by Nina Lane
“But these other places have access to more resources, clinical trials, state-of-the-art technologies,” he argues, his voice edged with frustration. “I’ll fly you anywhere for the best care, Liv. Anywhere.”
“Dean, love of my life.” I put down the dishtowel and approach him, reaching out to put my hand on his chest. “I would never want to be away from the kids for long periods of time. What would that do to them, knowing I was sick but not at home where I belong? And you couldn’t leave them or work, which would mean I’d have to go through whatever it is without you, and if you think for one second I could stand that, then I’m going to have to rethink my admiration of your brilliant mind.”
He doesn’t smile. A shadow of angry desperation lingers in his dark brown eyes. My heart squeezes. I move closer to slide my arms around his waist.
“I don’t need to be flown anywhere,” I tell him, pressing my face to his shirt. “I’m going to fight this right here, on our own turf, with you at my side and our children happy at home with both their parents. I need you. I need them. I need our friends. I don’t care how fancy some hospital in New York or Texas is… if it doesn’t have us, then I don’t want to go there. I won’t.”
Dean folds his arms around me, his body shuddering with a long sigh. He brushes his lips across my forehead before detaching himself from me and returning to his tower office. I watch him go, disliking the tension in his body, the futile anger that has no tangible target.
I get a pad of paper and draw:
I put the note in the pocket of Dean’s peacoat in the front closet. I walk upstairs and check on Bella and Nicholas, pausing to kiss their foreheads and pull their covers up. I do this every night before I get ready for bed, and I try not to think that now the simple act carries more significance because I might not—
Stop.
There are so many dark, narrow alleys twisting around me now, so many shadows reaching out to lure me into places I don’t want to—can’t—go.
I walk into the bedroom to change into my nightgown. My hands shake as I strip off my clothes and underwear. I unhook my bra, take a deep breath, and turn to face the mirror. For the first time since the diagnosis just over a week ago, I look at my naked body.
I don’t even know what I was expecting. Maybe that I’d have contorted into some twisted, disfigured, cancerous version of myself.
But no. My breasts look like they always have—well, maybe not always, considering I’ve nursed two children—but they’re still full and round, with the same dark pink nipples whose exquisite sensitivity I’ve enjoyed for so many years. My tapered waist flares into hips that are wider than they once were, but still have soft curves where Dean’s hands fit perfectly.
I have a good, strong body that has borne two children and gotten me to the age of thirty-six without failing once. My legs are well-shaped and supple, having walked countless paths through the Wonderland Café, delivering peppermint tea and rainbow cupcakes, and through Parisian streets and gardens. My arms are firm and toned from carrying my children, shopping bags of French baguettes and fresh market vegetables, and trays of Heart, Home, and Courage cookies.
I try to attend exercise classes regularly, but just living life and running around with my children is enough to keep me in shape. No gym can beat the workout of playing Frisbee in the park with your six-year-old son.
I look exactly the same. Exactly like Liv West.
I meet my gaze in the mirror, liking the woman looking back at me. I reach to unfasten the clasp in my hair and shake it out. My hair falls in a long, straight curtain down my back and over my shoulders, partly concealing my breasts.
I’ll lose my hair.
The thought bursts like a pipe bomb in my brain. I’ve been so fixated on my breasts and the potential of losing one, if not both, that I’d almost forgotten I could lose my hair too.
I back away from the mirror and sit on the bed. A chill ripples over my skin.
God. A misshapen, diseased body with no hair…
I rub my arms and look at my reflection again. My hair suddenly seems intrinsic to my relationship with Dean. He’s always loved touching it, running his hands through it. He tugs affectionately at locks of my hair and winds swathes of it around his hand to pull me in for a kiss. He buries his fingers in my hair when we’re making love and he’s moving over me, guiding my mouth to his.
And more. So much more. Dean grabs my ponytail when I’m sucking his cock, sometimes using mild pressure as a way to indicate what he wants. Or when I’m on my hands and knees, he fists the length of my hair in his hand and pulls, arching my back as he thrusts into me hard and deep from behind.
