The sound of our breathing filled the air as he loaded the brush again and painted lather between my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, across my chest, down to my belly. The spicy scent filled the air, tinged with the aroma of eucalyptus.

"Too bad it's not whipped cream," I remarked, my voice thick with arousal. "So you could lick it off."

His eyes darkened with heat. "I'll put that on the list for tomorrow."

I could hardly wait.

Dean ran the brush in circles over my nipples, the sensation firing electric sparks down to my core. I wiggled closer to him, tightening my knees around his waist, sharply aware of the heavy bulge pressing against the towel.

I trailed my fingers over his washboard torso and down to the front of the towel. His breath escaped on a hiss when I closed my hand around the hard length of his erection.

"Christ, Liv," he whispered, moving his lips across my cheek to my mouth. "One touch from you, and I want to come like you wouldn't believe."

My heart raced. I tightened my grip on his shaft. "If I keep touching you, would you..."

"I'll do anything you want." He lifted his head to press kisses over the side of my neck, pushing his hips forward so that his c.o.c.k slid farther into my fist.

"Anything," he repeated, running his hands over my slick, lather-coated b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

I shuddered, arching my back to press my b.r.e.a.s.t.s into his hands, moving my lips closer to his ear.

"Would you come on my p.u.s.s.y?" I whispered boldly.

"f.u.c.k, Liv." A shudder racked his body, and his shaft pulsed in my hand. "You sure as h.e.l.l don't have to ask."

I shifted, releasing him momentarily to push the towel off him. The sight of his big, erect c.o.c.k sticking straight out from his groin elicited a hot throb of longing. I licked my lips and wrapped my fingers around his erection.

We both watched as I stroked my hand up and down his shaft. As much as I loved the feeling of him inside me, on top of me, driving both our pleasures, now I wanted to be the one in control. I wanted him helpless at my touch.

I used my other hand to scoop up a handful of shaving lather from my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, then spread it over his erection and continued to work my hand up and down. A groan rumbled through his chest as he pushed his hips forward again, f.u.c.king my fist. He gripped my hips, lowering his head to my neck again and licking a path from my collarbone to my shoulder.

"You make me crazy," he said, his breath hot against my skin. He moved his hands to my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, rubbing and stroking them. "You're so d.a.m.n s.e.xy and so f.u.c.king sweet. Whenever I look at you, half the time I can't decide if I want to hug you or rip off your clothes and pound into you until you scream."

Heat fired through my blood. "You... you could do both."

His husky laugh vibrated against my shoulder. "Then I will. Indefinitely."

My heart thumped at his use of the word indefinitely. Now that we were together, that word had never sounded more powerful and significant.

Dean lifted his head to look at me. "Did I say something wrong?"

I loved that he was concerned, even with both of us half-naked and me still stroking his hard c.o.c.k. I leaned forward and pressed my lips against his neck.

"No," I a.s.sured him. "You never say anything wrong, Dean. You say everything right."

In response, he glided his hands over my slick b.r.e.a.s.t.s again and down to unfasten the loose knot of my belt. After pushing it open, he rubbed me through my panties. I gasped, squirming closer to encourage him to press harder, my grip on his erection loosening.

"Look at that," he murmured, his gaze on the cotton stretched over my s.e.x. "So hot and wet you're soaked right through your panties."

A shudder rocked me. "G.o.d, Dean."

He shot me a wicked smile. "Why is that, beauty?"

"Because of you," I whispered, faintly aware I was no longer exactly in control. If I ever was to begin with.

Dean grasped the waistband of my panties, and I obediently lifted my hips so he could pull them off. He tossed them on the floor and put his hands on my inner thighs, pressing them farther apart.

A waft of still-steamy air brushed my folds. I shivered again. My gaze went to Dean's c.o.c.k, and I tensed with the eager expectation that he would position himself between my legs and thrust into me. Instead he reached for the shaving brush again.

My breath stuttered in my throat. I watched as he rinsed the brush in warm water, then brought it between my legs. The instant the wet bristles touched my folds, I gasped.

"Oh, G.o.d..."

He cupped my chin again and captured my mouth in a hot, deep kiss as he swirled the shaving brush over my cleft. Urgency built inside me with volcanic force. The coa.r.s.e, soft bristles rubbed with delicious friction against my c.l.i.t, the traces of soap still left on the brush making my sensitive flesh tingle with heat. I gripped Dean's biceps and moaned against his mouth.

