After Nicholas relays his dislike for broccoli and his love for Clifford the Dog, Liv gets back on the phone. After discussing the rest of my plans, we exchange goodbyes and promises to talk tomorrow.

I stretch out on the bed and look at the ceiling, the pale blue crown molding edged with gilt. I'd intended to stay in a place like this for our honeymoon, but Liv hadn't wanted to. For her first trip to Paris-her first trip out of the States-she'd asked if we could stay in an apartment.

"That's how you and I started, right?" she'd said, tucking her hand into mine. "In your university apartment, just the two of us. Exploring the city. Exploring each other. I want our honeymoon to be the same way."

And, of course, because that was what my lovely, soon-to-be-wife wanted, that was what I gave her.

For the two weeks of our honeymoon, we stayed in a little apartment off Boulevard Montparna.s.se, a former artist's atelier with worn hardwood floors, and a wrought-iron balcony overlooking a maze of rooftops punctuated by orange chimneys and antennae.

We explored the city. We explored each other. I'd loved showing her hidden parts of Paris, the things I'd learned as a medievalist-the dimensions of Chartres Cathedral, the stories embellishing Notre Dame's rose windows, the place where Abelard and Heloise fell in love. I took her to my favorite cafes and restaurants, introduced her to the pleasures of French pastries.

One morning I woke and felt the warm weight of her curled against my side, and I was filled with renewed grat.i.tude for us, for her. Olivia West. My wife.

As soon as I thought that word, Liv turned, her long hair sliding like silk over my chest. She pressed a line of slow kisses from my shoulder to my neck. The fragrant scent of her, peaches and sugar, filled my head.

Her lips reached my jaw, her fingers tracing my mouth. Her wedding ring gleamed in the early morning light. I stroked my hand over the arch of her back, never able to get enough of touching her.

With a little moan, she shifted, draping her body over mine, her full b.r.e.a.s.t.s crushed against my chest. Her nipples were already hard. She had always been easily aroused, even if she tried to resist it in the beginning, but over the two years of our relationship she'd become increasingly uninhibited. Free.

I f.u.c.king loved it. And even more, I loved that she was mine.

I stroked my hands over her a.s.s and between her inner thighs. She tightened her legs around my hands, the soft heat of her skin jolting me with l.u.s.t. I edged my finger closer to her cleft, feeling a lingering dampness from the previous night slickening her folds.

I couldn't get enough of her. Every night when we returned to the apartment after dinner or a walk, the pent-up urgency of the day unleashed. I grabbed Liv, she fell against me, and then we were kissing and groping like love-struck teenagers as we made our way to the bedroom.

She was always ready, always eager. So was I. I slipped my finger up to her c.l.i.t and circled it slowly. She gave a m.u.f.fled groan and shifted her hips. My d.i.c.k stiffened against her thigh.

Liv lifted her hands to my face and moved closer. She probed her tongue into my mouth, bit my lower lip, kissed the indentation just above my chin.

My wife. My wife.

Need boiled up inside me. As if sensing it, Liv rolled onto her back, all soft, yielding flesh and warmth. So perfect with her round hips and tapered waist, her full high b.r.e.a.s.t.s with tight nipples begging to be sucked.

I got to my knees, fisting my stiff c.o.c.k as I pushed between her thighs. As always, I battled the urge to make this last forever with the urge to plunge into her as fast and hard as I could.

"Oh, G.o.d, Dean." She moaned, stretching her arms over her head. "I'm already close."

I put my hand on the side of her face, turning her toward me. She stared at me, flushed and hot. I felt her body straining, almost vibrating with need.

"Look at me." I commanded gently. "You look at me the whole time, beauty. I want to watch you when I push inside you, when you take my c.o.c.k nice and deep. I want to see your expression when I start to f.u.c.k you. I want to look into your eyes and know you're feeling every G.o.dd.a.m.ned inch of my c.o.c.k filling you. I want you breathless, overwhelmed, taken. And I want to see you when you come, when you clench your sweet p.u.s.s.y around me so tight I can't f.u.c.king hold back anymore."

Liv stared at me, her lips parting and her eyes widening with shocked arousal. "G.o.d, Dean."

"Look at me."

I positioned my c.o.c.k right at her slit. She slid her hands under her thighs to hold them farther apart for me. A gasp caught in her throat. I eased into her slowly, my jaw clenching as her hot, slick channel closed around my shaft.

"Ah, f.u.c.k, Liv." I inhaled a ragged breath, mesmerized by the sight of my erection disappearing inside her. "So G.o.dd.a.m.ned tight."

"Dean, please." She panted, pushing to her elbows so she could keep her eyes fixed on mine. "Oh... oh!"

