Spiral of Bliss 02 Allure (25 page)

“Yes.” I shift to one elbow. My breasts roll to the side, stiff-peaked, and the cotton of my panties is getting damp between my legs. I run a hand over my belly, across my sensitized nipples. “Speaking of bending over, do you remember that time we did it on the balcony?”

“How could I forget?”

“What floor was it?”

“Seventeenth.”

About a year into our marriage, I’d gone with Dean to Southern California for a medieval studies conference, which was held at a hotel in West LA. He’d been assigned a room with a private balcony. The view was spectacular—the hazy sky arched wide over the urban sprawl of Los Angeles, the spires of Century City jutting upward in the distance. Lines of traffic snaked over the streets, looking like toy cars from the high vantage point.

While Dean went to presentations about medieval stuff, I visited some LA tourist traps and museums. One evening I got back to the hotel before he did, tired and sweaty from a day of touring Hollywood Boulevard and the LA County Museum of Art. After a quick shower, I dressed in a white sundress and went to sit on the balcony, leaving the sliding glass door open.

I had some vague notion of seducing my husband, but actually doing it
on the balcony
didn’t occur to me.

Until he walked in, all tired and rumpled from discussing feudal customs and city topography. He dropped a distracted kiss on my forehead, muttered something about a banquet dinner, and went to shower.

My poor, hardworking, medievalist husband.

I put my feet up on the balcony railing. Hot air brushed against me, rippling the hotel curtains. My hair was loose, disheveled. I wasn’t wearing panties. Or a bra, for that matter.

I turned when he emerged from the bathroom, bare-chested and wearing boxers, his skin beaded with water. He lifted his arms to scrub at his wet hair with a towel, his muscles flexing beautifully with the movement.

“How were the presentations?” I asked.

“Some really good ones, especially the session about Florentine politics.”

Of course.

“Interesting,” I remarked. The wind was brushing against my bare sex, eliciting rather delightful tingles. I spread my legs a little. “When does the banquet dinner start?”

“Half an hour. Spouses are invited.” He rubbed the towel over his chest. “Sort of formal, though.”

“Oh. No sundress, then.”

“I guess not.”

“What about underwear?”

He stopped, jerking his gaze to me. “Uh… what?”

I plucked at my skirt. “Can’t wear a sundress. But I’ll probably have to put on some underwear.”

“You’re not wearing any?”

“No.” I swung my legs off the railing and turned toward him, parting my legs enough to give him a little peek of my nakedness. “Guess I should get dressed properly, then.”

His eyes narrowed, even as his breathing began to increase. “What’re you doing?”

“Nothing.” I looked at him, blinking with innocence. “Just hoped you’d want to fuck me on the balcony before dinner.”

A thrill raced through me when he threw down the towel and stalked toward me, all sudden heat and dark glower.

“You’d better know what you’re asking for, Mrs. West,” he growled.

I didn’t exactly (the
balcony
?), but my heart pounded with excitement when he grabbed me around the waist and pulled me in for a deep kiss. The air lit with a fevered intensity, a sensation I loved as much I loved the slow burn of our more leisurely lovemaking. The fact that I could do this with one spread of my legs—turn him from a tired academic into a hard, intense hunk—was a heady power.

Dean pushed his tongue into my mouth, his chest rock-solid against mine, his skin still damp and soap-scented. He latched a hand to the back of my neck, deepening the kiss as I wound my arms around him.

He grasped the folds of my dress and pulled it up over my legs, his erection already poking against my abdomen, his muscles cording. Air gusted against my naked bottom. I shivered.

“Wait,” I gasped. “Are… are you sure no one can see us?”

He laughed, sliding his big hands around to my ass. “Too late to worry about that now.”

The very idea that someone could be watching us made my pulse leap. Dean reached between us to pull his cock out of his boxers. I moaned aloud at the sight of the rigid shaft, all taut skin and pulsing veins. I took him in my hand and rubbed, cupping my fingers so he could thrust into the vise of my fist.

Another gust of wind whipped my hair around my face, blew my dress up higher. Dean pressed his hand between my legs, his breath hot against my forehead. He moved away from me to go back into the room, returning with a condom packet.

