CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
OLIVIA
STAR WARS BAND-AIDS COVER THE SCRAPES and cuts on Dean’s hands. His knuckles are bruised and swollen. Sorrow pulses alongside my heartbeat. I’d known he wouldn’t react well to what I told him, but I hadn’t expected this level of destruction, both to his tower and to himself.
And yet, I had to tell him. Though his reaction makes me ache, I’m relieved I was finally able to confess what I’ve been thinking for a while now. And I’d given him the unvarnished truth.
Dean will always have all of me—every warm patch of sunlight and every cold, dark corner. And while he has never flinched from any of the monsters lurking in those corners, he’s never had to battle the only one strong enough to destroy him. The acknowledgment that someday, he might have to live without me.
As we stand at the kitchen counter—Dean buttering toast, and me making sandwiches for the kids’ lunches—I reach out to touch his bruised hand.
“I love you like a shoe loves a sock,” I say.
“That’s why we’re sole-mates.”
He winks at me, and we exchange smiles. A pleasurable flutter of warmth goes through me, settling into my core. Momentarily surprised, I finish packing the lunches and go to join Bella and Nicholas at the table.
As we finish breakfast and head upstairs to get ready for the day, I covertly watch Dean, taking note of all the things about him that I’ve always found so wildly sexy. Which is to say… everything.
The way he lifts his coffee to his mouth by wrapping his hand around the mug rather than the handle. The way his watch curls around his strong wrist. The deft flick of his fingers as he fastens his cuffs. The perfect knot of his tie nestled into the hollow of his throat. The way he rests his palm on the back of my neck when he kisses me goodbye.
I keep the resurgence of arousal to myself for a couple of days, content to simply enjoy feeling it again. Dean and I have done a great deal of touching and hugging since I started chemo, but we haven’t had sex.
We haven’t done anything sexual, even. I wonder if Dean has actively been restraining himself from instigating sex, or if he hasn’t wanted to.
Definitely the former, I think.
Aside from the fact that Dean has never not wanted to have sex, if that’s the case now, that would mean he’s turned off by this illness, by stress and worry, by the battle we’re in, even by… me.
No. Not going there. If anything, he doesn’t want to put any undue pressure on me, since he knows very well sex hasn’t exactly been the first thing on my mind.
It is, however, one of the things on my mind now.
I’m in a stretch of time before my next treatment when I feel good—more energetic and more like myself. While feeling sexy still seems utterly elusive, I know I need to enjoy how I do feel rather than how I don’t.
Before bed, I slather thick lotion all over my skin to combat the never-ending dryness. I’m still not interested in wearing lingerie or anything that will show too much of my body, but I put on a tea-length, pink nightgown with decorative floral lacing on the bodice. With a pink scarf around my head and an application of makeup, I’m as attractive as I’m going to get right now.
I’m also nervous. Because while Dean and I have certainly had issues over the years, our sex life has always been powerful and intense. Even during our rough times and dry spells, sexual tension has always simmered between us, and I’d never doubted that our explosive heat would return full force once we sparked it back to life.
And it has. Every single time.
But now? For the first time in all our years together, the prospect of sex is yet another unknown element. I don’t even know if I’m capable of feeling any real pleasure. I don’t know if Dean is.
Instead of waiting for him to leave his tower office and come to bed, since I have no idea when that will be, I pick up my phone to call his cell.
“Do you need anything?” he asks.
“No, thanks. I was wondering when you’re coming to bed.”
“I don’t know. I got a few chapters from my book back from my editor, so I’m going over her notes right now.”
“Oh.” I’m suddenly too embarrassed—and worried—to mention the possibility of sex. I’m not at all sure I can compete with both Dean’s book and the effects of chemo. “Just checking.”
“Okay. I’ll try to turn in early tonight.”
I end the call and berate myself for not trying harder. I really don’t think Dean will be the one to instigate anything sexual for fear of making me feel obligated to do something I don’t want to do.
The thing is—I do want to. I don’t expect any wild, energetic, three-hour marathon, but getting our sexual intimacy back will make us both feel better.
