“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.”