I wondered how two PhDs—in history and art history, no less—could have different goals. “And she lives in California now?”
“She took a job at Stanford while she was still finishing her dissertation. Not far from where my parents and sister still live.” He reached out to refill our coffee cups. “Anyway, I don’t want to talk about them right now.”
“What do you want to talk about?” I asked.
“You.”
My stomach tightened. I tried to smile.
“Not much to talk about there,” I said.
“Not true.” He leaned his elbows on his knees and studied me, those penetrating eyes seeming to look right into my soul. “What’s your key, Olivia?”
“My key?”
“An old friend once told me that everyone has a key to unlocking their secrets. What’s yours?”
“Um… I’m pretty sure I don’t have a key.”
“I’m pretty sure you do.”
“Well, if everyone has one,” I said, “what’s yours?”
“Ah.” A twinkle flashed in his eyes. “You have to discover that yourself.”
“Then you have to do the same with me.”
“Challenge accepted.”
My anxiety ratcheted up a few notches at the idea that he would probe for information about me. I was well-protected with several layers of scar tissue, but that night of the museum lecture I’d realized how difficult it would be for me to withstand Professor Dean West. And now I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to.
“String figures and medieval knights,” I said softly.
He lifted an eyebrow in question.
“The keys to unlocking you.” My heart beat faster as something indefinable crossed his expression.
I knew I was right. I just didn’t know how those keys worked.
We looked at each other for a minute across the expanse of the sofa. I trailed my gaze to his mouth, remembering the warm touch of his lips against mine, the gentle way he held my face. Never had I been kissed with such heat and thoroughness. I wanted him to kiss me like that again.
Dean moved closer to me, lifting a hand to my hair with a restraint that gave me the chance to retreat if I chose to. I didn’t move. The air simmered with heat as he tugged at my ponytail and released it from the band. My hair sifted over my shoulders, and he speared his fingers into the strands, combing out the tangles. A breath caught in my throat.
“I wanted to touch you the minute I saw you,” he said, his gaze on my lips.
“I… I wanted that too,” I whispered.
He rested his hand against the side of my face and leaned in to kiss me. The touch of his mouth sent a wave of heat into my blood. I grasped the front of his shirt and melted into the kiss, opening my mouth under his and letting him inside. Hot and damp, our tongues slid together, his breath warm and chocolaty.
A moan escaped me, urgent and filled with growing need. Tentatively, I forced my fists to unclench from his shirt and spread over the expanse of his chest. His hard muscles shifted beneath my hands as I slowly traced the lines up the length of his torso. He was all heat and lean, tensile strength, coiled with a power that I instinctively knew was both safe and protective.
He moved over me, his arms bracing on the sofa cushion beneath me as he angled his mouth more firmly over mine. Arousal flared in my belly as I felt the muscular weight of him moving on top of me, my breasts pressing to his chest. My nipples tightened, a response that jolted a shock of pleasure to my core.
Dean’s kiss grew harder, more possessive. Trembles vibrated through me. I sank against the sofa and gripped his back. After a moment of hesitation, my heart pounding, I slipped my hands beneath his shirt and over his naked skin. His smooth muscles flexed and pulled beneath my palms. He stroked his tongue over my lower lip. My sex throbbed.
“Ah, Liv…” His voice was hoarse as he eased back to look at me. He trailed his hand over the side of my neck down to my chest.
I drew in a breath when he cupped my breast, brushing his thumb over my hard nipple. Even through the cotton of my shirt and bra, I could feel the warmth of his hand. He shifted on top of me, nudging his knee between my legs. My skirt slid up my thighs.
I was falling, sinking into a whirlpool of sensations. Everything about him filled me—his fresh, clean scent, the taste of his chocolate-laced breath, the touch of his hands and scrape of his whiskers.
My mind fogged with pleasure and swirls of color that concealed any darkness. I arched my hips, seeking relief from the ache pulsing in my sex. He smoothed his hand up my bare leg, stroking the tender flesh of my inner thigh before brushing the cotton of my panties.
I moaned, pushing upward, heat spooling through me. His mouth came down on mine again the same instant he increased the pressure of his finger, sliding it against the damp crevice of my sex.
I gripped the sides of his head suddenly and wrenched away. I stared at him, our breathing hard. His eyes were hot with lust for me. Twin currents of energy—fear and desire—lanced into my heart. My face flamed.
“Olivia?” Dean cupped my cheek. Beneath the lust, confusion sparked in his expression. “What’s wrong?”