I thrust, sinking fully into her. She groaned, her eyes glazing over with urgent l.u.s.t. Sweat broke out on my forehead. My muscles strained with the effort of trying not to push too hard, too fast. I didn't want it to be over soon, but Christ in heaven, she was so hot and sweet...

"I'm... oh, hurry," she whispered. "I want to come with you inside me, to feel you... so deep... ah!"

I surged inside her, forgetting to be gentle, the sensation of my wife crashing over me. I thrust hard, harder... f.u.c.king harder. My mind emptied of thought. Pressure coiled through me. Her body shook and quivered under mine, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s bouncing with every thrust, her long hair clinging damply to her face and shoulders.

"Dean." Her voice cracked, her eyes suddenly filling with desperation and the glitter of tears. "I need it so badly. Please..."

Her pleas became a low chant, a stream of fire straight into me. Even as I felt her striving for release, she didn't take her eyes off mine. A thousand emotions filled her expression-need, l.u.s.t, urgency, love. Heat crackled between us, sparks like the strike of flint against steel.

Tension tightened my lower body. I drove into her again, wanting to bury myself inside her for days, sinking into all her goodness and warmth.

"Oh!" Liv inhaled sharply, her body tensing as if she felt the power of a wave the instant before it engulfed her. "Dean."

My name was a choked gasp, trailing into a moan as her body shook, hard vibrations trembling through her. Then it was too much, and I sank into her the instant before an o.r.g.a.s.m ripped through me. I gripped the sides of her head as I filled her, flooded her. She stared at me in a daze and then our lips crashed together, a sudden explosion of emotions too complex to unravel.

Dean. Dean... Dean.

My wife's voice echoed through me, her tears dampened my skin, and her body stayed wrapped around mine until we finally pulled ourselves out of bed. The rest of the world came slowly back into focus, even though neither of us wanted it to.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

OLIVIA.

This time, I don't try to prepare an elaborate, welcome-home dinner for Dean-which turns out to be a good thing when he calls to tell me his flight is delayed. Nicholas and I end up going to bed before Dean even gets home, and I find my husband sleeping in the guest bedroom the following morning.

Though Nicholas is initially thrilled with his father's return and the presents of wooden knight and dragon puppets, he launches himself back at me within two hours. He whines when Dean hugs and kisses me, he doesn't want to be put down when I'm holding him, and he won't let Dean help him dress or brush his teeth.

Any hopes I might still have had of a wild return to s.e.xyland with my husband disappears as I contend with Nicholas's continued bout of intense neediness that is only soothed by the apparent magic of clinging to me like a barnacle whenever the three of us are together.

The third night after Dean's return, I manage to get Nicholas to sleep by seven, but Dean is working late and by the time he comes to the bedroom with a gleam in his eye, Nicholas is calling for me.

I don't know how other women do it all. Then I remember they very likely don't do it all-not if my conversations with The Moms is anything to judge by. I can't even offer to give Dean a close, s.e.xy shave these days because by the time he gets out of the shower in the morning, I'm in the kitchen making Nicholas oatmeal and bananas.

I also haven't yet come up with a viable Plan B to revive our s.e.x life, mostly because my energy is going in so many different directions.

Get my groove back.

The statement stares at me from the pages of the beautiful Italian notebook Dean brought back for me. I've spent a lot of time learning about the importance of setting and keeping goals-and also about how effectively the craziness of working parenthood can thwart even the best of intentions.

A renewed sense of purpose strikes me when I realize Dean has been home for three days, and we haven't managed to progress any farther than a couple of heated, interrupted kisses.

One morning Archer stops by the b.u.t.terfly House to drop off the chair he has painted for the Chair Fair. As I'd expected, it's incredible-a detailed, cartoon drawing of Blue, the superheroine with blue-streaked blond hair who derives her power from the weather. Painted tornadoes twist up the legs of the chair, and a villain crawls over the back.

"This is beautiful," I say with admiration, walking around the chair. "Has Kelsey seen it?"

Archer shakes his head, a shadow crossing his expression. "She's been really busy."

Though I suspect Kelsey is keeping herself crazy busy partly to avoid having to deal with the issue of marrying Archer, I keep that thought to myself. Instead I reach out to squeeze Archer's arm.

"You know, I've always thought Kelsey and I were so different," I tell him. "But turns out we have a lot in common. We both know when something is so good it would be foolish to change it."

Archer shakes his head, his mouth compressing. "If you don't change, you stagnate and start to rot. My parents didn't change for twenty-five years, and look at how miserable they were."

I don't have an answer to that because it's the truth.

"It wasn't until they got divorced a few years ago that they were finally happy," Archer continues, turning and heading back to his truck.

