CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
OLIVIA
FOR CHRISTMAS, DEAN GIVES ME A large, perfect snow globe containing a miniature scene of our living room with four figures seated on the sofa. There’s a tall, dark-haired man, a woman with long hair holding a cupcake, a boy building a tiny Lego sculpture, and a girl hugging a stuffed owl.
We put the snow globe on the kitchen table so it’s close to us all the time, a reminder of what and who we are as a family. Because of it, our holiday is one of warmth and belonging. Though I’m unable to do everything I’d intended, we attend several town events, including a performance of The Nutcracker, and spend a lot of time at home watching movies and playing games. I return to working at the Wonderland Café, and the constant flow of activity helps keep my simmering apprehension at bay.
Although I knew chemotherapy would be inevitable after the pathology results, it’s still painful to get the details and schedule from Dr. Anderson. Eight rounds of chemo, each two weeks apart. It’s still scary to think of being injected by toxic drugs that are supposed to help me by making me even sicker.
A postcard from North arrives right before the new year—with a picture of the sun setting over a beach boardwalk lit with colorful lights. I turn it over to find a single word scrawled on the back:
Home.
My heart stutters. After all these years, North is back at Twelve Oaks. And though I still love to think of him on walkabout, the knowledge that he’s home, back at the place where I discovered there really were safe havens in the world, floods me with a new sense of comfort and security. If North is back where he belongs, then surely everything will turn out fine.
I keep that in mind as I gather the courage to tell Allie about my scheduled chemotherapy and my intention to continue working at the café as much as I can. Unfortunately, her response is heartbreakingly unsurprising.
“That’s not a good idea, Liv.” Allie keeps her gaze on the office computer screen. “In fact, it’s a really bad idea. I’ve already started interviewing for two servers to cover your shifts on the floor, and of course Brent and I are fine running things here.”
“You started interviewing already?” I blink in surprise. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“Well, it was right after your surgery, so I figured you didn’t want to be bothered.”
Irritation stabs me. “My having cancer doesn’t mean I’m no longer a partner, Allie.”
“I know that.” She turns to face me, a deep crease appearing between her eyebrows. “And I want you to stay involved as much as possible. But what if you have another panic attack or get sick in the middle of the café… or worse, during a birthday party? We can’t risk upsetting customers, much less a bunch of children.”
I don’t know what to say. Allie sighs, a distressed expression appearing in her eyes.
“I know that sounds harsh,” she admits, “but we’ve had some hiccups in the past that we really had to work to overcome. And when you and Dean were in Paris, Brent and I were able to both raise Wonderland’s profits and expand our customer base. We want to stay on that trajectory.”
I sit back, torn between a feeling of hurt and the sense that Allie is right. Especially since the “hiccups” she’s referring to—a disastrous grand opening celebration and a five-year-old’s birthday party gone wrong—happened because of me. Not to mention my panic attack probably upset the customers who witnessed it, even if they were understanding and concerned.
Still…
“I can’t stay away from the café for the next six months, Allie,” I say.
She shakes her head, her eyes worried. “You don’t even know if you’ll be able to work.”
“Well, I need to believe I can,” I say. “Plenty of people work during chemo. There’s no reason I can’t be one of them. Allie, you know how much I love the café. I have to work.”
“Did your doctor say you could?”
“He said it was up to me and how I felt.”
“So why don’t you wait and see?” Allie asks reasonably. “You can certainly do work from home, like payroll, budget, scheduling. I just don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be here.”
I sit back and look at her, remembering the day when I first walked into her bookstore, the Happy Booker, and almost peed my pants when she jumped out at me in a scary apple-tree costume, yelling, “Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!”
And so a friendship was born.
“Is it because I’m going to lose my hair?” I ask finally. “Are you worried the customers will react badly if I don’t wear a wig, or even if I do and they still realize I’m sick?”
Her momentary lack of a response tells me all I need to know. I start to get up.