“Now turn around.” It was an order, guttural and deep.

I sucked in a breath and turned. Sweat trickled between my breasts. I started to quiver with a combination of excitement and nerves. Dean put his hands on my hips and gently pushed me farther out onto the balcony. Then he reached around to take my wrists and guided my hands to the railing.

“Hold on, beauty,” Dean whispered, closing his teeth around my earlobe. “It’s going to be a helluva ride.”

A shudder rocked me from head to toe. I gripped the metal railing, my palms damp with sweat. A plane swooped overhead, the engine a dull roar in my ears. A streak of sunlight burned my neck.

Dean pulled my dress up to my waist, baring me completely to the wind and his gaze.

“Fucking beautiful,” he muttered.

He pushed his thigh between my legs, spreading me farther apart. Shivers rained down my spine. My belly coiled with tension. He drew one finger down the crack of my ass and into my sex, his touch a light teasing that ratcheted up my frustration. After his powerful, sexy grabbing of me, I was ready to be completely
taken
.

“You want more?” he asked, running the tip of his finger around my clit.

“God, Dean, yes.”

“What?”

My face warmed with a blush.

“Tell me and I might give it to you,” he murmured. He rubbed his palm in circles around my ass, creating a delicious friction.

“Your… your cock in me,” I gasped. “I want you to fuck me hard.”

A second later, he was pressing into me, his fingers digging into my hips, his shaft sliding with deliberate ease into me, stretching me fully. My heartbeat pounded inside my head. My blood blazed. I clutched the railing and struggled to take all of him. He shifted his grip to my waist and pulled me back against him.

“Wider.” His voice was strained.

I spread my legs wider, my muscles trembling. Dean pressed a hand to my back, forcing my upper body lower and pushing my bottom up toward him.

“Dean!”

“Hold on.” He seized my hips again, pulled back, and thrust forward.

I cried out, stunned by the sheer power of his thrusts, the way every movement stimulated parts of me I hadn’t known existed. He went deep, so deep, his sac slapping against me, his thighs tight against mine.

My dress stuck to my skin, damp with sweat, my hair a mess of wind-whipped tangles. My legs quivered with the effort of maintaining my bent-over position, but I could have stood there for hours, letting my husband stroke his cock in and out of me, his belly hitting my ass, our mingled fluids dripping down my thighs.

I wished I could see him, strain cording his muscles, his eyes filled with lust. I wished I could see the slick push-and-pull of his shaft as he drove our urgency higher.

Then he eased one hand around to finger my clit. I shuddered, fighting the urge to clamp my thighs around his hand. One stroke, and I came with a choked gasp, trembling and clenching around his still-thrusting cock. I tightened my hold on the railing and pushed back as he growled with pleasure, pumping hard and deep.

“Ah, fuck, Liv…”

He pulled me upright, then backward. I toppled onto his lap as he sank into the chair. I went slack against him, my head falling back onto his shoulder.

He put his hand underneath my chin, turning my face to him for a thorough kiss. I was melted, spent. Wildly in love.

“Did we ever make it to the banquet?” Dean asks me now, his voice rough with heat over the phone.

“We were half an hour late, but we made it. Dry chicken and rice. The dessert was good, though.”

“Are you touching yourself?” he asks.

I’ve been playing with myself the entire time we relived that blazing memory—rubbing my hands over my breasts, my belly, down into my underwear.

“Yes.” I arch my hips to meet the press of my fingers. “I want to do that again. Let’s rent a hotel room in a high-rise before… summer.”

Before we have the baby.
For some reason, I can’t quite say that.

“Only if you agree not to wear underwear when I take you out to dinner afterward.”

“Deal. Now imagine plunging into my tight, wet pussy while I’m bent over, moaning for you to come all over my bare ass…”

He groans at the exact moment an orgasm rolls through me, vibrations shaking my entire body. I close my eyes and ride the wave, knowing the hot, sweaty images we’re both seeing are one and the same.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Dean

January 28

older than hell in Mirror Lake. My boots crush a layer of icy snow as I walk toward the history department. I collect letters from my departmental mailbox, then head into my office. I go through the mechanics of a routine—checking email, phone messages, taking stuff out of my briefcase. A note falls from between the pages of a book that I brought back from California:

I tape the note on my computer next to Liv’s drawing of an owl. I don’t look at the framed photo of my wife that sits on my desk. I can almost feel her gazing at me with that warm, pretty smile. That “you’re my hero” look that breaks my heart every time.

