“Work for it,” he orders. “You look so fucking hot… show me you want it… harder… ah, that’s it…”
I brace my hand on the headboard and writhe shamelessly against him, pumping myself onto his shaft and urging us both toward ecstasy. My breasts sway beneath me, cries of pleasure tearing from my throat. Pressure coils around my nerves.
“Dean!” The pillow muffles my scream as I convulse around him, my inner flesh tightening. He shoves hard once more before withdrawing. A second later, he rubs his cock into the crevice of my ass. His groan shakes the air as he comes long and hard over my lower back.
Gasping, I sink onto my stomach. Dean pulls away and rolls onto the bed beside me.
We lie there wet, panting, and sweaty. Shudders continue to tremble in my blood, those tiny aftershocks of lingering pleasure.
I shift, turning onto my side. Dean is watching me, wariness dissolving the satiation in his eyes.
Jesus. Does he suspect something? Why should he? And what is there to suspect anyway? I haven’t done anything wrong.
Have I?
No, dammit, I haven’t. He’s the one who lied about his previous marriage. I haven’t lied about anything.
I sit up to pull off the T-shirt, which is no longer wet and sexy but cold and clammy. I grab my bathrobe and wrap it around me. I don’t look at him as I make an intricate knot in the belt of the robe.
“You okay?” He’s still watching me.
I don’t know how to answer that question.
“Second time I’ve caught you thinking about me in the shower,” I remark, forcing lightness into my tone. “I should walk in on you more often, if your fantasies lead to this.”
Though I’d intended it as a teasing comment, darkness flashes across Dean’s face. The first time I’d walked in on him, my fears had provoked ugly accusations and doubt.
He pushes off the bed. Tension ripples in the air between us.
“I need to finish packing.” He pulls on his boxers and goes into the living room.
I take a few breaths to calm my still-racing heart. I’m tired and confused and in no mood to go after him and dredge up all our problems. I need to figure things out myself first, which I hope I can do while Dean is at the conference.
My throat constricts. I suddenly can’t wait for him to leave.
After Dean heads to the airport, I spend the morning alone in the apartment. The strain of recent weeks is gone in his absence, and I let myself enjoy the peace and quiet.
I have a cup of coffee, read a magazine, do some laundry, clean out my closet, watch a gardening show. In the afternoon I spend a few hours at the Historical Museum, and since I’m off work at the bookstore this weekend, Kelsey calls to invite me to a Mexican restaurant for dinner.
“Is it still the baby thing?” Kelsey sits back and sips her gigantic margarita. When I don’t respond, she glances at me. “Or is something else wrong?”
“No.” I duck my head and take a long sip of my own, less-gigantic margarita. The baby thing has been overwhelmed by the former wife thing.
“We’ll work it out,” I say vaguely. “It just takes time.”
I won’t tell Kelsey what Dean told me—it’s his story to tell, after all—but she’s savvy enough to read between the lines. She piles a chip with guacamole and crunches into it.
“Whatever the deal is, Liv, the man loves you to his bones,” she says. “Even I can see that, and I’m about as romantic as a tree branch.”
“Liv?”
Kelsey and I both look up to see Tyler Wilkes approaching our table.
“Tyler.” I smile. It’s the first time I’ve seen him without his chef’s jacket on. He’s wearing tan trousers and a well-fitted, button-down shirt the same shade of blue as his eyes. He looks good.
He stops beside our table and there’s a moment of awkwardness as we try to figure out how to greet each other. Finally he puts an arm around my shoulders and we exchange a brief hug. I catch a whiff of his aftershave before I pull away and introduce Kelsey.
“Tyler is my cooking instructor,” I say, then launch into a list of Tyler’s many accomplishments, which I’m surprised I even remember.
“Impressive.” Kelsey purses her lips around her straw for another dose of margarita. She glances from Tyler to me.
“I expect Liv is going to be the most improved student by the end of the year,” Tyler says. “She’s a hard worker and she has great potential. And she makes a mean soufflé.”
I flush and roll my eyes, even though the compliment secretly pleases me.
“So, what are you doing here?” I wave my hand at the restaurant, which is a nice place but certainly no fine-dining establishment.
“Just met a friend for dinner,” Tyler says. “The chile relleno here is the best for miles.”
I glance behind him, wondering if the “friend” is female. And then wondering why I care.
“Don’t you live in Forest Grove?” I ask.
“No, I’ve got a place over in Rainwood. About the same distance from here to Forest Grove.”