Arouse: A Spiral of Bliss Novel (Book One)

He suddenly looked embarrassed and let go of me. He paced to the windows, his hands shoved into his pockets.

 

“I don’t think turtles have very interesting lives.”

 

North’s voice, wry and gravelly, echoed at the back of my mind. Some of my anxiety eased.

 

Dean was no reclusive turtle. That much was certain. He had an innate self-assurance, a way of moving through the world that I wished I could cultivate. And he was sexually confident, even I could see that, experienced in how to please a woman. He would know exactly what to do.

 

The question was—did I want him to do it to me?

 

The answer was—

 

I gazed at the expanse of Dean’s back, the way he stood with his feet apart, as if he were rooted to the ground. Solid. Secure.

 

“What about those string figures, professor?” I asked.

 

“What about them?”

 

“You said you’d show me how to do them.” I paused. “I’ll bet you carry a piece of string around, don’t you?”

 

He turned to face me, his eyes sparking with amusement. He dug into the pocket of his jeans and produced a loop of string. With a few maneuvers, he hooked it around his fingers into a familiar pattern and approached me.

 

“Do you know cat’s cradle?” he asked.

 

“Believe it or not, I do.” I pinched the X-shaped pattern, pulled it around to the middle, and fastened the string around my fingers.

 

Dean took the string from the top, looped it to form another pattern, then held out his hands and let me make the next move.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

 

 

 

 

 

ean came into Jitter Beans often over the next couple of weeks. Every time I saw him, my pulse sped up and bright, happy sparks flew through me. We had dinner, met between classes for lunch or coffee, took walks in the Arboretum.

 

He didn’t kiss me again in those early days, though he touched me often. Gentle touches—pushing a lock of hair away from my cheek, holding my hand, cupping the back of my neck. The brush of his fingers filled me with a pleasant heat.

 

The more time I spent with Dean, the more I liked and trusted him. And it wasn’t long before he proved that he was meant to be my hero alone.

 

“Bears,” he said one afternoon as we walked up State Street after my shift at Jitter Beans.

 

“No way.” I poked him in the side. “Definitely the Packers. I’d be a terrible Wisconsinite if I weren’t a Packer Backer.”

 

He scoffed. “Then you must love dancing the polka.”

 

“Why would I love dancing the polka?”

 

“It’s the Wisconsin state dance. Since you’re such a loyal Wisconsinite and all.”

 

I poked him in the side again, harder this time, which made him laugh and reach out to tweak my nose. I decided not to be annoyed since it was so darned cute the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed.

 

“How do you even know the Wisconsin state dance if you’re from California?” I asked. “Oh, I forgot. You’re kind of a geek.”

 

He flashed me a smile. “Got a problem with that?”

 

“I have a problem with the fact that you prefer the Bears,” I said. “Star Wars or Star Trek?”

 

“Trek.”

 

“We are so incompatible,” I moaned. “Star Wars.”

 

“Lucas jumped the shark with Episode One,” Dean said. “Star Trek has always had a universal message about justice and a utopian society.”

 

“Star Wars is about the battle between good and evil. What’s more universal than that?”

 

“Star Trek had alien babes in bikinis.”

 

“You don’t remember Princess Leia’s bikini?”

 

“Oh, yeah.” He got a glazed, faraway look in his eyes. “Good point.”

 

“I rest my case. Ben and Jerry’s or H?agen-Dazs?”

 

“Both.”

 

“Me too. Except for Chunky Monkey, which is gross.”

 

“Ah.” Dean gave a sigh of relief. “We have common ground. Tolstoy or Dostoevsky?”

 

I rolled my eyes. “Whatever, professor.”

 

Dean winked at me. I smiled back, enjoying the lovely heart flutters spreading warmth through my veins.

 

He opened the passenger side door for me, then went around to get behind the wheel of his car.

 

“How was work?” he asked as he headed toward Dayton Street.

 

I told him about an espresso maker mishap and a couple of irrelevant stories about the customers. We took the elevator to my apartment, which he hadn’t been in since the night of my confession two weeks ago.

 

“Nice place, by the way,” he remarked as we went inside. “I didn’t notice before. How long have you lived here?”

 

“Since July.” The rent on the shoebox-sized apartment was more than I could comfortably pay, but it was close to downtown, the university, and Jitter Beans. I’d spent a lot of time at garage and rummage sales looking for inexpensive furnishings, and I was pleased with the way my decorating had turned out.

 

I’d found some mismatched round tables that I refinished a light honey color and placed alongside my curved sofa. Floating shelves held my books, prints of English gardens lined the walls, and I’d placed lamps strategically to light the corners. Sheer, sage-green curtains softened the utilitarian blinds, and my indoor garden of fifteen plants sat on a multi-tiered stand beneath the window.

 

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