Then afterward, as we lie curled together in the hazy, delicious aftermath, he picks up the tendrils of my hair spread over his chest and winds them lazily around his fingers, as if in substitution for his ever-present string figures.
And everything he does, I love. Every time Dean touches my hair, whether in tenderness or fierce passion, I love it. It’s always a gesture of such adoration, love, admiration, worship, possession… a reminder that I belong to him, an assertion that he—and only he—has the right to touch me so intimately.
Another chill shivers through me. This disease could rob me of my most womanly parts, the physical characteristics that have always brought both my husband and me so much intense pleasure.
I pull my bathrobe over my shoulders and belt it around my waist. Anxiety twists inside me, and my heart pounds with every step I take up the spiral staircase to Dean’s office.
I knock on the door. “Dean?”
“Right here.”
At the sound of his deep voice, I push the door open. He’s seated at his desk, wearing flannel pajama bottoms and a King’s T-shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders.
“Hey.” He looks up, his expression one of distracted concentration. “Everything okay?”
I nod, casting a glance at the surface of his desk. Any other time, his desk would be covered with books about Charlemagne or the canons of the Fourth Lateran Council. A pile of student research papers would teeter precariously on the shelf above. There would be photos and maps of archeological digs, color replicas of illuminated manuscripts, notepads scrawled with ideas, theories, and references to medieval saints and scholars.
But now? Now his desk is littered with medical articles, insurance papers, and the multiple legal pads on which he’s written extensive notes during our doctor visits. A stack of cancer-related library books sits on the floor beside the desk, and the computer screen displays a breast cancer research website.
Pain boils up inside me. I push it back down, like clamping a lid on a bubbling pot. I approach Dean and take hold of his swivel chair, turning him toward me. We look at each other. Faint tension stretches between us.
I put my hands on the arms of the chair and lean closer to him. The V-neck of my robe opens. Dean’s gaze slides downward, over my throat to my exposed cleavage. A familiar, beautiful heat darkens his brown eyes.
Any fear I’d had that he might hesitate to touch me, or at the very least touch me differently, vanishes the second he tugs at my robe, baring my body to his stare. He cups my breasts in his warm hands, rubbing his thumbs over my nipples until they stiffen with arousal.
I tighten my grip on the chair. New shivers spiral through me, but good ones this time. Hot shivers. I look down and watch my husband’s hands moving over my naked breasts—rubbing, squeezing, fondling. He slides his fingers into the crevice beneath them, weighing them in his palms. His breath gets faster, heating the tension-laced air.
Dean pulls at the belt of my robe. “Take it off.”
I straighten to unknot the belt and let my robe open. My nerves tighten again, but as Dean’s slow, hot gaze rakes down my naked body, I remember I have never had anything to fear when I’m with this man. In fact, being with him banishes fear.
&nbs
p; I lean toward him and press my lips to his.
“Kiss me,” I whisper. “Fuck me.”
A groan rumbles in his chest. He takes hold of my hips to pull me onto his lap, but I gently resist. Instead I get to my knees in front of him and ease into the juncture of his legs.
“Liv…” Dean curls his hands around my arms to urge me back up, the shadow of concern still inside him.
“I want to.” I spread my palms over his torso, feeling the warm, hard ridges of his muscles under his T-shirt. “Please let me.”
When he doesn’t respond, I look up at him. He’s watching me with a shuttered expression, a slight crease between his brows, his eyes dark. He cups my cheek, his hand strong and comforting, like a cradle. Then he moves his hands up into my hair, brushing the long strands away from my face.
Oh, yes…
I resist the urge to close my eyes, instead keeping my gaze on Dean as he worships my hair with his hands. I sink into the sensation of his strong fingers moving over my scalp, around to massage the back of my neck, combing through the length of my hair. Bittersweet warmth streams through my veins.