I climb out of bed and push my feet into a pair of slippers. Even on a good day, getting around the Butterfly House can be a challenge, and the stairs have become my own personal Mount Everest. But in the past, Dean and I have had many hot encounters in the tower, even before we bought the house. Maybe we need that isolated seclusion again now.
I check on the children and take the baby monitor with me so I can hear either one of them if they call. I walk slowly down the stairs and into the kitchen, where the spiral staircase leading to the tower curves down into a little alcove. I grasp the railing with one hand and start up the stairs.
After a few steps, my heart is beating with exertion. I remind myself that I’ve climbed these very stairs several times this past week, though maybe that’s the reason it’s more difficult now.
I stop, thinking this wasn’t such a great idea. By the time I get to Dean’s office, I might really be too tired to do anything except sit down and catch my breath.
A wave of frustration hits me—unexpected and hard. I’m a thirty-six-year-old mother of two young children, for God’s sake. I own a business. I decorate cakes, chaperone first-grade field trips, and plan birthday parties filled with games and balloons. I’m supposed to be upbeat and energetic, not shuffling up the stairs like a ninety year old needing to stop constantly just to catch my breath.
I grip the stair railing tighter and quicken my pace. I’m going to do this, dammit. I’m getting to the top of the—
The world spins. I stop. My vision blurs, my breath quickening in my lungs. The baby monitor clatters down the steps.
I grab the railing with my other hand and manage to sit down on one of the steps. Dizziness washes through my head, bringing a surge of nausea. I press my face to my knees.
A door opens from somewhere above.
“Liv?”
I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Liv.” Dean’s footsteps echo on the stairs. “Baby, what happened? Are you all right?”
He crouches on the step behind me, his arms coming around me in that secure circle I know so well. But this time, it brings no comfort.
“Liv, breathe. Count of—”
“No.” I manage to choke out the word. “It’s not that, Dean. I just got dizzy.”
“Okay, sit for a minute, then. I’ll get you some water.”
“No. I don’t want any water.”
I press my face harder against my knees, fighting the inevitable tears. In addition to feeling stupid, I really don’t want to start crying.
I get myself under control and lift my head. Dean moves away from me to pick up the baby monitor from a few steps below me.
“Why didn’t you call me or text?” he asks, his forehead creasing. “You didn’t have to try and climb the stairs again.”
Yes, I did. Even if I didn’t succeed, I had to try.
He’s standing on a lower step in front of me, looking at me with a slow, dawning understanding—because it’s not as if I put on a pretty nightgown and makeup every night right before bed. Embarrassment crawls up my chest.
“Oh, my beauty.” Dean’s voice is pained and unbearably tender, which only makes me feel worse.
I shake my head and cover my face with my hands. “I feel so stupid.”
His fingers curl around my wrists as he tugs my hands away from my face. Before I can say anything else, he bends to slide one arm beneath my knees. He lifts me effortlessly and cradles me against his chest.
Though I’m momentarily soothed, the sudden, circular motion of him walking back down the spiral staircase makes my breath catch. I grip his shirt.
“Dean, be careful.”
He smiles at me. “Aren’t I always careful with you?”
Always.
I don’t trust myself not to get dizzy again, so I surrender and let him carry me back to the bedroom. Since my whole little plan went awry, I expect him to settle me into bed and return to the tower, but instead he lowers me to my feet, holding my body against his.
“Dean, you…” I swallow hard, keeping my gaze on the column of his throat. “You don’t have to…”
He brings his hands to cup my face, tilting my head so I’m forced to look at him. Beneath the warmth in his brown eyes is the ever-present love that puts my entire world back on its axis.
“Liv,” he says gently. “Nothing is ever have to with us. It’s want to. It’s I would love to.”
A smile tugs at my lips. I let him gather me into his arms. He lifts one hand to the back of my head, the pressure of his palm warming my scalp through the cotton scarf. Though everything inside me yields to him, I don’t experience the slow, uncoiling anticipation and heat that has always been so familiar to me in the prelude to sex with my husband.
I press my face against his chest and breathe the scent of him—the combination of shaving soap and Dean that has always made me feel as if I’ve come home. His heart beats with steady strength beneath his T-shirt, a drumbeat that sounds as if it will last forever.
