CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

OLIVIA.

A lesson about control.

Well, all right then, Professor West. Teach me.

Curious thoughts buzz around my mind like bees in a hive as I work my shift at the Wonderland Cafe. I'm still aroused from both this morning and last night's thwarted l.u.s.t. And I feel a little raunchy for having lascivious thoughts while I serve heart-shaped jam tarts and cuc.u.mber sandwiches to a group of ladies from the Historical Society.

"Thank you, Olivia, my dear," Florence Wickham says. "I'm sorry I missed you at the Historical Society meeting. How are you?"

h.o.r.n.y.

I stifle a laugh as I imagine how the ladies would react if I actually said that. Florence would probably tell me to go right home and put Dean to work.

Except I can't do that. Because I'm not allowed to.

A little tingle of excitement goes through me. What on earth will I be allowed to do? And when?

I clear my throat and place a tiered tray of tea sandwiches on the table.

"Very well, thank you," I reply. "I hear Dean and Archer are helping you with the railroad."

"Yes, and we're antic.i.p.ating great things from the auction," Florence says. "Did you ever secure an auctioneer?"

"Didn't I CC you on the email?" I take out my phone and scroll my messages. "Patrick Hartford from Hartford Pharmacy is a licensed auctioneer, but because he's been out of the auction gig for a while, he agreed to do it for a nominal fee."

"Oh, lovely." Florence smiles at me. "What would this town do without you, Olivia?"

Hopefully this town will never have to find out, I think, as I pick up their empty teapot and return to the kitchen. I bring the ladies a fresh pot of Earl Grey and ring up a customer's bill. After I help a couple of teenagers at the counter, my cell phone buzzes with a text.

DEAN: Go into your office and call me.

LIV: I'm working.

DEAN: Do it.

My stomach flutters. As soon as Sheryl returns to staff the front counter, I mutter something about needing to do some "stuff" in the office. I hurry in and lock the door behind me-Allie and I sometimes change out of our work clothes in the office, so she won't wonder why the door is locked. I dial Dean's number.

"I'm here."

"Door locked?" he asks.

"Yes."

"Good. Put your hand between your legs and tell me how wet you are."

I draw in a sharp breath, a shiver raining down my spine. My heart hammers as I slip my hand under my ap.r.o.n and unzip my pants. I'm unfortunately wearing boring cotton underwear, but clearly that has no effect on my arousal.

"G.o.d, Dean," I murmur. "So wet. I really was turned on last night... and this morning."

"I know you were." His voice drops an octave. "I'm going to tell you a fantasy, beauty. And when you get home, you strip off your clothes, put on your bathrobe, and lie on the bed with your legs spread. You're going to touch yourself and think about what I'm going to tell you. But you're not allowed to come. Understand?"

My pulse is beating so hard I can hear it in my head.

"Yes," I manage to whisper.

"You're wearing an ap.r.o.n."

An ap.r.o.n?

Since I wear an ap.r.o.n every day, this is not a particularly s.e.xy start. And given Dean's lack of imagination when it comes to fantasies...

"Um, okay," I say, keeping my voice husky. "An ap.r.o.n."

"And nothing else."

"Oh..."

"It's a little red checkered ap.r.o.n with a ruffled hem that just comes to the tops of your thighs and covers your b.r.e.a.s.t.s."

Oh my.

Maybe he does have a s.e.xy imagination after all.

"What are you wearing?" I ask.

"You're not allowed to ask questions."

"Oops. Sorry."

"Pay attention. You're only wearing red heels and this little ap.r.o.n that exposes your pretty a.s.s. And you're aroused. Every time you take a step, you feel your c.l.i.t throbbing and your juices dripping down your thighs. Your nipples are hard, rubbing against the ap.r.o.n, your b.r.e.a.s.t.s bouncing every time you move. You're so tempted to reach under that ruffled hem and touch yourself, but you know that if you do, you won't get f.u.c.ked.

"And you want to get f.u.c.ked, beauty. Badly. You want to spread your legs and feel my c.o.c.k pounding into you. You want to writhe and moan and scream. You want to beg to come, and when I let you, the f.u.c.king earth will shake."

"Oh my G.o.d, Dean." I grip the desk and close my eyes, sweat breaking out on my forehead. "I'm about to come right now."

"No." His voice steels. "Get back to work."

Seriously?

"Wait," I gasp. "I still have two hours left in my shift."

"I know."

"I'm bringing tea to the ladies of the Historical Society."

"Say h.e.l.lo to them for me," he remarks, his tone now laced with amus.e.m.e.nt. "Remember what I told you. Be ready. I'll be home at five."

Holy s.h.i.t. I stick my phone back into my pocket, trying to compose myself as I walk back out to the kitchen. Figuring I can attribute my flushed skin to the heat of the stove, I manage to get through the rest of my shift with a reasonable degree of composure-even if I do find myself looking at the raw carrots with a perverted interest.

