by Nina Lane
“So call her back and tell her you’ll take the appointment. Or do you want me to do it?”
“No, I don’t want you to do it,” I reply, my voice unexpectedly sharp. “I’m perfectly capable of calling my own doctors and nurses, okay?”
After a brief silence, he says, “All right. I’m sorry. I just want the damned thing done.”
That’s Dean. Get things done. Finish the job. Win the battle.
I press the bridge of my nose between my fingers. “I need to go in for the pre-op appointment.”
“When is that?”
“Friday afternoon.” I take out my phone and scroll my calendar. “But I have to pick Bella up from preschool at two and take her to gymnastics.”
Dean is silent for a moment before he settles his hand on my knee.
“Liv, sweetie, listen.”
I force my gaze to him, hating the anguish in his eyes, the despair that has invaded his defenses. Exhaustion crushes down on me from all sides.
“I understand that you’re scared,” Dean says. “I know you want to have a good Christmas. And we will. But you need to get the surgery done as soon as possible. Waiting will not make anything go away.”
I feel his tension like a tangible force field between us. He doesn’t move to start the car.
“Liv, I want that thing out of you,” he says, his voice controlled but simmering with emotion. “Now. Please don’t wait. We need to know what we’re facing.”
We need to see the enemy.
He doesn’t have to say it. I know my husband. He’s the knight who confronts his enemies directly, who looks them in the eye and proves beyond the shadow of a doubt that he’s the far more powerful one. Then he obliterates them.
But what can he do against an enemy who is so evasive, unpredictable, unknowable? So virulent?
How can he ever protect me? And what can I do to protect him, when it’s my body that is the traitor?
The questions swarm like wasps through my mind, along with all the others I still don’t have answers to.
I pick up my phone again and scroll my contacts. My vision blurs as I see the names of four doctors, the hospital, and the specialty clinic—in between the names of my mom friends, Allie, Kelsey, Florence…
I press the contact number for Dr. Turner’s office. The receptionist picks up, and I tell her to book me for the surgery slot next Monday.
“Okay, Mrs. West, you’re on the schedule,” she says. “Diane will get back to you about the details of the pre-op appointment.”
“Thank you.”
I end the call and toss the phone back into my bag. Dean tightens his fingers on my knee before he turns the key in the ignition. I stare out the window, hating the foreboding that now darkens our lives.
During the surgery, Dr. Turner will remove not only the tumor, but my sentinel lymph node to determine if it contains cancer cells. If it tests positive, he’ll remove more lymph nodes and have them immediately tested to see if the cancer has spread.
The pathology results for both the lymph nodes and the tumor will not only tell us more about my prognosis, but if I need to undergo chemotherapy in addition to radiation.
In other words, the game could change, but there are no rules.
None.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
OLIVIA
December 18
GET THROUGH THE SURGERY.
That’s my next goal. Get through the surgery, come home, and make Christmas as magical as possible for my family. I can still do that, even if I’m recovering. At least I’ll be home.
The night before the surgery, I take off my shirt and bra and look at my breasts in the bathroom mirror, thinking this will be the last time they’ll ever look like this. I touch my nipples, slide my hands beneath my breasts, cup them in my palms.
The bedroom door opens and closes, and Dean appears in the reflection behind me. He leans against the doorjamb of the bathroom, meeting my gaze in the mirror. For once, he doesn’t seem frustrated and upset, only somber. I let my hands fall to my sides.
“They’ll never be the same,” I say, tension tightening my spine.
“Doesn’t matter. You being healthy and well is all that matters.”
Much as I love hearing that, I know this surgery and future treatment will affect him too. How can it not?
“I read in one of the books that some women get professional erotic pictures of themselves taken before breast surgery,” I say. “Maybe I should have done that. As a way for us to remember what I looked like.”
“Baby, we don’t need to remember what you looked like,” Dean says, putting his hands on my shoulders. “We know what you look like.”