Dean slides his hand beneath my chin, lifting my face again as he lowers his mouth to mine. Nervousness flickers inside me. It’s our first long, slow kiss in a few weeks. He moves his mouth with familiar ease against mine, his tongue probing gently at the seam of my lips, his hands holding the sides of my head.
I curl my fingers into the front of his shirt and part my lips tentatively to let him inside. A deep kiss between us is usually all it takes to spark me with heat, but this time, I feel almost flat inside, numbed to the potent effect of what Dean and I have always been able to create together.
I pull away from him, still gripping his shirt. Dawning lust darkens his eyes, which should make me feel better—even now, he wants me—but all I can think about is how things used to be and how they might never be that way again.
A tremor rocks through me. Dean brushes his thumb across my lips, a faint crease appearing between his eyebrows.
“Okay?” he asks.
How I wish I were okay. I would give anything to just be okay.
“Liv.”
I look at him, my heart suddenly aching at the warmth in his eyes, the evidence of his everlasting love and devotion, the promise that no matter what happens, no matter how bad things might get, he will always be right here.
“Oh God, Dean,” I whisper, bringing my hands to cup his face. “Make me feel normal again.”
A shadow of pain passes across his face. With aching tenderness, he lowers his mouth to mine again, his kiss still gentle, as if he’s afraid of scaring me away.
I step backward, pulling him toward the bed. I lie back on the mattress, waiting for him to fall on top of me, wanting his solid weight covering me, pressing me down.
Instead he lowers himself carefully over me, bracing his hands on either side of my head, his mouth still locked to mine. I writhe under him, smothering a surge of frustration. I push my hands underneath his T-shirt and touch the warm, hard ridges of his abdomen. He’s wearing flannel pajama pants, and I feel his cock start to harden against my inner thigh.
A welcome surge of relief floods me—until now, I hadn’t even realized I’d been worried about his sexual response. Of course, I’m not naked, and aside from being thinner, my body still looks normal in the pink nightgown, and I still have the scarf on my—
Dean reaches up and pulls the scarf off my head. My heart stutters. Cooler air brushes against my scalp. I have a sharp, painful longing to feel Dean slide his hand through the length of my hair, tangling his fingers in the thick strands, combing it back from my face.
But no matter how much I wish for that—no matter how much he wants to… he can’t. My throat tightens. Dean spreads his hand over the top of my head and looks at me, his gaze seeing right to the center of my heart.
Throughout this ordeal so far, he’s been angry, frustrated, helpless, scared, grief-stricken. But not once has he wavered. Even when confronted with the darkest scenario of all, my white knight fought back.
We can do this, I think. We can still make each other feel good. A sudden urgency fills me—the need to assert us over everything else, the need to reclaim what has always been an intrinsic part of our relationship.
I slide my hand to the back of his neck and pull him down to me, opening my mouth under his. My desire still feels smothered by the numbing effects of the medication, and I don’t think I’d experience much pleasure if Dean touched my breasts the way he used to—the way he hasn’t since the surgery.
But none of that is very troubling at the moment since the kiss is so good and he feels delicious on top of me, his body starting to tense with the onset of lust. His cock stiffens harder against my thigh, and I squirm to get him to lift away from me for a second.
“Take your shirt off,” I breathe.
He pulls back just long enough to yank his shirt over his head and drop it to the floor. I gaze with unabashed admiration at the sculpted planes of his chest, the smooth musculature of his shoulders, and the ridges of his abdomen. Even if lust is proving to be somewhat elusive, the sight of my bare-chested husband is a pleasure in and of itself.
He moves back to straddle my thighs and starts to pull my nightgown up. I tense and reach down to grab his wrist.
“Dean, wait.”
He meets my gaze and shakes his head. A tremble courses in my veins. I close my eyes and force my fingers to unclench from his wrist. Anxiety twists through me when he edges the hem of my nightgown up around my waist.
For months now, my body has been a battleground, and the wounds are evident in my dry skin, my jutting hipbones, the chemo port attached to my chest, the bruises on my arms, my lack of hair… not to mention the carved scar on my breast and the hollow where the scalpel removed the—
“Oh.” The sigh escapes me involuntarily as sudden warmth washes over me.
