My dress stuck to my skin, damp with sweat, my hair a mess of wind-whipped tangles. My legs quivered with the effort of maintaining my bent-over position, but I could have stood there for hours, letting my husband stroke his cock in and out of me, his belly hitting my ass, our mingled fluids dripping down my thighs.
I wished I could see him, strain cording his muscles, his eyes filled with lust. I wished I could see the slick push-and-pull of his shaft as he drove our urgency higher.
Then he eased one hand around to finger my clit. I shuddered, fighting the urge to clamp my thighs around his hand. One stroke, and I came with a choked gasp, trembling and clenching around his still-thrusting cock. I tightened my hold on the railing and pushed back as he growled with pleasure, pumping hard and deep.
“Ah, fuck, Liv…”
He pulled me upright, then backward. I toppled onto his lap as he sank into the chair. I went slack against him, my head falling back onto his shoulder.
He put his hand underneath my chin, turning my face to him for a thorough kiss. I was melted, spent. Wildly in love.
“Did we ever make it to the banquet?” Dean asks me now, his voice rough with heat over the phone.
“We were half an hour late, but we made it. Dry chicken and rice. The dessert was good, though.”
“Are you touching yourself?” he asks.
I’ve been playing with myself the entire time we relived that blazing memory—rubbing my hands over my breasts, my belly, down into my underwear.
“Yes.” I arch my hips to meet the press of my fingers. “I want to do that again. Let’s rent a hotel room in a high-rise before… summer.”
Before we have the baby. For some reason, I can’t quite say that.
“Only if you agree not to wear underwear when I take you out to dinner afterward.”
“Deal. Now imagine plunging into my tight, wet * while I’m bent over, moaning for you to come all over my bare ass…”
He groans at the exact moment an orgasm rolls through me, vibrations shaking my entire body. I close my eyes and ride the wave, knowing the hot, sweaty images we’re both seeing are one and the same.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Dean
January 28
older than hell in Mirror Lake. My boots crush a layer of icy snow as I walk toward the history department. I collect letters from my departmental mailbox, then head into my office. I go through the mechanics of a routine—checking email, phone messages, taking stuff out of my briefcase. A note falls from between the pages of a book that I brought back from California:
I tape the note on my computer next to Liv’s drawing of an owl. I don’t look at the framed photo of my wife that sits on my desk. I can almost feel her gazing at me with that warm, pretty smile. That “you’re my hero” look that breaks my heart every time.
I distract myself with more useless tasks until it’s time for the meeting. I go down the hall to Frances Hunter’s office.
“I’m sorry this is happening, Dean.” She opens the door and gestures me inside. She’s dressed in a severely cut, gray suit and a gold necklace. “But I appreciate you coming back. Come in and sit down. Mr. Stafford isn’t here yet.”
I sit in one of the chairs placed before her desk.
“As I’m sure you know, it would be bad for the department if this were to become known.” Frances sits at her desk and regards me steadily from behind her wire-rimmed glasses. “And certainly for the university. So for everyone’s sake, Mr. Stafford and I are committed to keeping everything confidential until we learn more.”
“I appreciate that.” What else can I say?
My stomach is in knots. I didn’t sleep last night. Can’t think too much.
“Would you like some coffee?” Frances indicates a coffeemaker on the shelf behind her.
“No, thanks.” I shift. I hate feeling like I’m at the principal’s office. “I didn’t do anything wrong, Frances.”
Sympathy flashes in her eyes. “Don’t defend yourself, Dean. This isn’t the time or place. Just answer Mr. Stafford’s questions honestly.”
A few minutes later, Ben Stafford arrives—thinning hair, trimmed beard, broad face, wrinkled suit jacket. Ink stain on his lapel. He extends a hand to me as Frances closes the door behind him.
“I’m the director of the Office of Judicial Affairs, Professor West,” he explains, settling into the opposite chair. “Any complaints about sexual harassment are directed to me. My duty is to look into the matter and ascertain if it needs further investigation.”
The word investigation makes my heart plummet.
Stafford opens a file folder and clicks a pen. “So, I’m just going to ask you both some questions about the department atmosphere, treatment of students, that kind of thing.” He peers at us. “Okay?”
“We intend to fully cooperate,” Frances says.
“Good. I must advise you that this interview will be recorded.”