Spiral of Bliss 01 Arouse
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Authors: Nina Lane
Tags: #Romance, #Nina Lane, #love, #sex, #lust, #erotic fiction, #Arouse, #romance fiction, #A Spiral of Bliss, #contemporary romance
Arouse
Copyright © 2013 by Nina Lane.
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Hot Damn Designs
Interior design by VMC Art & Design, LLC
Published by Snow Queen Publishing
The uploading, scanning, and distribution of this book in any form or by any means—including but not limited to electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the permission of the copyright holder is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized editions of this work, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
ISBN: 978-0-9887158-2-0
I want to do with you what spring
does with the cherry trees.
—Pablo Neruda
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
Olivia
e didn’t touch me. He could have—he had the perfect reason to—but he didn’t.
Instead he bent to collect my papers before the breeze could whisk them away. Instead he picked up my satchel from the sidewalk and asked if I was okay. Instead he stood between me and the busy street while I brushed the dirt from my palms and tried to swallow the knot of frustration stuck in my throat.
Instead he just waited. I had the strange thought that he would wait forever.
August 7
Adhesive sandcastles, flip-flops, and smiling suns cover the windows of the shops lining Avalon Street. The bed-and-breakfasts are filled with guests, and boats dot Mirror Lake like stars in the sky. University students crowd the coffeehouses, and both tourists and locals stroll through downtown with ice-cream cones or sodas in hand. Children, skin browned from the sun, scurry along the paths leading to the shore.
“Sorry, miss.” The shaggy-haired fellow at the outdoor drink stand gives me a smile of apology. “We’re out of lemonade.”
Of course they are.
I push a damp tendril of hair away from my forehead and look at the chalkboard menu again.
The sun has started to set, but it’s still roasting out. My pantyhose are shrink-wrapped to my body, and the elastic band is gouging my waist. My toes ache from being crammed into heels all day. And though I refuse to look, I’m quite certain there are sweat stains under the arms of my silk blouse.
“Okay. An iced tea, then.” I push two dollars at the guy and take the plastic cup, poking a straw into the hole. I don’t much like iced tea, but the cup is cold and wet, and the liquid feels good going down my dry throat.
I scan for an outdoor table, but they’re all filled with clusters of people enjoying their drinks.
I grab my paper bag of groceries, pull up my satchel strap, and trudge down the sun-baked street, feeling like a bone-weary schoolmarm amidst the happy, relaxed summer crowd. My ponytail slips farther from the loose clasp, welding more strands of hair to my neck.
Home. Our small, two-bedroom apartment sits above a row of shops overlooking Avalon Street. The sight of the wrought-iron balcony, laden with plants in fat, colorful pots, elicits a welcome sense of relief.
I increase my pace despite the blister forming on my heel. The minute I step into the building foyer, I drop the bag, kick off my shoes, and sink onto the bottom step of the stairs. I suck in another mouthful of iced tea. Sweat trickles down my spine.
“Hey, beauty.”
The deep, masculine voice resounds inside me. I look up at the top of the stairs where Dean is standing. His dark hair is messy from him dragging his hand through it, his shirt is wrinkled, and the sleeves are pushed up to his elbows. His tie is unknotted and loose, the buttons of his collar unfastened to expose the tanned V of his throat.
Warmth, both spicy and sweet, curls through me at the sight of him. Dean’s seamless combination of Brilliant Professor and Hot Hunk never fails to quicken my blood.
“Hi.” I duck my head and sip the iced tea.
“Thought you were working late.” He descends the stairs to where I’m sitting and picks up my satchel.
“Yeah, well.” A lump forms in my throat. “I got fired.”
Jesus, Liv. Don’t
cry
.
“Fired?” Dean drops the satchel and sits beside me on the step. He reaches out to brush my hair away from my sticky neck. “What happened?”
“A screw-up with the printer for tonight’s opening. They got the names of a couple of the big donors wrong, even though I emailed them the information twice and sent a hard copy. Mr. Hammond blamed me anyway.”
I hate sounding like a victim, even if that is the truth.
“That’s not right, Liv. Wrongful termination is—”
I wave my hand to stop him. “Forget it, Dean. It wasn’t that great a job. Hammond was always complaining that I made too many mistakes. Which I did not.”
“Want me to go beat him up?”
“Kind of.”
My white knight…
“C’mere.” He slides an arm around me and pulls me closer.
Even though I’m hot and gross and probably smelly, I burrow against him with a sigh. Just the feel of his strong chest beneath my cheek is soothing.
When he eases the clasp out of my long hair and finger-combs the tangles, then moves his hand up to knead the muscles of my nape, I think I could quite happily sit there for the next hour or three.
“I offered to try and fix the problem, but he told me to pack up and go,” I say.
“Their loss.” He brushes his lips against my temple. A tingle sweeps clear down to my toes. “Besides you said the artwork was crap anyway.”
“It was.” I take another sip of tea. “Bunch of junk glued onto canvases. I could make us a fortune doing that. Hell, maybe I will. Olivia West, the Dumpster-diving artist.”
“That’s my girl.”
“Ah, well. Mr. Hammond was kind of a creep anyway.”
“What do you mean?” Tension ripples through Dean’s solid frame. “Did he—?”
“No, no. I mean creep as in oily. Groveling to the customers, you know, like a medieval surfer.”
“Serf.” Dean tweaks my nose.
“I know.” I grin at him and push to standing.
Dean picks up my satchel and the wrinkled grocery bag. I grab my shoes and trudge after him into our apartment. My anxiety settles a little more as soon as I close the door behind us.
The windows are shut and the air conditioner is running, so it’s cool and quiet inside. When we first moved in, I put pale blue curtains on the windows, which complement the navy sofa and striped pillows. With the cream-colored walls, blue-and-white quilts, and wood trim, our apartment has the feel of an open, airy beach house.
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.