I open my eyes. Dean is stroking his hands over my thighs, up to my hips and belly. Gentle, soothing caresses that ease my tension and make me remember—again—that I don’t have to be afraid with him. I don’t have to worry. I certainly don’t have to think so much.
He slides his hands between my thighs and eases them apart. I resist the urge to close them. Dean leans over to pull open the drawer of the nightstand and takes out a tube of lubricant that I’ve had to use to ease the vaginal dryness from chemo.
He puts some gel on his fingers and rubs it over my folds. His touch is comfortingly familiar and intimate—and when I let myself relax into the pleasure of his gentle movements, a spiral of arousal begins to wind through me. I reach forward and tug on his pajama bottoms.
“Take these off too,” I whisper.
He’s getting hot—the evidence is in the darkening glitter in his eyes, the flush cresting his cheekbones, the rise and fall of his chest. His arousal fuels mine, especially when he shoves his pants down and his beautiful erection springs free, brushing against my inner thigh. I push to my elbows so I can look at him.
“Will you touch yourself?” I ask. “You know how much I love watching you do that.”
He takes his hand away from me to wrap it around his cock as he slides his other hand between my legs. I draw in a breath, my pulse ratcheting up at the sight of him stroking his shaft with that easy, sinuous movement I’ve always loved so much.
He spreads the fingers of his other hand around my clit and rubs—though sparks of heat don’t fly through my veins, the sensation is quite pleasant. I’m reminded again that this has always been one of Dean’s and my favorite mutual activities, except this time I’m content to let him touch me rather than do it myself.
The lubricant is a warming kind, and he slides his fingers easily over my sex and down into my opening. The sensation of my husband’s touch combined with the sight of him stroking his cock heats the very air around us.
I watch the movement of his hand, the damp head of his cock appearing intermittently in the closed circle of his fist, the way he pushes his hips forward and tightens his grip on his shaft.
He’s watching me too, his gaze on the juncture of my spread legs. I think he could probably finish himself off right now—coming on my body the way we both enjoy—but instead he stops stroking himself and reaches to push my nightgown up farther.
Anxiety needles through me again, but I lift my arms and let him pull the gown over my head and off. Dean’s reaction to the sight of my naked body is as hot as it has always been. He breathes out a murmur of appreciation and cups my breasts in his hands, flicking his thumbs over my stiff nipples.
I wiggle a little, almost surprised by the tingles flowing through me from the stimulation—I’d come to the conclusion that it would be awhile before sensation returned to my left breast at least, but I have definite feeling there.
Dean lowers his head. My breath catches as he presses his lips against the scar at the side of my breast, the indentation left by the surgery. That area is still numb, so I don’t feel the pressure of his lips—but watching him kiss me there as he plays with my other nipple, feeling his hands touching me in the erotic way he knows I love… I begin to sink into a sensual haze.
I slide my hand down to find his erection and wrap my fingers around the smooth, throbbing shaft.
“Dean.” I arch my hips toward him in invitation.
He stills, lifting himself on one hand. “You’re sure?”
“Yes. Yes.”
I try not to think that usually by now he’d have me in a frenzy of aching need. Right now all I want is for us to make love the way we used to, and without any end in sight. I want us just to be.
He moves away from me for a moment to get a condom from the nightstand—even though neither of us has had lovemaking on our minds, we’ve obeyed the doctor’s orders to have supplemental birth control on hand.
Dean rolls the condom onto his shaft. I maneuver so I can get my legs around his waist and reach pull him down toward me. Our lips meet as he slides the head of his cock around my folds, the pressure both gentle and unyielding.
I force myself not to tense when he starts to push inside me—even with the lubricant, he feels almost impossibly big against my tender flesh. I curl my fingers into his back and lift my knees to open my body wider.
Dean stops again, resting his hands on either side of my head. His breath is fast, a shadow of concern flaring behind the desire in his eyes.
“Okay?” he asks.
I nod, suppressing a flicker of frustration at his concern. I shift my hips to encourage him to go deeper. Sensation pulses through me, intensified by the throb of his cock inside me, the weight of his body pressing me into the mattress.