By the time I get home, I'm almost shaking with need. I take off my clothes and pull my robe on over my naked body before stretching out on the bed. Images flood my head of me walking around in the little red ap.r.o.n and heels, the bow tickling my a.s.s, Dean's hot gaze raking over me.

I wonder where we are. Am I working in a bakery? Is he the boss? Maybe I'm a housekeeper and he's the master of the mansion. And maybe he catches me stealing a doughnut and decides to punish me by making me strut around half-naked for his pleasure.

Ooo. Doughnuts.

Focus, Liv.

I stretch out on the bed, lightly running my hands over my bare thighs through the opening in my robe. I picture myself maybe walking around with a feather duster, dusting Master West's collection of... um, priceless Greco-Roman antiques, when he grabs the duster from me and starts flicking it over my naked body, the feathers tickling my skin...

"Good girl."

Dean's deep voice falls over me. My breath catches as I push up to my elbows, our eyes clashing hot and intense across the room. His tie is loose around his neck, but otherwise he's still fully dressed in charcoal-gray slacks and a navy shirt that fits beautifully over his broad chest and shoulders. I let my gaze wander hungrily down to his groin, where sure enough a heavy, tempting bulge is all too evident.

I lick my lips. He mutters a curse, pulling off his tie.

"Watch it," he growls. "You're also not allowed to seduce me."

"I'm just looking at you."

"You looking at me is a seduction," he says, jerking a thumb toward the door. "Downstairs."

"Downstairs?"

"Go."

I scramble off the bed and pa.s.s him in the doorway, making certain to nudge my b.r.e.a.s.t.s accidentally against his arm. He frowns.

I hurry downstairs, stopping halfway with the question I can't help asking because it was Dean's turn to pick Nicholas up from daycare.

"Where's Nicholas?" I ask.

"With Archer. Who is under the threat of death not to call unless it's a dire emergency."

"Oh." I stifle a giggle. "He must really be wondering what we're up to."

"Kitchen," Dean orders. "Now."

I go into the kitchen, stopping at the sight of a folded, red-checkered ap.r.o.n sitting on the central island along with an array of baking ingredients. There's a pair of red, pointed-toe heels beside the counter.

I pause. "What..."

Dean stops behind me, rubbing his big hands over my a.s.s. "Put on the ap.r.o.n, beauty. And bake me an apple pie."

I turn to stare at him. "You're serious?"

"Never more." Though his expression is stern, amus.e.m.e.nt flickers in his brown eyes.

"This is your fantasy? For me to bake you a pie half-naked?"

"While I watch," he adds, lifting his hands to fondle my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "If the pie is good, I'll f.u.c.k you nice and hard and let you come."

A bolt of heat shoots through me. "And... and if it's not?"

"I'll still f.u.c.k you, but you won't be allowed to come."

"Well, that's just mean."

"Better make it a good pie, then."

With that, he sits down on a kitchen chair, crosses his arms, and waits.

And since I really want what's behind door number one, I strip out of my robe-slowly, as his heated gaze rakes over me-and put on the ruffled ap.r.o.n. The skirt is too small, leaving my cleavage exposed on the top and sides, and the little hem barely covers my p.u.s.s.y. I slip my feet into the heels and fasten the thin straps.

I walk over to Dean and turn, flicking the ap.r.o.n strings.

"Could you tie it for me, please?" I ask breathlessly.

I can almost hear his jaw grinding with restraint as he takes the strings and ties a bow right above my bare bottom. Then he gives me a light spank.

"Bake, woman," he orders.

I set to work making the pie crust and peeling apples. And though this is unconventional for us, it's also fun. And pretty smoking hot. Every time I glance at Dean, he's watching me with a smoldering gaze, his muscles leashed with self-control, his erection straining against his fly.

For the fourth time, I drop an apple peel on the floor.

"Silly me." I turn, bending over to pick it up, feeling Dean's gaze on my upturned a.s.s.

I'm sure he's imagining exactly what he wants to do to me. And he was right-with every step, every movement, even rolling out the pie crust, I'm acutely aware of my arousal. My nipples rub against the cotton ap.r.o.n, and I have to fight the urge not to tense my thighs to ease the ache of need.

Apples, cinnamon, nutmeg, sugar, b.u.t.ter. I stir everything up into a nice, creamy mess, load the filling into the pie, and make a quick lattice-work crust before putting the whole creation in the oven.

I close the oven door and glance at Dean. I'm warm not only from arousal, but also the work and heat of the oven.

"It'll take at least an hour to bake," I remark, hoping he'll amend the rules about exactly what needs to happen before we get down to business.

He shrugs. "I can wait."

Of course he can.

With a sigh, I perch on a kitchen stool and drum my fingers on the central island. The clock ticks. I'm not about to risk my pie being anything less than good, but I struggle to hold on to my patience as the clock moves at a snail's pace and my body hums with the simmering need for Dean.