I dream about us too, those hot, sexy dreams I used to have after I’d first met him. Except this time I know the breathless truth of those fantasies—I know exactly how his hands feel on my breasts, the taste of his skin, the way his cock pulses heavy and smooth in my palm. I know how our bodies arch together, how his fingers dig into my hips, how his breath heats my neck and his chest rubs against mine.
I wake in the predawn hours, restless and throbbing, and press my fingers between my legs to bring myself to a sharp, hard orgasm. Just as I used to do early on, before the days when I would roll over in bed and encounter his warm, muscular body.
Then I would slide my hand over his chest and down to his half-erect cock, stroke him into full readiness before he was even fully awake. Then I’d move my leg over his thighs to straddle him and ease his shaft into me with one slow glide.
Then I would thrust up and down, arching my body, squeezing and pressing his cock, until his groan broke through the air and his hands clutched my bottom and we both spiraled over the edge in a collision of bliss.
I want him so badly I ache. And worse, I have no idea what will happen now. I don’t know if he’s going to call me, if I should call him, if he thinks we’re done for good. I don’t know how either of us plans to spend Christmas.
“You want to come with me to visit my mother for Christmas?” Kelsey asks one morning at breakfast as she peers at me over her coffee cup.
I must look awful for her to be gazing at me with such sympathy.
“No, thanks.”
“She’ll go all Russian Betty Crocker on you and spoil you rotten with her blinchiki or tea cookies or whatever,” Kelsey cajoles.
I smile. “No, really, but thanks.”
“What’s Professor Marvel doing?”
“I don’t know.” I wonder if Dean will visit his parents in California, but I doubt he’d go with this mess still piled up between us. God knows he’d never explain any of it to his family.
After Kelsey heads off to work, I clean the house and do a load of laundry. I have a day off from both the museum and the bookstore, which means hours of blankness stretch out in front of me.
I drive downtown and park the car. I cast a glance at our apartment as I walk along the snow-encrusted sidewalks bordering Avalon Street. The curtains of our living room are pulled shut, no light shining behind them. The plants on the balcony are withered and frozen, ice piling over the potted soil.
I see Dean as he’s entering a coffeehouse on the corner. My heart jolts at the sight of his tall, familiar figure clad in a black peacoat, his hair ruffled by the cold wind, a scarf winding around his throat.
I watch him through the window as he approaches the counter to order a coffee, then walks to a table where a young, pretty redhead is waiting.
My chest tightens as I recognize his graduate student, Jessica. She smiles at him in greeting and gestures to a chair, and they sit there conversing for a few minutes.
Jealousy surges through me. He’s mine, I think, even as the deepest corner of my soul—the one that knows, even now, the truth of my husband—remembers that Dean would never betray me.
My trust is confirmed when two young men and another woman approach Dean, balancing coffees as they unload their backpacks and laptops onto the table. Soon they’re all immersed in a discussion, exchanging books and papers and scribbling notes into their notebooks.
Part of me wants Dean to look up and see me standing here. I imagine this great, romantic movie moment when our eyes meet and he pushes his chair back and runs out to haul me into his arms.
But he doesn’t. He’s busy talking with his students about their essays and research. He leans forward, listens, looks each person in the eye when he’s speaking. I can almost hear the steady, measured cadence of his voice, underscored by confidence and authority. Even outside of class, he’ll take the time to meet with a group of students and provide whatever help they need. His dedication is boundless.
Just one of the many reasons I will always be in love with him.
The week before Christmas, I arrive at the Epicurean cooking class half an hour before the last class starts. Tyler Wilkes is at his station, getting everything ready for tonight’s demonstration. I watch him for a moment, noticing the confidence of his movements, the way he organizes his knives and pans with purpose. He makes it all seem so easy.
“What’s on the menu, Chef?” I ask.
His head jerks up at the sound of my voice. “Liv!”
“Hi, Tyler.”
He approaches, then stops and glances behind me. “Uh, is your…”
“Dean didn’t come with me. He sends his regards, though.”
“Oh.” He looks perplexed.
I almost smile. “I’m kidding. He won’t bully you again, but… well, he’s not going to mail you a Christmas card either.”
“Understood.” Tyler gives me an abashed grin and clears his throat. “So, hey, I never had a chance to ask you how your hand is. Charlotte’s been emailing us all with updates, so I knew you were okay but… well, I wish I could have contacted you myself.”
“No. I’m glad you didn’t.” Really glad. “I’ll be fine. The doctor is a little concerned about nerve damage, but I guess that can heal in a few months.”
“Good. I was… I was pretty worried. I’m glad you’re okay.”