I distract myself with more useless tasks until it’s time for the meeting. I go down the hall to Frances Hunter’s office.

“I’m sorry this is happening, Dean.” She opens the door and gestures me inside. She’s dressed in a severely cut, gray suit and a gold necklace. “But I appreciate you coming back. Come in and sit down. Mr. Stafford isn’t here yet.”

I sit in one of the chairs placed before her desk.

“As I’m sure you know, it would be bad for the department if this were to become known.” Frances sits at her desk and regards me steadily from behind her wire-rimmed glasses. “And certainly for the university. So for everyone’s sake, Mr. Stafford and I are committed to keeping everything confidential until we learn more.”

“I appreciate that.” What else can I say?

My stomach is in knots. I didn’t sleep last night. Can’t think too much.

“Would you like some coffee?” Frances indicates a coffeemaker on the shelf behind her.

“No, thanks.” I shift. I hate feeling like I’m at the principal’s office. “I didn’t do anything wrong, Frances.”

Sympathy flashes in her eyes. “Don’t defend yourself, Dean. This isn’t the time or place. Just answer Mr. Stafford’s questions honestly.”

A few minutes later, Ben Stafford arrives—thinning hair, trimmed beard, broad face, wrinkled suit jacket. Ink stain on his lapel. He extends a hand to me as Frances closes the door behind him.

“I’m the director of the Office of Judicial Affairs, Professor West,” he explains, settling into the opposite chair. “Any complaints about sexual harassment are directed to me. My duty is to look into the matter and ascertain if it needs further investigation.”

The word
investigation
makes my heart plummet.

Stafford opens a file folder and clicks a pen. “So, I’m just going to ask you both some questions about the department atmosphere, treatment of students, that kind of thing.” He peers at us. “Okay?”

“We intend to fully cooperate,” Frances says.

“Good. I must advise you that this interview will be recorded.”

He sets up a recorder, then spends the next half hour lecturing us on university policies about sexual harassment claims and procedures. Then he launches into a series of questions that both Frances and I respond to in a similar way—the history department is friendly, cordial, respectful. Relationships with grad students are professional in the office, sometimes extending into friendship.

“For example, I was recently invited to a student’s wedding,” Frances says. “And Professor Jackson offered use of his vacant New York apartment for a student who was visiting. We also often see each other at social events, like university receptions.”

Stafford asks a host of other questions—how grad students are admitted, how they choose their advisors, the duties of the advisors, the process of approving and writing a thesis.

Then he focuses on me and asks how I communicate with students (email or in person), if I meet with them off-campus (only for study groups), if I have relationships with them outside of work (sometimes, like when I play football with a group of students), if I’ve ever dealt with a sexual harassment complaint (never), how often I have office hours (three times a week), how many female students I’m currently advising (three, not counting Maggie Hamilton).

Do you have any problems with the other students?
No.

Have you approved their proposals and supported their research?
Yes.

Have you ever had a sexual relationship with a student?
No.

Have you ever had a sexual relationship with a professor or employee of the department where you worked?
No.

Have you ever asked a student for sexual favors?
No.

Has a student ever approached you in a sexual manner?

I can feel Frances looking at me.

“Professor West?” Stafford prompts.

“Uh, yes. Maggie Hamilton did.”

Frances lifts an eyebrow. “She approached you sexually?”

“I’ll ask the questions, Professor Hunter, please,” Stafford says. “You say Maggie Hamilton approached you in a sexual manner?”

“She implied she’d do something sexual if I’d approve her thesis proposal. We’d been having conflict about it for some time. Her research and methodology hasn’t been thorough enough for me to approve her idea. She hasn’t been able to even start writing. She’s been upset about that since last summer.”

“And you’ve tried to rectify this?” Stafford asks.

“I’ve tried to help her, steer her in the right direction, yes. I do that for all my students.”

“Ms. Hamilton’s complaint is that you agreed to approve her proposal if she would submit to
you
sexually.”