He lifted his head, his eyes dark with l.u.s.t. Without a word, he adjusted the brush, and then I felt the smooth, wooden handle press against the opening of my body. I gasped, my gaze flying to Dean's. Sweat glistened on his cheekbones, beads of water still coating his chest.

I shifted forward, easing myself onto the wooden handle, feeling it slide against my inner flesh. It wasn't long, but it was wide at the base with a shaft that narrowed before flaring into a thick k.n.o.b in the middle. By the time I'd wiggled myself up to that point, my entire body was throbbing with need. I clenched around the handle and leaned my forehead on Dean's chest.

"Dean." A strain threaded my voice.

He edged his fingers into my p.u.s.s.y and rubbed my c.l.i.t. I closed my eyes as tension coiled through me, heightened by the shaft pressing inside me. Two strokes of Dean's adept fingers and I came with a shriek, vibrating around the brush handle as if it were his erection.

Before the tingles had begun to ebb, Dean pulled the handle from me and set the brush aside. He took my hand and guided it back to his c.o.c.k, now damp and slick with fluids.

Trembling, I rubbed his shaft, the smooth, warm flesh gliding in and out of my fist. Dean pushed his hips forward and, with a groan, shot over my spread p.u.s.s.y. We both watched, our breathing hot and heavy, as I continued slowly stroking the final pulses from his c.o.c.k, then released him to rub the fluids into my skin.

Dean's breath escaped in a rush. He gathered me into his arms and pulled me against him, the shaving lather still slippery on our skin.

"We need to take a shower," I murmured.

"Mmm. I take no responsibility for what I might do to you in the shower."

A pleasurable tingle of antic.i.p.ation ran through me. There was still so much I wanted to do with him. I didn't even know if a lifetime would be long enough for us.

I snuggled closer to Dean and wrapped my arms around his waist. I could do everything and anything with him. I trusted him with my heart, my soul, my life.

"You're going to need a new shaving brush," I remarked.

"Are you kidding?" He pressed his lips to my temple. "That's the only brush I'll ever use again."

PART II.

CHAPTER TEN.

DEAN.

My trip pa.s.ses in a blur of work and activity as we hurry to get the proposal in order. We meet with Italian officials, seismologists, scientists, and historians. We take photos, ensure the site meets all the WHC criteria, review the comparative a.n.a.lysis, and provide details of the quake damage.

Simon Fletcher, my old friend from grad school days who has been directing the Altopascio excavation for years, is jittery with nerves over the impending protection vote. He's a big, no-bulls.h.i.t guy, most at home when he's crouched in the dirt digging up an artifact.

We take the train to Paris, loaded down with files of reports and photographs. A UNESCO car and driver takes us from the de Gaulle airport to the Four Seasons Hotel.

"Since when do a couple of ordinary scholars get royal treatment?" I ask Simon as we check into the rooms that have already been reserved for us.

"Not for me, boss," he replies. "You're the king around here."

I glance at him. "What's that mean?"

"We know the WHC is courting you big time," Simon tells me, reaching down to heft his ratty rucksack. "And you're the reason the UN a.s.sembly is voting on the site. If it weren't for you, we'd already have lost the project completely."

"That's not true. You were working on the site long before you asked me to come on board."

"Yeah, but we were scrambling for funding back then." Simon punches the elevator b.u.t.ton. "You're the one who got us in with the IHR and the Conservation Committee. You're the one who got the seismologists in after the quake and put together the damage report. You're the one who got the proposal pushed through the WHC so the a.s.sembly can vote on it. And that's a lot of f.u.c.king bureaucracy and red tape to cut through. You get s.h.i.t done, man. It's a beautiful thing."

He extends his fist. As our knuckles b.u.mp, I can't help thinking that getting s.h.i.t done for the sake of the archeological team has been one of the most rewarding parts of my career. And it all came about because Liv insisted I work on the dig in the first place.

"You'd better plan on going to the UN a.s.sembly," Simon tells me, as we get into the elevator. "You're the man we need to convince the delegates to give us their vote."