“Liv, wait.” Allie puts her hand out. “I don’t want to be a bitch about this, really. But this café is all about fun and fantasy, right? So if our customers, especially the kids, get upset by seeing that you’re sick… I don’t want to risk it.”
“Well, I guess I should be glad that our customers matter so much to you,” I remark.
“You matter to me too, Liv. Do you really think it’s a good idea for you to be around so many kids and working in a café, no less, when you’re immuno-suppressed? In the middle of cold and flu season?”
“I know how to be careful. And I don’t have to spend my entire shift on the floor.”
“What does Dean have to say about you interacting with customers and children during chemo?”
“I… well, I haven’t really discussed it with him,” I admit.
“Maybe you should,” Allie suggests. “I’m sure he has a strong opinion about you putting yourself at risk.”
“That doesn’t make it his decision.”
“Liv.” Allie comes around the desk to hug me, though for the first time ever, I can’t bring myself to hug her back. “Fighting this disease is your priority right now. Minimizing exposure to germs is a huge part of that. Like I said, there’s plenty of work you can do from home, but wait and see how the chemo goes before you commit to anything, okay?”
I nod, detaching myself from her and going to the door. Worse than the idea of being “banished” from the café is the worry that I might feel so awful I can’t work at all, not even from home.
And I’m not surprised by Dean’s reaction later that evening when I tell him about my conversation with Allie.
“Your customers would just have to deal with it,” he says, his mouth tightening with irritation at the thought that anyone would be offended by the way I look. “But Allie’s right that you’ll be at greater risk for infections. It would make me insane with worry to think of you catching even a mild cold.”
“Well, it would make me insane with being sick to spend the next six months just focusing on chemo.”
“You won’t, Liv. Bella and Nicholas will still need you, and there’s plenty of other stuff you can do.”
“What, Dean?” I spread my hands out, a rising anger pressing against my chest. “If I can’t go out and be with people, if I can’t run my business and do my volunteer work, what else can I do except fuss around the house?”
“You can get well.”
“You think I’m not focused on that? You think I can’t do that and work at the same time?”
“Of course not.”
“Well, it sounds like you’re on Allie’s side.”
“I’ve only ever been on your side and want you to do what’s best for you.”
“What’s best for me is if everyone would stop treating me like I’m on death’s doorstep.”
A muscle ticks in Dean’s jaw as his teeth clench. “God knows the last thing I want is to hurt you. But I will not let you endanger your health.”
“That is exactly what I’m talking about. You won’t let me. You don’t think I’m capable of making the decision by myself?”
“I know you are.” Dean approaches and takes hold of my shoulders, lowering his head to look into my eyes. “I also know you have months of treatment to get through. And you’re going to be extra careful because you’re taking care of the woman I love with everything I am. If I have to be a royal pain in the ass to ensure that woman’s well-being, then look out, baby, because PIA is in the house.”
“Has that PIA ever not been in the house?” I ask, wiping at a stray tear.
“With good reason.” Dean settles his hands on my rear and pulls my body against his. “You’re the one with the bootylicious bubblegum ass. I gotta be a pain all up in it.”
“And you might have a new career as a hip-hop artist.”
“I’ll shine your ass like brass, baby.” His eyes crinkle at the corners as he presses his lips to mine.
I let myself sink into him, absorbing his body heat that wraps me in a cloak of warmth. The pressure of his mouth increases, urging my lips apart. I tighten my fingers on his shirt.
A sudden longing rises inside me. I relax my grip and spread my hands over his shirt, stroking the hard planes of his chest. His heart beats against my palm, the rhythm increasing as he deepens our kiss. I edge closer, hardly daring to believe that I can still feel desire. That I can still feel desired.
Dean moves one hand to the back of my head, stroking his tongue across the seam of my lips. The familiar, delicious scent of him fills my head—shaving soap and Dean. Little sparks fire through my blood as the air thickens with tension and growing urgency.
