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.