I don't think that in the history of time anything good has followed those four words.

I move my hand to the back of his neck, spearing my fingers into his thick hair as I pull his mouth down to mine.

Our lips collide with sudden force, stopping his protest. Dean mutters something against my lips, his surrender swift as he slides his tongue into my mouth and pulls me even closer.

Longing and lust unfurl between us. I clutch his shirt, sinking into the whirlpool of pleasure evoked by the touch of our mouths. The world seems to right itself, settling into balance again. I skim my tongue against his, over his lower lip, my blood streaming with light.

"Sofa," I whisper.

I grab his arms and walk backward to the sofa in front of the fireplace, keeping my mouth pressed to his until we sink against the cushions together, the delicious weight of his body over mine. Arousal billows inside me, shocking and delighting me with its intensity.

I grip the back of Dean's neck and bite down on his lower lip in a way I know makes him hot. A groan rumbles in his chest. His erection presses heavy and thick against my hip. My body throbs in response.

I run my hands over his chest to the knot of his tie. With a few quick tugs, I pull it off and drop it to the floor then urge him back to me.

Our kiss eases into a lovely, teasing rhythm of lips and tongues. Gentle kisses, heated stroking. Dean curls his fingers into the material of my dress, a shudder of urgency vibrating through him. I force my mouth from his, our breathing hard.

"Take off my dress." I fumble to reach the zipper at the back.

His eyes darken with that lustful anticipation I know so well. I manage to get the zipper down a little, and Dean reaches behind me to yank it the rest of the way. I squirm to get the dress off my shoulders and push it to my waist.

"Oh, fuck..." Dean's eyes glaze over as he stares at my breasts.

"Nice, huh?" I look down at the emerald-green, push-up bra, which displays my cleavage to great advantage, the satin edge brushing my skin.

"I'm about to come already." Dean spreads his hands over the bra, rubbing his thumbs across my taut nipples.

A shiver races down my spine. "There's more."

I wiggle my hips to indicate he should pull my dress off. His hands tremble as he grabs the material and tugs it down my legs to reveal the matching panties. Then he sits back and stares at me. My heart racing, I push up to my elbows as his gaze strokes the length of my body.

"You are so damn sexy," he says.

The hoarse note in his voice makes me quiver. I sit up to unbutton his shirt and push it off, revealing the musculature of his shoulders and chest. I skim my hands over all those hard ridges, then move lower to take his erection in my palm.

"I want to make you come," I whisper.

He groans and sits back against the cushions. I unfasten his belt and trousers, pushing them to the floor as his cock springs hot and heavy into my hand. I kneel beside him on the sofa and bend to swipe my tongue over the head of his erection, pushing my lower body upward.

Less than a second later, Dean strokes his hand over my bottom, which is covered tightly by emerald-green silk and lace. I gasp as the heat of his palm burns through the thin material. He edges his finger into the satin border at my thigh.

Urgency coils inside me, a desperation made all the sharper by the things left unspoken. I grasp the base of his cock and lower my head again to take him into my mouth. His breath escapes on a hiss, his other hand tangling in my hair.

The salty taste of him fills my mouth, his shaft throbbing against my tongue. My breasts press against his thigh, the material of my bra abrading my sensitive nipples. I sink my mouth lower over Dean's cock, rocking my hips as his finger probes deeper beneath my panties.

I draw him in even farther and press my tongue to the smooth underside. Up, down, lick, stroke, kiss. His thighs tense, his hand tightening in my hair.

"Liv, I'm..."

I slide my mouth upward and to the head of his cock, squeezing his shaft just as an orgasm shudders through him. I take a breath and suck him deep, swallowing the semen pulsing into my mouth. When the vibrations ease from his body, I pull back and start to sit up.

Dean presses his hand to my lower back. "Don't move."

My heart jolts with excitement. I brace my hands on the other side of his lap and arch my back, moaning when he eases another finger into my damp cleft. The constriction of the panties heightens my tension.