My breasts nudge against his chest. My right nipple hardens, sending a rush of heat through me. My left… I try to ignore the numbness, but then Dean’s grip on me tightens, pressing me closer to him, and never before has this—has he, have we—failed to elicit arousal.
Cold trickles into my veins. My left breast feels deadened. I can’t even tell if my nipple is hard. I don’t know if I’d feel Dean’s touch if he cupped my left breast. I can’t feel anything at all.
Dean lifts his head, his forehead creasing. “You okay?”
“God, Dean.” The words escape me on a rush of frustrated irritation. I pull away from him, folding my arms over my chest. “Stop asking me that. Of course I’m not okay. I don’t know when I’ll be okay again.”
His eyes darken. Regret and self-directed anger spear through me. I can’t even stop it from invading the first intimate moment I’ve had with my husband since before the surgery.
Unable to look at Dean, not wanting to see that he is also not okay, I turn and go upstairs to the bedroom.
He won’t follow me. He’ll go to his office and, more than likely, spend the night on the sofa there, if he sleeps at all.
Shit.
I’ve always known what Dean needs. Sometimes it’s sex, which has always been a strong, brilliant part of our relationship. It’s been a way to reconnect, indulge in each other, lose ourselves, remember just one of the reasons we’re so good together.
But even taking sex out of the equation, I’ve just known what my husband needs. I knew he needed to go to Italy after the trauma of our miscarriage. I knew he needed the job with the World Heritage Center. I knew he needed to make peace with Archer and to reconcile with his family. I even knew when an ear massage would help him. And I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he needed to be a father.
But now? Dean needs to research and understand my diagnosis because it’s his way of being in control, but it’s not doing a damn thing to help either him or us.
What else does he need right now and why can’t I give it to him?
I strip out of my clothes, avoiding looking at myself in the mirror, and change into my nightgown. On doctor’s orders, I’ve been wearing a sports bra to bed, but tonight for the first time since the surgery, I leave it off. I crawl into bed alone and lie on my back.
My breasts are naked beneath my nightgown. I tentatively put my hands over them. My nipples are still hard, poking against the thin cotton. I rub them both, but only the right one sends a pulse of electricity to my core.
My heart thumps against my ribs. I edge my nightgown up over my hips. I’m not wearing any panties. I skim my fingertips over my thighs, parting them a little to touch my cleft. I haven’t touched myself sexually in what seems like ages.
While Dean and I have always had a phenomenal sex life, I’m no stranger to masturbation. If he’s traveling or at work, and I’m feeling needy, I’m accustomed to fantasizing and getting myself off. I don’t have to do it often, but it’s part of my sexual repertoire—one Dean is well aware of, to his own erotic pleasure.
Will I even be able to do this again? I press a finger against my clit, my breath catching when it pulses in response. I’m still dry down there, but maybe if I…
Anxiety coils through me. I force it away and close my eyes, pulling my nightgown up farther to bare my breasts. The rush of cooler air sensitizes my nipples—my right one at least. I settle my hands over my breasts, feeling their familiar weight, trying to accept that the scar and indentation will be there from now on.
I press my fingers over the scar, which is tender but no longer hurts. I can’t feel my own touch, only the slight pressure. I nudge my fingers around until I reach the area where there’s still sensation. According to the doctor, more feeling will come back as the nerves heal.
I glide my hands back down over my belly, pushing the sheet away as I lift my knees and spread my thighs. I curve my fingers between them, settling the heel of my hand against my clit as I work my forefinger gently into my opening. The sensation is pleasant enough, though I’m unable to rouse myself to wetness.
Relax, I tell myself.
Alone, there’s no pressure, no one to disappoint. I close my eyes and think of how Dean and I have managed to sustain our sex life through all the changes in our lives—certainly not without a few bumps in the road, but we’ve always gotten past them and rediscovered each other.
And Paris… being there again after our wedding and honeymoon lit a new fire between us, one fuelled by the lure of adventures. Even in our small apartment, Dean and I found time for each other—usually either after the kids were asleep or before they woke up in the morning.