Anger burns my chest. “That’s a lie.”

“I’m sure she’d claim your version is a lie too.” Stafford peers at his list of questions. “Are you married?”

“Yes.”

“Has your wife ever had any kind of relationship with one of your students?”

“No.”

“Ever met any of them?”

“Yes, at different university events or lectures.” I shift again. “Maggie Hamilton approached my wife last fall, asking for her help in convincing me to approve her proposal. My wife refused. I told Ms. Hamilton that her actions were entirely inappropriate and suggested that she seek another advisor, since there didn’t seem to be a way to resolve the problem.”

“That was when, you claim, she approached you in a sexual manner?” Stafford asks.

“No, she came into my office a few weeks ago and made the implication.”

“How did you respond?”

“I asked her to leave and told her again to seek another advisor. Then I wrote to Dr. Hunter telling her I could no longer advise Ms. Hamilton due to the deadlock over her thesis.”

Stafford looks at Frances. “Do you recall such a letter?”

“I do, yes. I was following up on it when you contacted me regarding Ms. Hamilton’s claim.”

Stafford nods, checks his recorder, looks over his papers. More questions about my research, the classes I teach, the ratio of female to male students, the ratio of female to male professors. The number of female students I’ve advised over the years. The subjects of their theses and dissertations.

Finally, when the interview starts moving toward hour four, Stafford stretches and sighs. “All right, then. I think I have what I need. I was supposed to interview Ms. Hamilton yesterday, but she needed to reschedule. Our next step will be to schedule a mediation meeting with both parties so we can hopefully come to a resolution and avoid any formal charges.”

He leans forward to turn off the recorder.

“Excuse me.” Frances puts out a hand to stop him. “I’d like to go on record stating that Professor Dean West came to King’s University with a stellar, unblemished reputation. Though he has only been on the King’s faculty for two years, he has proven himself a scholar and professor of great renown. Students give him excellent evaluations. Until now, we have not had a complaint of any kind regarding Professor West, nor has one ever been recorded at his previous institutions.”

“Duly noted, Professor Hunter.” Stafford switches off the recorder and stuffs it into his briefcase. “I’ll be in touch about the mediation meeting. Meanwhile, both of you can be assured we are strongly invested in keeping this all confidential.”

Both Frances and I rise to shake his hand before she escorts him to the door. As soon as his footsteps fade down the corridor, Frances swipes her hand across her brow.

“That was unpleasant,” she remarks.

I almost smile. At the very least.

“Hey, thanks,” I say, not sure how to express how much her support means. “For telling him that. I appreciate it.”

“It’s true. You’ve done great things for the department.” She crosses her arms and fixes me with a stare. “However, Dean, if Ms. Hamilton’s accusations prove true… I’ll gladly watch you fall while I protect this department and university from blame.”

“Understood.”

“Good.” She tilts her head toward the door. “Go get some sleep. You look like hell. Are you going back to California?”

“Flight leaves tomorrow. I should be back in Mirror Lake next weekend, after my father is released from the hospital.”

“I’ll keep you apprised of any developments via email.” Frances sits behind her desk again. “Have a safe journey. There’s an eastern storm approaching, so check your flights.”

I leave, glad to get out of the stuffy office. I’m hungry since I haven’t eaten all day, but I need to work off this tension first. I stop by my office to get my duffle bag.

“Professor West?” Jessica, one of my PhD students, waves at me from down the hall. “Thought you were out of town.”

“I’m leaving again tomorrow.” I stop, one hand on my office doorknob.

A week ago I’d have told her to have a seat so we could discuss her research, the grad seminar, whatever she needs to hash out. Now I’m scared to even let her into my office.

I grip the doorknob harder. Anger seethes.

“I found that paper you suggested.” Jessica digs into her satchel. “Do you have a minute to talk about it?”

“No.” I close the door. “Sorry, I’m… I’ve gotta get going.”

“Oh.” She seems a little disappointed, but shoves the paper back into her bag. “Sorry, caught you at a bad time.”

“No.” I swallow a rising tide of shame as I literally back away from her. “Just an early flight tomorrow. Email me your questions, okay? I’ll get back to you soon.”