I dig my hands into the sofa cushion and strain toward the exquisite release of pleasure. Dean touches my folds in the way I love, circling his forefinger around my clit as he reaches beneath me with his other hand to pull down the cups of my bra and fondle my breasts.

I come within seconds, bucking against him as sparks explode through my nerves. He eases every last sensation from me before I sink across his lap and try to catch my breath. He runs his hand over the length of my body, rubbing circles over my ass.

I roll onto my back and look up at him-my beautiful husband with his gold-flecked eyes still dark with arousal, his chest glistening with a sheen of sweat. I brush my palm over his torso as the lovely afterglow descends.

"How many of these do you have?" Dean runs his finger along the edge of my bra.

"About half a dozen. Maybe I'll do a fashion show for you one day."

"If you do, I'll give you a really big tip."

I wiggle against his cock and grin. "Yeah, I'll bet you will."

He returns my grin and helps me to a sitting position. Sliding a hand to the back of my neck, he pulls me in for a deep and thorough kiss that makes me tingle all over again.

After we part, I climb off the sofa, aware of his gaze on my rear end as I walk to the bathroom. I grab one of his T-shirts from his open suitcase and use the bathroom, then pull the shirt on over my head.

Pushing my hair away from my face, I return to the main room. Dean is zipping up his trousers, and the instant I look at him, my heart sinks. That air of somberness is back, hovering over him like a cloud.

I stop halfway to the sofa. Dean pulls his shirt over his shoulders. Against reason, my pulse kicks into gear again at the sight of him all disheveled and sweaty, his white shirt open to reveal his gorgeous chest.

I pick up my discarded dress and toss it over a chair. Dean watches me. A shutter descends over his features.

I sit down on the sofa, twisting the little ring Dean sent me from Italy around on my finger. I can't think of a way to stop whatever it is he's going to say.

"What?" I whisper.

"I need to talk to you about the meeting."

"Okay. What... what happened?"

He sighs and drags a hand through his hair. "When I started teaching at King's, Maggie Hamilton told me she wanted to write about Trotula of Salerno and women's history. Since Trotula was a physician, the research included stuff about women's sexuality. Now Maggie is saying I was the one who suggested it, that she wasn't comfortable with the subject... that kind of shit."

"Oh, no."

"Yeah." His jaw clenches. "And when I was gone, Ben Stafford looked into my past jobs and positions. He found out that you and I started dating when we were at the UW. So now he's questioning the ethics of our relationship."

Shock bolts through me. I sink back onto the sofa. "The ethics of it?"

"Professor and student, right?"

"But I wasn't your student! We didn't do anything against the rules."

"Doesn't seem to matter. You were a student, and I was a professor. Considering a student is making this claim... it doesn't look good."

A sick feeling rises into my throat. My early relationship with Dean is one of tangled, intense beauty. The idea that strangers could make it obscene because of a vindictive girl's lies...

I press my hands to my eyes.

"What's Stafford going to do?" I ask.

"I don't know. But Edward Hamilton knows about it too, and he's accusing me of having a history of getting involved with students. If he finds a way to use that against me, he will."

My stomach tightens. No one knows about our early relationship, the secrets we told, the games we played, the talks we had, the desire we explored. No one except us. That's the very reason it was both beautiful and dangerous, like a secret island where we were uncertain of rescue... until we saved each other.

Our island. Our love. Our marriage.

I hate the thought of strangers dissecting it all, probing for something immoral and wrong, with Dean and I forced to defend the very foundation of our relationship.

"Oh, Dean."

"I know. I'm sorry."

Twenty-four hours ago, I was so happy I would have whistled a merry tune, if I knew how to whistle. Now I'm all knotted up and blistering again.

We look at each other. We both feel it, the sharp invasion of the rest of the world into our space. He shoves his hands into his pockets. His shirt is still unbuttoned, his hair sticking damply to his forehead. Silence stretches taut between us. I search for and find a measure of courage.