I think of myself back then—whole, sexy, happy—with nothing more to do in those stolen moments than enjoy the incredible sensation of fucking the man I love with such intense, tender devotion.
I think of Dean—masculine, confident, generous—and the way everything about me has always aroused and excited him, like I’m a feast he wants to indulge in for eternity. Even the changes in my body over the years, the weight gain from both pregnancy and an admitted overindulgence in croissants, the heavy sensitivity of my breasts during nursing, the here forever curves of my belly and hips—he loves it all. He just loves me.
I want that life back. I want to relive our honeymoon, our travels with our children, the months when Dean and I were first dating. I want to look up from the cash register at Jitter Beans and see him standing there looking at me with that warm, gentle smile, and I want to feel the quickening flutter of happiness start deep inside me.
“Medium coffee, please. No room for cream.”
I still fill his coffee cup almost to the rim. When we went to cafés in Paris, he drank espresso, and I learned to ask for une noisette, which was an espresso with foamed milk. In our apartment, we brewed our own coffee in the mornings and always, without fail, went downstairs to the boulangerie for croissants or a baguette to have with breakfast. Even in another country, we found our café.
One bright, chilly morning in October, I bundled up the kids and walked downstairs to buy croissants. Dean had returned very late the previous night from a week-long trip to Russia and was still sleeping when Marie-Laure arrived to take Nicholas to his morning preschool and Bella out for a walk.
Shortly after they left, I heard the shower start. I brewed coffee, and arranged a tray with a plate of croissants and a scraggly little flower I’d plucked from the courtyard garden.
I was so happy Dean was back. He often took short trips to Italy, Germany, and England, but a week had seemed like an exceedingly long stretch of time for him to be away from us.
I set the tray on the table beside the bed. A warm shaft of sunlight speared through the curtains, and I stretched out against the pillows to enjoy it.
“Hmm. Which one do I get for breakfast?”
Dean’s voice washed over me. I opened my eyes to see him standing in the doorway to the bathroom with only a towel wrapped around his waist. Fragrant steam wafted from behind him, and water beaded on the taut skin of his chest and shoulders.
“Whichever one you want.” I turned, lifting myself onto one elbow so I could admire him as he walked toward me. “Welcome home. Sorry I missed you last night.”
“I missed you all week.” Dean sat on the edge of the bed and moved in for a kiss, the scent of his shaving soap rising from his skin in a delicious, heady aroma.
I parted my lips, meeting him in the hot rush that always followed our separations, no matter how brief. Arousal flared inside me immediately, like a struck match. Dean lifted his hands to either side of my neck, angling my head so he could fit his mouth more securely against mine.
“Are you hungry?” I whispered.
“Mmm.” He brushed his lips back and forth against mine. “Hungry for my wife.”
I smiled. “Me too. I’ve been hungry for you all week.”
“Yeah?” He climbed onto the bed, pressing me back against the pillows. “What’d you do about it, Mrs. West?”
“I might have…” my heart beat faster, “…fantasized a little.”
His eyes darkened. “Did you now, naughty girl?”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t get to tease me.” Dean’s voice took on an implacable tone as he slid his hand down the V-neck of my fleece shirt. “You’re going to have to tell me.”
I squirmed when his hand slipped down into my bra. When I didn’t speak, he pinched my nipple.
“Tell me,” he ordered.
“Oh… I, well, at night I’d lie here thinking about you… about us,” I admitted breathlessly, which was the truth.
“And tell me what you thought about.”
“All sorts of dirty things,” I breathed, resting my hand on his bare chest. “Like how good it feels to sit on your cock and bounce up and down. And how much I love it when I’m on my back and you’re holding my legs apart so you can fuck me as deep as you can. Or when I’m on my hands and knees and you’re driving into me from behind, and I’m moaning every time your cock slams into me… and I can feel you dripping down my thighs…”
A noise rumbled in his chest as he pushed his hips against my leg, his erection already hardening beneath his towel. He lowered his head to nuzzle my neck.