“But I’ll be scarred, distorted—”
“No.” Dean tightens his hands on my shoulders, his eyes fixing on mine in the mirror. “You will not be scarred and distorted. Your left breast will have a surgery scar, and its shape will be different. But your breasts will still be yours, and you will still be you.”
I look at my naked breasts. I’d been ashamed of my body when I was young, hating both repulsive male attention and my mother’s accusations that I was the one at fault. Then I hated myself for believing her.
But oh, how all of that had fallen away when Dean walked into my life and showed me that a man and a woman together—the right man and the right woman—could be so good, so pure, and so rawly uninhibited all at the same time.
I shift my gaze to Dean, my heart thumping against my ribs.
“Touch me,” I whisper.
His eyes darken. For a moment, he doesn’t move, and despair flickers inside me. Then he begins to slide his hands over my shoulders. His strong, tan fingers are a striking contrast against my pale skin. He strokes down to my breasts and cups them in his palms, a sight so natural, so right, that my heart aches at the thought that he will never touch me like this again.
He rubs my nipples, teasing them into tight peaks and creating a swirl of heat in my veins. His touch is slow and deliberate, his hands sliding between my breasts, under them, then down to my hips and the curves of my waist. I could watch my husband touch me for hours, but then he edges his hand between my legs, and a streak of arousal courses through me.
He takes a step back. “Bed.”
“No, do it here first. I want to watch us.” I swallow hard. “Do it like you always have before. Please.”
Dean’s eyes fill with both heat and something else—that indefinable mixture of tenderness and anger that belongs only to him. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my yoga pants and tugs them down my legs along with my panties. His breath escapes on a groan as my bare ass is exposed, and I can almost feel the smoldering burn of his gaze on my skin.
I lean forward, arching my hips back. Dean tosses my pants aside and runs his hands over my bottom, squeezing and rubbing my cheeks in the way I love. He edges his knee between my thighs and eases them farther apart. I look at him in the mirror, my blood sparking at his evident lust—his glittering eyes, the flush cresting his cheekbones, the rise and fall of his chest beneath his T-shirt.
He slides his hands around to the front of my hips and pushes his groin up against me, the ridge of his erection pressing through his flannel pants. Heat rises inside me. I wiggle my hips a little, rubbing against his cock.
Dean breathes out a curse and moves one hand between my legs. He strokes his fingers over my clit. I part my legs wider, letting him in, wanting him there, on me, inside me. Urgency thrums between us as he lowers his head to kiss my shoulder while working one finger slowly into my opening, pressing his palm against my clit.
“Dean…” I curl my fingers against the hard granite counter, my heart hammering.
He steps back only long enough to push his pants and boxers off. Desire coils inside me at the sight of his long, thick cock sticking straight out, the corded
muscularity of his thighs, the ridges of his abdomen.
Excitement shivers through me. He moves closer, nudging his cock between my thighs. My breath scorches my chest.
“Tighten them,” he mutters, digging his fingers into my hips.
Oh my God. I squeeze my thighs around his erection. Arousal surges through me when he starts working his hips back and forth, the ridge of his cock sliding right against the folds of my sex but not pushing inside me. Yet.
“God, Dean, that’s so hot,” I whisper, reaching down to touch the shiny head of his cock as it appears intermittently between the damp vise of my thighs. “This is going to make me come.”
“Good.” He slides his hands to my breasts, the slick friction of his cock driving my urgency higher and higher. “Do it.”
I lock my gaze to his in the mirror, thrilled by the burning heat in his expression, his jaw clenched with self-restraint, his hands holding my breasts. My stiff nipples poke out between his fingers. I writhe against his cock, the smooth, rigid flesh feeling exquisite on my sensitive folds. I reach down to open myself farther, rubbing my clit against his slick shaft. A shudder rocks through me.
“Come on, baby.” Dean tightens his grip on my breasts, his chest pressed against my back. “Let me feel it.”