"What if I went to Ben Stafford and told him the truth?" I push off the sofa and pace to the windows. "Before either Maggie or Edward Hamilton can spread more lies?"

"No." His refusal is fast and hard, tension stiffening his shoulders. "No way. You're not getting anywhere near this."

"But I could-"

"No, Liv. You stay out of it."

I struggle with conflicting emotions of relief and irritation. No, I don't want to talk to Ben Stafford about my relationship with Dean, but at the same time I would do anything to end this slander.

"Maybe it would help," I persist. "I could tell Stafford how careful you were about ensuring you didn't break any regulations, that you've always been completely professional with students and colleagues. Everything I'd say would vouch for your character, right? And no one knows you better than I do."

"You know me as your husband. You don't know me as a professor."

I blink in surprise. "What does that mean?"

"You don't know how I interact with my students." Dean turns away, dragging a hand through his messy hair. "You don't know if I could've said or done something wrong."

"Of course you haven't done anything wrong!"

"What was the subject of my last research paper?"

"What?"

"The last paper I submitted to the Journal of Medieval Architecture. What was the subject?"

"I-"

"You don't know," he says. "And you don't know because it's not important to you."

Shame and irritation twist inside me. "You think your work isn't important to me?"

"What was the subject of my last paper?" Dean repeats.

My heart does a strange descent into my stomach. He turns to face me, his expression unreadable.

"Look, I don't care, all right?" he says. "It doesn't matter to me that you don't know I wrote about the chapels of the Notre-Dame Cathedral. There's no reason it should be important to you. But that also means you don't know what goes on in my lecture hall, in my office, during meetings..."

"I know how good you are at what you do. Isn't that enough?"

"Liv, I don't even know if I did something wrong! Maggie Hamilton is right, goddammit. I did suggest books on sexuality and female anatomy. That was her thesis topic. God knows I could've said a dozen things that anyone could interpret as harassment. I said things to her about views of sexuality, prostitution, and contraception in the Middle Ages. She probably still has emails from me. And if Stafford asks me that in a deposition, I have no defense."

"You do have a defense. Your career and reputation are your defense. Everything I'd tell Stafford would just reiterate the fact that you're honorable to the core." I pause, aware of the rising shame again. "Even if I don't know your theories on the Notre-Dame cathedral."

"Liv, I don't care about the damn cathedral." Dean rubs his hands over his face. "I'm warning you it could all get so much worse. And you're not going anywhere near Stafford because he could ask you questions you don't have an answer for."

"Dean, love of my life, he's investigating us now, right? I'll always have an answer about us."

Dean gazes at me for a minute before approaching and settling his hands on my shoulders. I lean my forehead against his chest, feeling his tension.

"Please let me do this for you," I tell him. "For us. I want to prove that I can."

"You don't have to prove anything to me, Liv. You never have."

"But I want to prove it to myself."

I ease back to look at him and hold up my left hand. He places his palm against mine, and our wedding bands click together before we entwine our fingers. We both hold on tight.

"Pie love you, professor," I whisper. "Have faith in me, okay?"

"Ah, Liv." He presses his lips to my forehead. "I don't have faith in anyone but you."

When I return to the apartment, my mother is in the living room, her head bent as she files her nails. A news program is on the TV, and the scent of coffee lingers in the air. She glances up when I enter.

"Where've you been?" she asks.

"With Dean. We had to talk."

"Talk?" Her gaze sweeps over me in one movement, and my breath shortens. If anyone knows the signs of post-sex, it's Crystal Winter.

I fight back the urge to blush. I had sex with my husband, not some random man I picked up at a grocery store while my daughter waited in the car.

Shit. A wave of old apprehension floods me. I drop my purse on a chair and head into the bathroom. I slam the door and get into the shower, hating the sense that I'm trying to wash the scent of Dean off my skin.

When I go back into the bedroom, Crystal is sitting on the bed cross-legged, one elbow resting on her knee.