I reach for the drawstring of his pants to loosen it. His erection is half-hard, pressing against the thin cotton. He lifts his hips so I can pull the pants down and off. My breath catches at the sight of his thick cock. A welcome, delicious pulsing starts in my lower body.
I draw in a breath, squirming to rub my thighs together as I lower my head and take Dean’s erection into my mouth. He groans, his hand tightening gently but firmly in my hair.
The taste of him—maleness, salt, Dean—floods my tongue. I let my eyes drift closed as I slide my lips over his shaft. His cock hardens further, stiffening in reaction to my tongue pressing against the underside. I edge a hand between his thighs to fondle his testicles, the weight of them warm and heavy in my palm.
“Ah, Christ, Liv…” Dean’s breath quickens in pace, his fingers moving to grip the back of my neck.
I shift and settle my hands on his strong thighs, pushing to my knees. My hair falls in a curtain on either side of my face. I grasp the base of Dean’s cock and squeeze, taking him in as far as I can before licking back up the shaft to press my lips against the hard tip.
When he takes hold of a swathe of my hair and gently tugs, I ease away to look at him, my hand still wrapped around his cock. Lust brews in his eyes. He urges me back up to him, gripping my hips to guide me onto his thighs. His cock sticks straight up between us, and the sight of all that hard, hot flesh, slick from my mouth, makes my sex clench with need.
So good.
I brace my hands on his shoulders and lift myself up, letting him position his erection right at my opening. I slide downward, my breath catching with aroused delight as he enters me with exquisite gentleness. So easy. So perfect.
“Oh, fuck.” Dean’s groan vibrates against my skin as he tightens his grip on my waist. “Ride me.”
I clutch his shoulders as I bring my body up and down, up and down, letting his cock stroke my inner flesh, the air between us growing hot and thick. Tension coils through me. I move faster, my bottom hitting Dean’s thighs with a sound like a spank, his fingers digging harder into my waist as his own urgency intensifies.
When I feel his muscles straining, I stop and settle onto his cock. I bring my hands to the sides of his face and lower my head to kiss him. I dart my tongue out to probe into his mouth, a rush of air spilling from him to me, his restraint palpable as he lets me take control. His shaft pulses inside me, a rhythm in time with the beat of my heart.
“Dean.” I slide my tongue over his, my blood heating. “I want to come.”
“Oh, you’ll come,” he whispers, taking my lower lip gently between his teeth. “You’ll come hard.”
He moves his hands around to grip my rear, then pushes up from the chair. I wrap my legs around his waist, our mouths still clinging together as he moves us both over to the sofa. He lowers me onto it and straightens to pull his T-shirt over his head. The sight of his naked, muscular torso sends fresh pulses of heat through my veins.
I rub my breasts, pinching my stiff nipples. Electric sparks shoot to my core. Dean’s eyes darken with lust as he watches the movement of my hands, the way I squeeze my breasts together and trace my areola with the tips of my fingers.
He nods to my legs. “Spread them and touch yourself.”
A small moan escapes me. I part my legs, sliding my hand toward my pussy as Dean takes hold of his erection and starts to stroke it. And, oh God, it’s so fucking hot—the sight of him standing naked over me, rubbing his big cock in such an easy, sinuous rhythm, his gaze fixed on the juncture of my thighs. I spread them wider to show him how I’m massaging my clit and starting to fuck myself with my fingers.
“Christ,” Dean whispers, his breath escaping on a rush. “Keep doing that, and I’ll come before I get inside you.”
Though the thought of watching him cream over my breasts makes me shudder with anticipation, I’m more desperate to feel him pumping into me again. I slide my hand away from my sex and reach out to hook my right leg around his thighs, pulling him closer to the sofa.
Thankfully, the sofa is big enough for both of us to fit with relative comfort, though I want him on top of me. He braces his hands on either side of me, his body coming down on mine with a heavy, delicious weight that presses me into the cushions and envelops me in his hot, protective atmosphere.