“Go on,” he said gruffly.
“I’d just get so aroused,” I whispered in his ear. “So wet. I’d spread my legs and imagine you sliding that big cock into my tight pussy while I pleaded for more… but you liked hearing me beg, so you’d rub your cock over my clit and tease me with it until I couldn’t take it anymore. Then you’d push into me, so slow and deep… and even in a fantasy, I could feel your shaft pulsing inside me, feel my pussy clenching around you… God, Dean, just a few little tickles on my clit and I’d come so hard I had to bite down on the pillow to stop myself from screaming your name…”
“Christ.” Dean pulled at the hem of my shirt. “I’m going to come right now if you keep that up.”
I blinked up at him innocently. “You mean you didn’t fantasize at all while you were gone?”
“I fantasized, all right. Mostly about what I was going to do to you when I got back.”
“Tell me.”
He shook his head, his mouth curving with a wicked grin.
“I’m not going to tell you,” he said. “I’m going to show you.”
Lust and anticipation flickered through me. I slid my hand down the plane of his chest, over the ridges of his abdomen to the front of his towel. I cupped the length of his cock in my hand, my own body responding with a surge of heat.
I put my hand on his stomach and pushed him back so I could unknot the towel and pull it off him. My breath caught at the sight of his beautiful, thick cock half-rising from his groin, the shaft still damp from his shower.
“God, Dean.” I pressed my thighs together and shivered, thinking our reality was so much better than any fantasy.
I watched hungrily as he moved his hand down to grasp his cock, stroking his fist up and down the shaft with the slow, easy rhythm I loved. His erection hardened further in his grip, the tight head dampening with moisture.
Dean nodded to my shirt and yoga pants. “Off.”
I wasted no time shucking the shirt over my head and reaching for the clasp of my bra. My breasts popped free, my nipples already hardened to tight points. I felt Dean’s hot gaze lock onto them, and I made a point of wiggling a bit excessively to pull my pants off.
“Ah, fuck.” Dean’s breath escaped on a groan as he watched my breasts, heavier with milk since I was still nursing, bounce and sway with every movement.
“Push them together,” he ordered.
Excitement shivered through me. I loved it when Dean fucked my breasts, and the act was even more deliciously submissive when I was lying on my back and he straddled my waist—all hot, hard male looming over me like a dark shadow. His eyes burned into me as he positioned his cock at my cleavage.
My heart thudded. I pushed my breasts together, creating a deep valley for him to thrust his erection. I couldn’t get enough of the sight—the glossy head of his cock appearing and disappearing between my pillowy cleavage, my flesh hugging his slick shaft, the sound of his testicles slapping against the undersides of my breasts.
I twisted my nipples, pulling a rush of hot air into my lungs as a current of sparks shot to my clit. I was still wearing my panties, and the cotton was getting wet between my legs, the friction heightening my arousal.
“Dean.” My voice was strained, thick with longing.
He stopped, his chest heaving and his hand braced against the wall above me. He moved lower on my body, his cock sticking straight out, so big I shivered anew at the thought of him pumping into me. He palmed my breasts and slid his hands over my torso, his touch lighting a path of heat across my skin. I shifted, reaching to push my underwear down, but he stopped me and shook his head.
“Leave them on,” he said.
I stared at him, wondering exactly what he had in mind. He knelt between my legs, pushing them gently apart before running a finger up and down my damp panties. I squirmed, aching for him to touch my bare flesh.
“You’re just all wet down here, aren’t you?” he said, lust darkening his eyes to black as he edged his finger into the elastic of my panties and touched my slit. “Wet and hungry.”
“Oh, yes,” I breathed, wiggling my hips to encourage him to touch me deeper. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
I fully expected him to yank the underwear off me, but instead he just pulled the elastic aside farther, stretching it to my thigh and exposing my pussy.
