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.
Which he is.
“What’re you talking about at the conference?” I ask.
“Visual culture in the Crusades. I’m thinking of constructing a course around the topic.”
I turn to open the containers of Chinese take-out he must have picked up on the way home. He’s still talking, and while I like the sound of his baritone voice—as, I’m quite certain, his female undergrads do—I don’t understand much of what he’s saying since I’ve never taken a medieval history course.
Still, Dean has said before that talking helps clarify his thoughts and ideas. So I’m happy to let him ramble, and he’s happy to have an audience.
We sit down to eat sesame chicken and fried rice, and I give him a play-by-play of the events that ended up with me getting fired. When he starts in with the whole “wrongful termination” thing again, I lean across the table to kiss him and stop his tirade.
“We have better things to do with our time,” I say before shooing him out of the kitchen so I can clean up.
After putting away the leftover food and doing the dishes, I head into the living room. Dean has taken over the second bedroom as his office, so my own narrow desk sits at the living room window and looks out over the rooftops to the mountains and clear expanse of the lake.
I power up my laptop and scan a few job sites. Web designer. No. Paralegal. No. Real-estate agent. No. Spanish teacher. No. Welder. Lord, no.
“What about the library over at SciTech?” Dean suggests. He’s lying on the sofa, an intricate web of string like a cat’s cradle pulled taut between his palms.
“Already applied. They turned me down because I don’t know whatever database system they use.”
“I can ask about job openings around the university.” Dean tucks his forefingers into the string to create another pattern.
“No.” I rest my chin on my hand and click another job site. “I’ll find something.”
Sales associate. Cashier. Stock clerk.
I’ve been hoping for more than retail, a job that will start me on a path toward something, but my lack of work experience makes that a daunting prospect.
“There’s that bookstore over on Emerald Street,” I say, injecting a breezy it’ll be fine tone into my voice. “I’ll stop by tomorrow and see if they could use some help. And I can pick up a few more volunteer hours at the Historical Museum.”
“With all the work you’re doing for the museum, you’ll be their first pick when a job opens up,” Dean says. “Same with the public library.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. And remember that college kids have most of the summer jobs now. You’ll have more options when the fall semester starts.”
Maybe. Feeling sort of down again, I close the laptop and push away from the desk. Dean unravels the string from his fingers and tosses it onto the coffee table.
“Come here, beauty,” he says. “You need to be kissed.”
I go to the sofa and sprawl out on top of him with a sigh. He feels so damn good. He has a gorgeous body—he’s all lean, tensile strength with a solid chest that makes me want to stretch against him like a cat in the sun. He puts his hand on the back of my neck and brings my mouth down to his.
The disappointment drains from me. He’s right. I need to be kissed, and he’s the one who needs to kiss me.
His lips are warm and firm against mine, and shivers race over my skin as his hands slide down to grasp my hips. I part my lips on a sigh and let our tongues tangle together. He closes his teeth gently on my lower lip, eliciting a delicious little twinge that shortens my breath.
I wiggle around, rubbing my breasts against his chest. He tightens his grip on my hips before moving his hands to the waistband of my pants. With a smooth stroke, he delves inside and spreads his palms over my bottom, pressing his fingers into the crevice. An ache pools through my lower body.
“I think…” I lift myself to look down at him, my blood heating at the sight of the lust brewing in his eyes. “I think I need to be more than kissed.”
“Yes, you do.” Dean pushes his hands underneath my T-shirt and opens the clasp of my bra with one twist, then rubs a hot, friction-laced path over my naked back. “I’ll take care of you.”
“I know you will.” I sink against him and lower my mouth to his again.
Our kiss grows urgent, Dean’s body tightening beneath mine. He eases a hand between us to work the buttons of his jeans. I uncoil to sit back on his thighs and watch the quick movements of his fingers. My heart hammers at the sight of the bulge pressing against his jeans, especially since I know well what’s underneath.
“You’ve been waiting for me, huh?” I ask breathlessly.