He pushes into me farther, but self-restraint coils like wire through him. His chest glistens with sweat and his jaw is clenched.
My frustration deepens. I reach up and grab his face with both hands, forcing him to look at me.
“Dean, do it,” I whisper. “I’m not going to break. I’m still yours. I always will be.”
He pauses, his gaze searching my face. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“The only way you can hurt me right now is by treating me as if I’m fragile. Please don’t, Dean. I want this. I want you.”
I sense the shift in him, the moment when his need locks with mine, and we’re both suddenly desperate to reclaim what has always belonged to us. I move back on the bed, fisting the covers as he gets to his knees and thrusts deeply inside me.
A cry chokes my throat as sensations flare outward, streaming fire through my veins. I arch my body toward him as he pulls back and surges in again, creating that delicious friction that fills me with heat.
“Yes,” I gasp, raking my hand down his sweaty chest. “Just like that. Oh, fuck me… harder…”
There’s another flash of hesitation in him, but he slides his cock into me again, back and forth, every thrust seeming to bring him deeper inside me. And despite all that we have been through—or perhaps because of it—we both move easily into the familiar, hot rhythm that has always sent us both falling over the edge into exquisite bliss.
My body doesn’t respond with the usual, slow spool of need, but I don’t care—watching Dean moving over me, his body tensing with urgency, the sensation of his thick cock pumping in and out of me… all of that is enough right now, enough to make me feel like myself again, like us, whole and complete.
“Come on me,” I whisper, gripping his forearms as I sense his need driving higher and higher. “I want to watch you. I want to see you do it.”
With a groan, he pulls out of me and grabs his cock, pulling off the condom before sliding his hand up and down the thick length. I push to my elbows, my breath scorching my lungs as I watch him bring himself to orgasm.
The instant it happens, my whole body quivers with pleasure—he gives a hoarse shout, his body jerking forward as he comes over my belly, drops of semen scattering like pearls.
An upwelling of satisfaction floods me at the knowledge that Dean can still find intense pleasure in our erotic interludes. I pull him toward me, crushing my mouth to his as the final sensations ebb from his body.
He eases to the side, his chest heaving as he pulls me against him and slides his hand between my legs.
“Oh, Dean, I don’t think I can…”
He presses his lips to my cheek, his fingers working with gentle precision over my clit and down to my opening. And though I don’t think I can reach an orgasm, even with his expert manipulations, I let myself lie back and simply enjoy his touch. He brings his other arm around me to fondle my breasts and pinch my stiff nipples.
“Dean…”
“Relax,” he whispers, trailing his lips over my neck to my bare shoulder. “I’ve got you.”
He continues caressing me—slow and easy, as if he has all the time in the world. I close my eyes and think that no surgery, no medicine, nothing, is as healing as my husband’s touch.
And then, astonishingly, flickers of heat begin to flare over my nerves and tighten my core. Dean circles his forefinger around my clit. Sensation spreads outward, like a pebble dropped into a pool of cool, clear water. I open my eyes and turn to look at him in surprise.
“Dean, I’m…”
“I know. I love you.”
He increases the pressure just a little, but it’s enough for me to strain toward the release that had seemed so elusive. I push my hips toward him as he twists my nipple between his fingers, and then the wave builds and builds, until…
“Oh! Oh my God, Dean.”
I find his other hand and grip his fingers. He murmurs low and deep in my ear as the tension in my body breaks and spills pleasure into my veins. My breath catches on a gasp. Shudders course through me as Dean continues touching me, easing every last sensation from my body.
I draw in a gulp of air, stunned that I can still experience such bliss. On an intensity level, it pales in comparison to the earth-shattering orgasms I used to have, but still it feels like a rainbow breaking inside me, flooding me with color and light.
I turn, curling myself against Dean’s chest as everything inside me softens. He wraps his arms around me and brings a hand up to cradle the back of my head, securing me in the protective circle of him.
And in that moment, I know the truth that is as pure and holy as a prayer. The truth that began as a seed in a university registrar’s office and has since flourished and bloomed into the now of Liv and Dean.
Nothing, nothing—no disease, no misfortune, no evil—will ever have power over us. We are so much stronger than any monster.