"But their relationship wasn't good," I tell him. "It took them awhile, but they had to change to find freedom."

"So do I." Archer slams the open back of the truck and walks around to the driver's side. "Marriage to Kelsey is my freedom."

My heart clenches with painful understanding. Marriage to Dean had freed me too, in so many ways.

"Does she know that?" I ask gently.

"If she doesn't by now," Archer says, pulling his keys out of his pocket, "then the past two years have been a waste."

I realize I can see his point of view on this issue as clearly as I can see Kelsey's. As much as I don't want anything to change about our lives now, if I hadn't been willing to take a risk with Dean almost ten years ago, we'd never have dated and gotten married. I can't even imagine that.

"Archer, she'll come around eventually," I say, aware it's a painfully inadequate rea.s.surance.

"Yeah, well, I'm not going anywhere whether she does or doesn't." Archer shakes his head with a laugh. "Marriage or not, that woman is stuck with me for life. I love her more than I love... air, you know?"

"I know."

Archer shakes his head again, looking faintly embarra.s.sed by the confession. He opens the truck door and hauls himself into the driver's seat.

"So, you need my help with anything else?" he asks. "Take care of Nicholas or something?"

An idea sparks in my mind, intensified by my knowledge of Archer and Kelsey's own relationship problems and the undeniable fact that I have to work harder to nurture my marriage.

"Actually, now that you mention it, could you pick Nicholas up from daycare tonight?" I ask. "Maybe keep him until around eight thirty or so?"

I'm not much good after eight in the evening for anything except watching TV and sleeping, but Dean gets home around five thirty, and that will give us three full hours together.

"Yeah, sure," Archer agrees. "I'll take him to the park and food court. He likes that noodle place."

"Wonderful, thank you so much."

I go inside to get him Nicholas's spare diaper bag before he heads off. I spend the morning with Nicholas before leaving him at daycare and going to the cafe. At four, I finish my shift and walk to Avalon Street.

I make a stop at my favorite downtown lingerie shop and purchase several ruffled chemises and two sets of lacy bras and panties. At home, I go upstairs to the bedroom and open my notebook.

Chair Fair underway. Check.

Birthday party orders placed. Check.

Auction donations confirmed. Check.

Daycare payments made. Check.

Cafe schedule done. Check.

Bills paid. Check.

s.e.xy stuff purchased. Check and double-check.

I have absolutely nothing else to think about since my entire To Do list has been completed. I'm all about getting s.e.xy tonight.

I set the notebook on my nightstand and strip out of my dowdy work pants and shirt. I put on a pink-and-black sheer chemise whose open front is held together by a little bow. Then I slither into a pair of matching V-string panties that are hardly the most comfortable thing in the world, but I don't expect I'll be wearing them for long.

I do a quick primping in the bathroom, admiring how the chemise looks both pretty and s.e.xy draped over my b.r.e.a.s.t.s and hips. Aside from making an effort to lose my pregnancy weight and go to the gym regularly, I haven't paid much attention to my body since I had Nicholas.

A year of breast-feeding, which was both painful and difficult, combined with the unexpected physical demands of a new baby then a clingy toddler, have often made me feel more like a workhorse than a sensual woman.

I turn, still studying myself in the mirror and thinking I look pretty good. All the more reason to stoke the fires again. And even though I do want to know about Dean's fantasies, it's also true I haven't indulged in fantasies of my own in recent months. So this isn't just about Dean. It's about me too. It's about us.

I pull my old, padded bathrobe on over my chemise and belt it closed, then busy myself fluffing up the pillows and smoothing the sheets. I pick up a romance novel by the side of my bed and, to get myself in the mood, I read a few pages of a love scene in which Renaldo is penetrating Lissa's silken petals with his turgid manroot.

"Liv?" Dean's deep voice echoes from the foyer.

"Up here!" I call, adjusting my robe over my lingerie.

I hear his footsteps on the stairs before he comes in, rumpled from a day's work but handsome as the devil in gray slacks and a hunter green shirt, his tie loose around his neck. He stops in the doorway and eyes me in my ragged old padded robe.

"What're you doing in your robe already?" he asks. "You feeling okay?"

"Just fine." I smile.

"Where's Nicholas?"

"Archer wanted to take him to the park. They're going to grab dinner at the mall."

"Oh." With a shrug, Dean goes into the bathroom.

I hear the water running. I know his routine, and sure enough-a few minutes later he emerges, unb.u.t.toning his shirt to change into jeans and a T-shirt. As I admire his chest and the smooth musculature of his shoulders, a ribbon of l.u.s.t uncoils inside me.

Yes!