I coil my arms around him as our lips meet in a deep kiss that is a prelude to fucking. Dean pushes his tongue in and out of my mouth, I suck on his lower lip, and we pull back and press forward again and again. His cock throbs insistently against my thigh, but I know my husband can—and will—wait as long as necessary to prolong the intense pleasure of kissing.
I run my hand down his damp torso, the sculpted ridges and planes I’ve memorized like a map. I trace his navel and dip a finger into the indentation, smiling when he twitches a little. It’s the one place where he’s ticklish. He grasps my wrist, bringing my hand to his mouth and pressing a kiss against my palm before edging between my legs.
I part my thighs, opening for him, everything inside me burning with heat as he eases his thick cock into me, stretching me, filling me.
“Oh, Dean.” I arch my back, wanting to drive myself down on his shaft. “Do it. Hurry, please.”
With a grunt, he pushes forward and starts to thrust, getting to his knees to deepen the penetration. We fall together, letting the blissful cascade wash over us both as our bodies join again and again. I keep my eyes open, watching every nuance of Dean’s face and body—the ripples of tension coursing just beneath his skin, the sheen of sweat glistening on his shoulders, the rigid set of his features and burn in his eyes.
I grip the edge of the sofa cushions, overwhelmed by the pure sensation of everything—his hair-roughened thighs abrading mine, the push of his cock into my channel, the sofa upholstery rubbing against my ass. His eyes burn so hot as he rakes his gaze over my naked body. Every powerful thrust jostles me back and forth, but never does he leave me completely.
I know my husband so well. I know the instant he makes that shift from self-control to the drive toward release. My breath scorches my lungs, a delicious fever winding through my body as I restrain my own urgency in favor of watching him.
“Ah, fuck, Liv…” His breathless curse washes over my skin.
“Do it on me,” I gasp, pushing to my elbows. “I want to watch.”
He tightens his grip on my upturned knees as he thrusts into me again and again before he stills, struggling for control as he pulls out of me. My heart pulses heavily. Dean takes hold of his slick cock and slides his hand up and down the shaft… fast… faster… His body tenses in the instant before he comes with a groan, his seed spurting out to pool on my belly.
I pull a hot breath into my lungs, sliding my hand down to rub him into my skin as he m
oves back to massage my clit.
“Come on, baby,” he whispers, bracing his other hand on the side of my head and pressing his mouth to mine.
I grip his arms, bucking up against the increasing pressure of his hand as urgency winds through me tighter and tighter, and he works me with such precision and skill that—
“Oh!” I cry out, bliss coursing through me as Dean flicks his thumb over my clit, simultaneously pushing his tongue into my mouth.
I clutch him tightly as the exquisite wave floods my body, igniting fires through my blood. I sink slowly against the sofa cushions as the sensations ebb.
Dean lowers himself on top of me, our lips still clinging together, his hand stroking over my head. My breasts crush against his chest. Damp tendrils of my hair cling to my shoulders and forehead.
My hair. My breasts.
I wind my arms around Dean’s shoulders. He presses his face to the side of my neck, his breath gradually slowing. I tighten my hold on him, fighting the deluge of fear that now lurks behind everything I do.
Even this.
I’d once thought our intimacy was the one place in the world where no monster could touch us. I’d been wrong.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
OLIVIA
December 3
NOW MORE THAN EVER, I NEED the Wonderland Café. There are always customers to help, tea to serve, cupcakes to decorate, birthday parties to plan. I love the bustle of the breakfast and lunch rushes, the noisy chatter, the mothers who come in with chubby babies and rambunctious toddlers.
I stand at a table in the kitchen, focusing my attention on decorating a cake and trying not to think about the fact that I have to tell all these people. I have to tell Allie, all my mom friends, Nicholas and Bella’s teachers, the café staff…
But if I can’t even say the word to myself, how in God’s name am I going to tell anyone else? How will my friends react? Will they start treating me differently?