“A Christmas gift is a… a music box or a book, Dean. Not a ticket to Paris. No. No, I can’t go with you. I won’t.”

“Why the hell not?”

I stared at him. “You really don’t get it, do you? I’m not… I don’t want this to be about you giving me stuff. And I won’t let you take me to Paris and do all these fancy things for me because that implies…”

My voice trailed off at the sudden hardness in his expression.

“Because it implies you’re mine,” he finished, his eyes flashing as he grabbed hold of my arms. “I’ve got news for you, Liv. You are mine. You’ll always be mine. I told you that in California, I’m telling you now, and I’ll keep telling you until you admit it’s the goddamned truth.”

His pronouncement filled me with a riotous combination of hope and fear. I wanted so badly to be his—and in the secret corners of my soul, I knew I’d never belong to anyone else—but I was scared of so many things that could break us apart. We’d proven strong enough to withstand his family, but what about future distances, new jobs, other people, career opportunities?
Life?

“I’m not quitting my job, Dean.” A weight pressed against my heart, pushing it ever downward. “I can’t. Besides, your university contract ends in June.”

“So?”

“So you’ll have to move somewhere else.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m going to the moon,” he said. “It doesn’t mean we can’t see each other again.”

I blinked. “But you’re leaving.”

“I’m leaving Madison. That doesn’t mean I want to leave
you
.”

“Well…” I tried to ignore how fast my heart was beating, tried not to hope too hard even though the implications of his statement spun wildly through my mind. “When your professorship ends, you won’t have a choice.”

“My job will end, Liv.” He relaxed his fingers on my arms and shook his head. “Not my ability to make a choice.”

“I have another year of classes to take, if not more.”

“So?”

“So…”

“Liv.” Dean put his hand under my chin and lifted my face so I would look at him. His dark eyes brimmed with the warm tenderness I loved so much. In my entire life, no other man—no other
person
—had ever looked at me the way he did. The weight inside me lifted, allowing light and color to swirl around my soul again.

“I’m applying for a bunch of other post-doc and permanent positions,” Dean said. “I’ll know by March where I’m going next. But that doesn’t mean you have to assume we’re not going to see each other again.”

“What else should I assume?”

Amusement creased his eyes. “Well, you could assume we’ll find a way to stay together. And you could assume I want to give you stuff and take you to Paris because I
like
you, and that it’s not some sort of payment just because you’re sexy as hell.”

I smiled. “So you think we’ll still be together?”

“I do. I hope you’ll still want to be with me.”

My heart thumped. I was beginning to think I wanted to be with him
always.

“June is six months from now,” I said.

“Yes, it is.”

“That’s a long time.”

“Yes, it is. And I don’t want to spend that time expecting not to see you again.” He paused, his gaze searching mine. “I want to spend it
being
with you. Right here. Right now. Like this.”

He lowered his lips to mine again in a kiss that was both tender and gentle. A warm, rich sensation like melted honey filled my veins. Dean put his hands on my hips and pulled me closer, fitting our bodies together like the pieces of a puzzle. My breasts pressed against his chest, my nipples budding in response to the heat we generated so quickly. He murmured a noise low in his throat and guided me backward.

He eased me onto the sofa, his breath increasing as I slipped out of my T-shirt and bra. Shivers washed over my skin. I watched as he tugged my skirt and panties over my legs, then ran his hands up and down my thighs in a soothing, rhythmic motion.

I gazed up at him, my body hot and aching. We had taken our sex life slowly in the past couple of months, as Dean had known from the start about the reasons behind my fears and inhibitions. But here on our first Christmas Eve together, I no longer wanted to be afraid or inhibited with him. I wanted to be open, honest, free.

Dean started to go down on his knees in front of me, but I put my hand out to stop him. Our gazes collided through the thick air. A sudden, palpable desire seized me, one laced with both fear and longing. I swallowed hard and reached for the button on his jeans. My pulse hammering, I unfastened his fly and tugged his jeans over his hips and down.

His cock sprang up between us like a living thing, so long and thick that all I could do for a moment was stare at it. The shaft was smooth and veined, the mushroom-shaped head damp.

“Liv.” Dean’s hand tangled in my hair.

Ignoring the faint concern in his voice, I reached out and wrapped my trembling fingers around his cock. He let out a heavy breath and put his hand over mine, tightening my grip. Instinctively, I slid my hand up and down the pulsing shaft and rubbed my thumb over the glossy head. I loved the sensation of his stiff flesh against my palm, the rasp of his breathing above me, the slow urgency building in his body.

“Liv, you don’t have to…”

“Yes, I do.”

It was the final declaration of my absolute trust in him, an acknowledgement that he alone could bring me out of the shadows. Only for him would I battle the clawing fear of oral sex that had lodged inside me since that day eight years ago when I’d been forced to my knees in a cramped laundry room and ordered to suck a frat boy’s penis while another waited his turn.

Dean would banish that fear. He would slay that monster alongside me.

I eased aside and gestured to the sofa. “Could you lie down?”