“Oh…” A moan spills from me as the tension winds tighter and tighter.
I push backward, moving us both a couple of steps away from the counter so I can look in the mirror and see the delicious, dirty sight of my husband fucking his cock between my thighs.
He twists my nipples, sending a jolt of heat right to my core. Urgency coils inside me, hard and tight, that exquisite sensation of being poised right on the brink of something explosive. He thrusts forward the instant the tension breaks, spooling ecstasy through me. I cry out, writhing shamelessly against his cock to milk every last sensation from my body.
Dean slides his hands down to spread over my midriff, his breath hot on the back of my neck. He eases me forward, and I brace myself on the counter again, catching sight of my own reflection. With my hair messy over my shoulders, my eyes heavy-lidded with lust and satisfaction, my skin flushed with fire, I look like a different woman.
Or not. I actually look like Liv West in the throes of just one of the hot things she and Dean West can do together. I just don’t often see it. It’s damn sexy too.
I part my legs, opening for Dean as he nudges the head of his cock against my slit. Then with one powerful surge, he’s inside me, jolting my body forward. I tighten my fingers on the edge of the counter. Sweat breaks out on my skin. He starts to thrust, each smack of his flesh hitting mine accompanied by a deep groan that fires my lust anew.
Electricity sizzles between us. His T-shirt clings to his shoulders, outlining every corded muscle. I can’t take my eyes off our reflections—the way my breasts bounce and sway in time with every thrust, the strain of Dean’s body as he surges forward again and again, his muscles shifting and flexing…
My world distills, focusing on the sensation of Dean and me moving together. He slides one hand to my clit, splaying his long fingers around it without breaking the rhythm of his thrusts.
Then he stops, his cock still throbbing inside me, his gaze on me in the mirror as he works his fingers faster, in the exact way that drives my need higher and higher.
“Dean, I’m…”
“Again,” he commands, lowering his head to bite gently on my shoulder as he presses his fingers harder on my clit.
The combination of his touch and the mild twinge of his teeth sends me over the edge, and I come a second time, shuddering around Dean’s cock so hard that he mutters a curse and drives into me again.
Still quivering, I brace myself on the counter and spread my legs wider so he can surge into me as powerfully as he needs to. Within seconds, a groan rumbles from his chest, his whole body tightening as he comes deep inside me.
“Oh my God…” I lower myself onto my elbows with a moan, pushing my ass out farther so he can pull out of me and rub his cock into the crevice of my bottom. “So good.”
“Fucking amazing.” Dean’s breath saws heavily through the air.
He lifts himself away from me, running his hands slowly over my shoulders, hips, and rear. My breasts are pressing against the granite counter. I push upward, looking at their natural fullness, my pink nipples that are still hard—even now, if Dean touched them, I would feel currents of heat flow right to my core.
What if I lose those sensations completely? What if I never experience this kind of pleasure with my husband again?
I try to block such thoughts, but it’s impossible.
Dean bends to slide one arm beneath my legs. He lifts me against him, his muscular chest warm and damp. I wind my arms around his neck and bury my face in his shoulder. He carries me to the bedroom.
I don’t let go of him as he lowers me onto the bed, and then he stretches out beside me. We look at each other for a long moment, tension and heat still coloring the air between us. Dean brushes my hair away from my face and presses his lips against my forehead, then down to my eyelids, my cheeks, my nose, my mouth.
He moves his hands to my breasts, stroking my body with warm gentleness. He lowers his head to kiss my neck and the hollow of my throat.
I watch him, my anxiety slipping away at the lovely sight of my husband worshipping my body. He slides his hands over the curves of my waist and hips, down to my thighs, and then follows the path with his mouth.
I sink into his touch, letting him ease my fear, absorbing the sensation of his lips on my skin, the fine-grain sandpaper of his stubble, the assured, smooth glide of his palms. I reach out to press my fingers into his thick hair and stroke my hand down the side of his face. Comfort and love flood me as our eyes meet again.
