Spiral of Bliss 01 Arouse (34 page)

I don’t know how long we’ve been here. I don’t care. My world has distilled to this space. There is only the press of his body, the solid bulk of his chest, the mingle of our breath. The scents of pine, cinnamon, and apples cling to the air. A narrow remnant of light shines beneath the door. Laughter and conversation drift through the walls.

I slide my hands over the ridges of his torso, feel the heat burning through his shirt. He moves his mouth to my cheek, down to my neck. My dress is pushed up to my waist.

He grips my thighs, which are covered in sheer nylons. He growls with frustration when he discovers the tight spandex barrier over my panties.

Dean lifts his head, his gaze colliding with mine before he grabs the nylon at the seam and rips it away. My heart throbs.

“Take this off.” He plucks at the spandex with a frown of impatience.

“Good thing it’s not control-top,” I remark breathlessly, pushing the waistband over my hips and halfway down my thighs.

“What the hell is control-top?” He eases his hand underneath my panties and groans. “Oh, fuck. Never mind.”

His fingers probe deeper into my cleft. I gasp, clutching the front of his shirt, urgency spooling into my blood. He slides his forefinger into me, pressing the heel of his hand against my clit.

“Come on, beauty,” he whispers, his breath a hot trail to my ear.

He presses his lips to the pulse pounding at the side of my neck, then works another finger into my body to stroke my inner flesh.

I arch toward him, straining, my sex throbbing. A cry of pleasure lodges in my throat, poised to escape, when suddenly Dean clamps his hand over my mouth. He pushes me to the right, back through a curtain of woolen coats to the side wall. A second after I realize the doorknob has clicked open, light floods the closet.

I tighten my hands on Dean’s shirtfront. He eases his hand from my mouth, our hard breaths thankfully masked by the sound of women’s chattery voices.

“Did you try those salmon rolls?” one of them asks. “They’re new on the catering menu.”

“Oh, yes. So light and delicious. I think we ought to hire the same caterers for the spring festival, don’t you?”

I know those women. Members of the Historical Society board of trustees, Florence and Ruth Wickham are two lovely older ladies who wear designer suits and pearl necklaces and would no doubt be horrified to find me half-naked in the back of the coat closet.

“Do you remember where I put my coat?” Florence asks her sister. “Did I tell you I found it on sale at that little boutique on Dandelion Street? Pure camelhair.”

The air is stifling back here. A fur collar from one of the hanging coats brushes against my neck. I push it away impatiently. I’m still throbbing, frustrated at having my arousal thwarted.

Then Dean presses his knee between my legs, spreading my thighs. I jerk my gaze to his lust-filled eyes. A wicked grin tugs at his mouth as he presses his hand against my sex again.

I grab his wrist, acutely aware of the little old ladies still rummaging around for their camelhair coats… but he twists from my grip and flicks his thumb against my clit. I suck in a breath, melting at my core.

He lowers his mouth to mine again, one hand steadying me at the small of my back, the other working me with deliberate intent. I part my lips beneath his and fall into the cascade again. His touch grows more intimate, sliding deep into my opening, his thumb swirling and stroking and…

I can’t stop it. I don’t want to. It’s been long, too long, and even this furtive, hasty rendezvous in the middle of a holiday party is like gulping cold lemonade on a blistering day. I try to suppress a moan and let my head fall back against the wall as his tongue slides against mine.

One more press of his fingers into my cleft, and hot bursts of rapture explode along my nerves. He muffles my cries with the pressure of his mouth. I grip his shoulders, my legs weakening with the force of vibrations flooding me from head to toe.

I pull back and stare at him, my blood pulsing. He’s still fully clothed, his heavy erection pressing against the front of his trousers. Though the coats shade the closet light, I can see the burn of his eyes. His dark hair is a mess, a thick swath falling over his forehead, his sharp cheekbones flushed. Though we’re both still breathing hard, neither of us moves.

“Oh, here it is! Look, isn’t that Grace’s coat?” Florence’s voice grows distant as she moves back toward the door. “She said it was lynx fur. Can you imagine? Heavens, but it is soft, isn’t it? Feel it.”

Ruth murmurs her agreement, then finally the light turns off and the door closes.

“We should go,” I whisper.

“I’ll go first.” Dean strokes my cheek. “I’ll let you know if the coast is clear.”

We straighten our clothing, then fumble around to find my purse and his suit jacket, both of which have fallen to the floor. I manage to get my nylons back around my hips, concealing the rip beneath the swirl of my skirt.

“Wait here.” He presses a hard kiss to my lips and ducks out of the closet. A second later, there’s a quick knock at the door.

I hurry out, unable to prevent a grin as our gazes meet fleetingly in the foyer. I feel like we’re a couple of horny teenagers sneaking out from under the bleachers.

It’s a good feeling and not one I’ve experienced much—the pleasure of a sneaky rendezvous, furtive groping, secret kisses—all so blissful now because I can share them again with my husband.

I cross the foyer to the bathroom and do a quick primping to straighten out my very disheveled self. I comb my long hair back into its ponytail, splash water on my face in the hopes of dimming the heated flush, reapply my lipstick, and try to smooth the wrinkles from my dress.

Dean is gone from the foyer by the time I emerge, likely to deal with his own rumpled appearance. I head for the refreshment table that’s been set up in the living room of the house and grab a bottle of mineral water.

“Oh, there you are, dear.”

I look up and find myself face-to-face with Florence Wickham, belted into her camelhair coat and tugging on a pair of leather gloves.

“I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye and wishing you a merry Christmas, Olivia,” she says. “We’ve so appreciated all your volunteering with the Historical Museum and the preparations for the holiday festival.”

“I’ve greatly enjoyed it all.”

Florence peers at me through eyes adorned with beige eyeshadow and mascara. I hope to heaven that my cheeks aren’t still overly flushed. Or, God forbid, that Dean didn’t leave a hickey on my neck.

“Don’t forget to take a present from beneath the tree in the parlor,” Florence continues. “All the gifts were donated by local merchants, and there are some lovely items.” She pulls at the wrists of her gloves. “Where is that handsome gentleman you came with?”

“I think he’s talking to someone in the kitchen.”

“Is he your boyfriend?” she asks.

“He’s my husband.”

“Oh.” Florence arches a delicately plucked eyebrow, her gaze skirting to my left hand.

“It was my engagement ring.” I extend my hand to show her the antique cameo on my left ring finger. I wear it only on special occasions, but no other symbol in the world could serve as a more meaningful declaration that I belong to one man alone.

“I love cameos.” She peers at the ring. “It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“If I may be so bold, Olivia…” Florence leans closer and lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Your husband is quite dashing, but his adventurous spirit is… well, it makes him just irresistible.”

“I… I beg your pardon?”

“My dear, I’m seventy-three years old,” Florence says. “And in fifty-one years of marriage, I can only wish that my husband had even
once
shagged me in a coat closet.”

She winks at me, then turns and walks away.