"Any one of us can give the presentation." I scroll through the calendar on my phone, double-checking the UN a.s.sembly dates, which are a two-week period in July. "I can't go anyway. I promised Liv I'd help out with a festival she's planning."

"Can't you still do that?"

"The festival is on a Sat.u.r.day right when the a.s.sembly is meeting. You're going, right?"

"Sure, but I'm not as high-powered as you."

"So many compliments." I narrow my eyes at him. "You're not going to try and kiss me now, are you?"

"You should be so lucky."

With a grin, Simon gives me a salute and lumbers down the hall to his room.

I spend the next few days meeting with program directors at the World Heritage Center headquarters, a seven-story building designed in the shape of a three-point star, with a panoramic view of Paris from the rooftop.

In addition to Altopascio, there are questions about UNESCO, my opinion on the heritage sites, goals, and programs. It's clear to me the exchange of ideas is also a thinly disguised series of interviews. I tell myself to stick to the path of political navigation, even as my brain processes the details of all the initiatives.

On my final night in Paris, after an evening dinner honoring the UNESCO goodwill amba.s.sador, I finally return to the hotel close to midnight. My flight leaves at noon the day after tomorrow, so I'll be home by evening. Just in time to read Nicholas a few stories before he goes to bed.

I call Liv and leave a message on her voicemail. While I wait for her to return my call, I pull a loop of string out of my pocket and twist it around my fingers. And I think. Hard.

The possibility of the World Heritage job makes me wonder what I'd been striving for before I met Liv. I knew I'd wanted a tenure-track position with a respected university. After a year of caring for my sick grandfather and writing my dissertation, I wanted to solidify my career.

But had there been anything else?

After Liv, it was easy-I wanted to know her, love her, give her everything she wanted. I wanted to excavate my way through the maze of her secrets and desires. I wanted to free-fall into her.

And my career became about more than my love for history and my drive to be the best-it became about Liv too. What jobs or postdocs would work for both of us. What university town would she want to live in, what would make her happy, where could she find a path of her own.

Not for a second do I regret that, especially seeing how Liv has blossomed in Mirror Lake. She's become everything she always was, yet hadn't known.

But I can't remember what else I'd wanted. My attraction to Liv, and then my love for her, had been so blinding and intense it obliterated anything that didn't affect her.

What had there been before her? With my father's incessant pushing me to succeed, I find it hard to believe-even now-that a quiet, medievalist professor career was the endpoint of my professional ambitions. Maybe I'd even once dreamed of pursuing a position like a.s.sistant director of the World Heritage Center.

I shake my head. Stupid to think further about the challenges of the job. No sense looking at a door I can't walk through.

"I don't want you to take a new job, Dean. Certainly not one in Europe. But I also don't want to be the reason you turn down an amazing opportunity."

So what did that mean? Liv doesn't want me to consider the job, but she also doesn't want me not to.

I call her again. This time she picks up, her voice warm and smooth like melted syrup. The sound of it settles something inside me.

"So how are things going there?" she asks.

"Fine. Busy."

I push aside the curtain to look at the street below. It's raining, so the nineteenth-century buildings and boulevards are all cast in a damp, gray sheen.

I remember a day during our honeymoon. A rain shower drove us indoors to Angelina's cafe where my new wife and I spent a couple of hours together, watching the rain and pa.s.sing pedestrians as we ate lunch and drank cups of thick, hot chocolate piled with cream. Even when I'd kissed Liv later that afternoon, she'd still tasted like chocolate.

"Tell me about the room," Liv says. "The Four Seasons is no travel hotel."

"Lots of satiny stuff," I reply, glancing around. "Blue and yellow. Nice big four-poster bed with a million pillows. I'd love to get you spread out on that bed."

"I'd love to be spread out on it, from the sound of things," Liv says, a smile in her voice. "Will you have time to do any sightseeing? Louvre or the Orsay?"

"I doubt it. Wouldn't want to without you here, anyway."

"One day we'll be in Paris together again," Liv promises. "Hold on, I'll put Nicholas on."

"Hi, Daddy!"

The knot in my chest both loosens and tightens at the sound of my son's voice.

"Hey, buddy. How's Fred?"

"Fed noogie."

I grin, picturing Liv rolling her eyes with disapproval that our two-year-old son knows words like noogie and wedgie. I make a mental note to blame Archer.