Dean moves back up to enfold me in the protective circle of his arms. I curl against him, settling my head on his chest as our bodies fit seamlessly together. And then it’s like a cool breeze ruffling through floral curtains, like the scent of fresh morning mist, like dipping your feet in the lake on a hot summer day, like finishing a really good book.
I need you to breathe.
I close my eyes and breathe in time with the rhythm of my husband’s heartbeat.
CHAPTER TWENTY
DEAN
December 19
SURGERY. LIV’S SURGERY.
I try to tell myself that in the grand scheme of surgeries people can have, a lumpectomy is not that horrible. The reason for it sends me into a rage, and the unknowns still lurk like monsters, but the actual surgery isn’t as invasive as many others.
“I can still go with you,” Nicholas offers, as he watches Liv making a sandwich for his lunchbox.
Liv smiles and bends to press her lips against his hair. “Thank you, sweetie, but I’ll be fine.”
Her comment eases my own tension. She’ll be fine. Of course she will. There’s no other option here. No other ending.
Kelsey stops by the house at six to pick up the kids, even though neither one is ready to go. She’s carrying a wicker basket overflowing with violets. Nestled in the greenery are a dozen silk butterflies, the wings so delicate they move as if they’re alive.
“Found it on the front porch,” Kelsey says.
“Oh, how lovely.” Liv’s expression softens with pleasure as she turns the basket around to look at the flowers from all sides.
“A butterfly present.” Bella hurries over from the sunroom and climbs onto a stool. “Are they real?”
“No, they’re made of silk, Snowbell,” I tell her.
“Maybe we’ll get real butterflies,” Nicholas says. “And we could build the greenhouse.”
He looks at me pointedly, not having given up his quest to revive Leonard Morris’s butterfly garden.
“Maybe one day,” I tell him, not wanting to dash his hopes entirely.
&nbs
p; “Do you know who’s sending them?” Kelsey asks.
I shake my head, though increasingly I suspect either Florence Wickham or one of Liv’s mom friends have something to do with this.
“It’s a mystery.” Nicholas grabs a spoon, pretending to use it as a magnifying glass as he peers at the bouquet. “We need to start dusting for fingerprints.”
“Come on, Sherlock.” Kelsey ruffles Nicholas’s hair. “Go get dressed. I’m taking you and Bella to breakfast at the Pancake House.”
“Really? Woot!” Nicholas does a little celebratory thing that looks vaguely like the chicken dance. “Can I have chocolate milk and chocolate-chip pancakes with whipped cream?”
“Sure, but don’t tell your mom.” Kelsey flashes Liv a grin.
“Sprinkles,” Bella shouts.
“Is Uncle Archer coming with us?” Nicholas asks, still flapping his arms victoriously.
“He’s meeting us there.”
“Let’s go, kids,” Liv says. “Don’t want to miss out filling up on sugar before school. Lucky teachers.”
Nicholas and Bella rush upstairs ahead of her. Kelsey pours herself a cup of coffee and joins me at the table, her laser-blue gaze seeing right through me.
“You want me to come to the hospital to wait with you after I drop the kids at school?” she asks.
“No, I’ll be okay.”
Kelsey takes a sip of coffee, still eyeing me with too much perception.
“Do you remember when I went a little nuts after my father died?” she asks. “Partying too much, bad relationships, cursing the world.”
“I remember.”
“You dogged me like the stubborn ass you are, refusing to let me push you away no matter how hard I tried,” Kelsey continues. “And when you realized you couldn’t get me through it alone, you called in the cavalry.”
I almost smile. “Your mother.”
“No way could I battle both you and her,” Kelsey says, shaking her head in amusement. “It was a great thing you did. I didn’t think so at the time, but if it hadn’t been for you and her, I might never have straightened out.”