Part 19 (1/2)

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 s.h.i.+ft 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 s.h.i.+ver 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 s.h.i.+ft.”

”I know.”

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