Her flesh vibrates around my shaft, milking an explosive orgasm from me that I can’t contain. Coming with her is like nothing I’ve ever felt, a deep pumping and release that shatters us both.
I manage to roll to the side, taking her with me and pulling her on top. Her naked body goes limp against mine, her chest heaving. I push her hair away from her face, stroke my fingers through the long tangles.
“So good,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to my throat. “It’s always so good with you.”
She never answered my question. When she confessed she’d kissed that bastard, I asked her if it was good.
Why the hell did I ask that? Why was that my first question?
“Are you sure you want me to answer that?” she’d replied.
Fuck no. But her non-answer made it worse.
Liv lifts her head to look at me. Her eyes darken.
“What is it?” she asks, but then comprehension and guilt pass across her face. She knows exactly what I’m thinking. She pulls away and reaches for her bra. “It’s never going to go away, is it?”
I push to standing and go into the bathroom to get rid of the condom. My heart’s pounding, but no longer from lust. The physical satisfaction disappears like smoke. I return to the living room and put on my boxers.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I say. Jealousy tightens my chest. “Was it good with him?”
Liv stops in the motion of pulling her sweater on, then slowly pokes her head through. She drags her fingers into her hair and twists it into a ponytail.
I can’t stand it. Can’t fucking stand the thought of another man getting close enough to touch her. To kiss her.
My fists clench.
Liv rummages in a drawer and finds a rubber band. She’s stalling.
“Liv.”
She snaps the band around her hair. “Why do you want to know?”
Good question. Because I like torture?
“Answer me.” My fingers dig into my palms.
“Yes.” She fumbles with the cuffs of her sweater. “It was a decent kiss. It meant nothing, but it was fine. Nice.” Sadness and remorse flash in her brown eyes. “Is that what you wanted to hear? Does that make it better?”
There’s no answer to that.
I turn away—away from the Christmas tree, the holly on the mantel, the mistletoe tied with a red ribbon. Away from Liv.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Dean
November 28
now falls outside my office window. The history and art history departments are housed in a classical old building, and I’m fortunate to have an office that overlooks the lake. The light snow gathers onshore and caps the mountains.
I finish filing some papers and collect a few books to return to the library. I have a lecture in an hour, then a meeting about the conference we’re hosting. So far we have an impressive roster of attendees, including several scholars from Germany, Italy, and Spain. And possibly my ex-wife.
I don’t want to see Helen again, not even at a conference, but it’s been… what? Almost fifteen years? We made some bad mistakes, had some rough times. At least we ended it before we managed to bring any kids into the world and risk screwing them up through our own horrible marriage.
I stop that thought before it goes any farther. I don’t want to think about it, to relive any part of it. Don’t want the guilt to stain my current life more than it already has.
I get through the lecture and meeting, then grab a duffle bag from my office and head to the campus gym. After changing clothes, I run the indoor track, forcing the thoughts to disappear into the pounding of my heart.
Still it’s not enough and I lift weights until my muscles burn, then work the rowing machine as the light outside the windows fades.
“Good Lord. Take a break, why don’t you?” Kelsey strides into the gym, a duffle over her shoulder and her coat dusted with snow. “How long have you been here?”
I stop rowing and grab a towel to wipe the sweat off. My blood hammers, my muscles ache. “Don’t know. What time is it?”
“Almost six. I stopped by your office to see if you wanted to play racquetball, but you were already gone.”
“Yeah. I should get home. Liv’s probably trying to cook lasagna or something.” I swipe down the machine and loop the towel around the back of my neck.
I don’t like the way Kelsey is looking at me. Too sharp, too penetrating.
“Racquetball tomorrow, okay?” I say. At least if we’re playing racquetball, she can’t interrogate me. “I’ll meet you here.”
“Sure.”
To my irritation, she falls into step beside me as I head to the locker room.
“You and Liv want to catch a movie or something this weekend?” she asks.
“I don’t know what she has planned, but I’ll check.”
“There’s also the holiday art fair,” Kelsey suggests, “if you can stand Christmas wreaths and wooden Santas and enough goodwill to make you want to throw up.”
That makes me grin. “Sounds great.”
“Okay, then.” She stops before the door of the women’s locker room. “Racquetball tomorrow at four?”
“Be ready to get creamed.”