“Dean, what…” I pushed to my elbows, mildly shocked and highly aroused by the sensation of being both covered and bare at the same time.
“Open up, sweetheart.”
He shot me a wicked grin and edged closer, fitting his cock right up against my slit. In one surge, he thrust into me, filling me so hard and deep that a shriek tore from my throat.
“Dean. Oh my God…”
Riveted, I watched as he twisted his fingers into my panties, holding them off to the side so he could fuck me. It was a strange and intensely erotic feeling—his big cock pumping in and out of me as the panties tightened around my thigh and dug into the crevice of my bottom, stimulating me in all sorts of secret places.
Dean eased out of me and sat back, his chest heaving and glistening with sweat. He released the elastic band of my underwear, and it snapped back into place with a pleasurable little twinge. Our gazes met, hot and heavy. He made a circling gesture with his forefinger.
I turned, excitement rippling through me as he grabbed a pillow and positioned it under my hips. My breasts rubbed against the sheet, the cotton sensitizing my nipples to such heightened levels that I tingled all over. I felt Dean’s hands grip my hips and he pulled my ass up higher, his groan settling deep inside me.
“Christ, you have a fucking perfect ass,” he muttered, rubbing the cotton stretched tight over my bottom. “I want to see you move.”
I nodded, my breath scorching my lungs as Dean twisted his fingers into my panties again and pulled them away from my ass to expose my spread pussy. He pushed his cock into me with a slow, deep glide.
“Oh, God… Dean…”
“Yeah.” His grip tightened on my hips. “Move, baby. Work that gorgeous ass against me. Show me how badly you want it, how deep you can take it.”
I fisted the bed covers and pumped my hips backward, impaling myself over and over on his thick cock. My bottom bounced against his flat stomach with every thrust, and the elastic of my underwear dug with an erotically delicious pain into the creases of my thighs.
I wished I could see what Dean was seeing—his slick erection sliding in and out of my slit, my blue panties stretched tight over my bouncing rear, the push-and-pull of our bodies fucking in unison.
The sound of our grunts and panting drenched the air. I lowered my head, my hair sticking damply to my shoulders and back. Sweat trickled between my breasts. Fire licked my nerves, need building in every cell of my body.
“Dean.”
He pulled out of me, turning me onto my back again. His gaze raked over me, hot and intense. He braced his hands on either side of me and lowered his mouth to mine. His erection throbbed against my thigh. He slipped his fingers into my sex and began rubbing my clit.
“Dean, I’m going to come,” I gasped, putting my hands over my breasts. “I feel it… oh, yes… oh!”
He plunged his tongue into my mouth at the exact instant an orgasm tore through me, hot sensations sweeping over me so strongly that my whole body shook. I cried out, gripping his shoulders and arching up against him. Dean captured my lower lip between his teeth, massaging my clit until the blinding vibrations began to wane.
“Oh my God,” I gasped, sinking back against the pillows. “We need to have welcome home sex more often.”
“Well, you do welcome me home every night,” Dean remarked, pressing a series of kisses over my cheek and down to my neck. “I’d be more than happy to arrange more any kind of sex.”
“If we did this more often, we’d never leave the apartment.”
I stroked my hands down his arms and spread my legs again, wrapping them around his hips. He slid into me, his cock creating an exquisite friction against my sensitive flesh.
I lay there in the heavenly aftermath of my own pleasure and watched Dean work himself toward his own release—his hands caressing my damp breasts, his gaze hot with need. He came inside me with a groan, a stunning epitome of male beauty with his rippling chest muscles, thick, disheveled hair, and heavy-lidded, dark eyes.
He heaved in a breath and collapsed onto the pillows, reaching out an arm to pull me against him. Our bodies sealed together, sticky and wet.
“We made a mess,” I murmured, trailing my fingers down his chest.
“Mmm hmm.” He fondled one of my breasts. “The best kind of mess.”
I lifted my face to his, and he met me halfway in a kiss that seemed to have no beginning and no end.
A kiss that just always was.