I pick up another recent photo of the Butterfly House that shows the extent of its disrepair—the front steps are decayed and overgrown with weeds, the door and porch scarred by graffiti, the windows boarded up, the shingles broken.
I’m suddenly reminded of a children’s book I once read at Allie’s store—The Little House, about a lovely cottage that began falling apart when no one was left to take care of it. And though I have a ton of stuff to do for the Wonderland Café, I find myself asking Florence if I can help.
“Oh, we would love to have your help, Olivia,” she replies. “There’s so much to do with researching the historical value of the home. Samantha told me you’re writing the exhibition brochure, so perhaps you’d like to work on something about the Butterfly House’s history?”
I agree, thinking I can do the work at home in the evenings. Florence and I spend the next hour going over all the photographs and documents that the Society has already collected pertaining to the house’s history.
After I finish my museum shift, I finally get back to the Firefly Cottage close to three. I find Dean sitting out on the porch overlooking the lake.
My heart just sings at the sight of him, all rugged and handsome in faded jeans fitted to his long legs and a worn T-shirt beneath a long-sleeved flannel shirt. He extends his arms. I sit in his lap and burrow right up against him like a cat curling into its favorite patch of sunlight.
“Good day?” he asks, brushing his lips across my hair.
“Mmm. No work tomorrow, though, and Monday’s my day off. I’m all yours for the next two days.”
“You’re all mine for the next two millennia.”
He leans in to kiss me, and I lose myself easily in the moment. A light rain drives us back inside, which is entirely fine with both of us as we spend the rest of the afternoon watching a movie, making love, and reading. We order room service for dinner, though by the time we get to dessert, I’m starting to yawn.
“Long week,” I say apologetically, as Dean nods toward the huge bed and tells me to call it an early night.
I crawl under the covers and fall asleep, waking only when Dean climbs in next to me a few hours later. I tuck myself against his side. After so much time away from my husband, just sleeping beside his strong body is arousing. My subconscious soon spins and twirls with a resurgence of hot dreams, mostly involving Dean in the guise of a sexy warrior intent upon ravishing me.
Heat slides through my body. I shift, imagining him all rough and commanding, fondling my breasts, his cock hard. I dream of straddling his thigh and writhing against him. In the fog of sleep, I hear myself moaning, feel his fingers rubbing my damp cleft, his breath on my neck. And though reality with my husband is always better than my dreams, I wake all warm and loose, even a little sweaty.
Leaving Dean to sleep, I take a shower and wrap myself in one of the fluffy hotel bathrobes before grabbing my brush and going back out to stand in front of the mirror over the dresser.
“What were you dreaming about?”
My brush tangles in my wet hair. I yank it out and turn to stare at Dean. He’s lounging on the bed wearing only a pair of pajama bottoms and a rather smug expression.
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“You were having a major sex dream last night.”
Oh, lord. The images flood back into my mind, pornographic and vivid. I clear my throat.
“I was not.”
“Uh huh.” He grins. “You were moaning and everything. Very lusty.”
A blush heats my face. “I was not.”
“Yeah, you were. Got me all hot too.”
As much as I don’t want to admit to actually acting on a sex dream, it would certainly explain why I woke up feeling really good.
“So what were you dreaming about?” Dean asks again.
I turn back to the mirror and continue dragging the brush through my hair. I can still see him in the mirror, watching me with that cat-ate-the-cream look.
“Stop it,” I mutter.
“Don’t you want to know what else you did?”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Oh, you did something. You rode my thigh, then spread your legs so I could finger your *.”
“Dean!” I turn to face him again, my pulse leaping. “Did I really do that?”
“Uh huh.”
“You are such a liar.”
His grin widens. I stride toward the bathroom. As I pass him, he bolts upright and reaches to grab me around the waist. With a shriek, I tumble onto the bed. He moves over me and straddles my thighs, locking his hands around my wrists and pinning them to either side of my head.
The look he’s giving me—teasing but hot—is enough to spike my arousal higher. I buck my hips upward half-heartedly to try and throw him off. His grip on my wrists tightens.
He leans down to press his lips against mine, his tongue doing a slow sweep of the inside of my mouth. He tastes like mint.
“What were you dreaming about?” he whispers.
I’m starting to melt. I try to strengthen my resistance. “None of your business.”
“Come on, beauty.” He presses kisses along my lower lip. “Were you dreaming about getting fucked in public?”
I shake my head. His erection is starting to poke against my belly.
“Or about being with a woman?” he asks.