“Oh…” I run my hands down his back, my whole body vibrating with pleasure. “You feel so good… I’ve missed you so much…”
He lowers his mouth to mine. Our lips crash together in a collision of urgency, muscles tensing and flexing. He braces his hands on either side of my head and thrusts again and again. Intense need takes over, and our world dissolves into a chaos of moans and gasps, the deep push of his cock into my body, the heat flaring through our blood.
I cry out his name, lifting my legs to hug his hips, tightening my inner flesh around his pulsing shaft as bliss cascades through me. I feel the pressure releasing through his body, the delicious increase in the pace of his thrusts, before he presses into me with a heavy groan.
Panting, Dean rolls over and takes me with him, pulling me against his chest. We sink into the exquisite afterglow together, my body pressed to his side, right into the space where I will always fit perfectly.
Since the world will, unfortunately, not stop revolving just because Dean and I are together again, I force myself to wake early the next morning for a shift at the bakery. I stop at home to change and pack a small travel bag, as I have no intention of leaving the cottage for the next couple of days.
Though I’m tired after last night, my body hums with happy energy, and I’m in an excellent, friendly mood as I help customers with their croissant and baguette choices.
Because Dean is… well, Professor West—a man with an ironclad work ethic who values company time—he doesn’t send me any sexy emails or texts while I’m working, though on my break I find a note from him in my satchel:
I smile and send him an email:
Anyone can be passionate, but it takes real lovers to be silly.
—Rose Franken, author and playwright
Anyone can love, but it takes Liv and Dean to love like THIS.
—Olivia West, Dean’s very hot and sexy lady
After I clock out at the bakery, I hurry to the museum in the hopes that I can finish my shift there early. It’s a cool, sunny day, green grass pushing through the melting snow as spring makes its final big push to overtake winter.
As I approach the Historical Museum, I see Florence Wickham getting out of a car parked in front of the building.
A member of the Historical Society’s board of directors, Florence is a white-haired, elegant lady in her seventies wearing a belted camelhair coat and delicate, diamond jewelry. She sees me and waves. I walk over to greet her.
I’ve been a little embarrassed around Florence ever since she caught me and Dean getting hot and heavy in a coat closet at the Historical Society’s holiday party last December, but she seemed more envious than horrified by the act. I suppose the fact that she left us alone to finish indicated her tacit approval of our sexy escapade.
“Hello, Florence.” I take her elbow to help her step over a slushy puddle by the curb. “Looks like spring is finally in the air.”
“Nice, isn’t it, dear?” She glances behind me. “Is your husband with you?”
“No, he’s working at the moment.”
“Oh. What a shame.”
“Indeed it is.”
I hold open the museum door for her and follow her inside. We walk past the exhibition rooms to the Historical Society offices at the back of the building.
“Is there a board meeting today?” I ask Florence, as we take off our coats and hang them on a rack in the hallway.
“Monday morning.” Florence pats her hair into place. “We’re discussing the fate of the Butterfly House, that old place over on Monarch Lane. It’s in such an ideal location by the mountains, both overlooking the lake and close to town, that developers have been trying to purchase the land. Of course that means they would demolish the house.”
“That would be terrible.”
“Yes, it would,” Florence says. “We’ve managed to prevent that so far because the house is historically important. It was bequeathed to the Society years ago, but unfortunately we can’t afford to do anything with it.”
She waves me into one of the offices, where a drafting table is covered with blueprints and photographs.
I pick up a black-and-white photo of the grand, old Butterfly House. It looks to be primarily an American Queen Anne-style building with a large front porch, decorated spandrels, and overhanging eaves. There’s a balcony on the second floor, bay windows, and a polygonal tower rising from the front that makes it look like a fairytale castle.
“When was it built?” I ask.
“In 1890,” Florence replies. “It was a beautiful place in its heyday.”
“What’s going to happen to it now?”
“We’re starting a fund-raising campaign to try and restore it,” Florence explains. “We thought we could open it for tours and such, but we’re in a bind because of zoning laws. Also there’s quite a bit of resistance to the idea of a site open to the public, since it’s close to a residential neighborhood.”