by Nina Lane
“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.” He 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. He 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.” He pulled at the hem of my shirt. “I’m going to come right now if you keep that up.”
I blinked 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 his erection 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.
“Oh my.” 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.
He 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 hard. 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.” His 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 he 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 and thrust. 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.
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.
“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 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.
“You’re just all wet down here, aren’t you?” he said, lust darkening his eyes to black as he edged his finger under the elastic. “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.
“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. 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—him pumping in and out of me as the panties tightened around my thigh and dug into the crevice of my ass, stimulating me in all sorts of secret places.
He 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. 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, 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.”
He twisted his fingers into my panties again, pulling them to the side as he pushed 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 him. My rear 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.
The sound of our grunts and panting drenched the air. I lowered my head, my hair sticking damply to my shoulders and back. Fire licked my nerves, need building in every cell of my body.
“Dean.”
He pulled out of me, turning me onto my back again. 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.
“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. He 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,” he 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 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 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.
PART IV
Chapter 27
Dean
January 31
“Dean.”
“Right here.”
There’s a strained silence. I turn from the stove to find Liv standing in the kitchen doorway wearing her bathrobe, her hand extended and her expression filled with sadness. I approach her, my heart plummeting at the sight of the dark strands of hair twisted around her fingers.
“I’d almost forgotten I could lose my hair this soon,” she admits. “I was so worried about other side effects, even though they haven’t been that bad. But when I woke up this morning, there was all this hair on my pillow.”
“I’m sorry, beauty.” I pull her into my arms, hating her sadness, hating this has to happen to her, hating what she’s going through. “Try to remember it means the chemo is working.”
I put my hand on her hair, the softness of it so familiar. I’d wanted to run my fingers through Liv’s hair the second I first saw her. And though she’d had it cut shorter before starting chemo, it’s still thick and lush. For now.
Her body heaves with a sigh before she goes to sweep the strands of hair into the trash.
“I’ll call Kelsey,” she says. “She said she’d go back to that wig store with me, but I don’t think I want to wear one. They’re really itchy and hot. The store also has scarves and stuff, and Kelsey said she’d help me pick a few out.”
“You want me to go?” I ask.
“No, it’s a girl thing.” She walks toward the stairs. “I’ll be back before our appointment with Dr. Anderson.”
I watch her go. Aside from fatigue and some nausea, the hair loss is the first side effect she’s experienced after her second round of chemo. Two down, six to go. I hope to God the remaining treatments are easy on her.
Later that afternoon, I return home from King’s to pick Liv up and drive to the doctor’s office for her clinic visit. Dr. Anderson had told us the schedule would start with him seeing her every other week, in-between appointments for blood tests.
I still don’t like that. With all these drugs flooding Liv’s system and every little ache and pain cause for concern, I want the doctor to see her every week.
“Depending on how Liv feels, we can certainly change the schedule if needed,” he tells me.
“Why can’t it just be a regular standing appointment?” I ask. “Once a week?”
“On the weeks I don’t see her, she’ll have blood draws,” Dr. Anderson says. “I assure you I’ll be keeping track of the reports and meeting with the other doctors on her team. If there’s a problem, I’ll see her immediately.”
He looks at Liv. “And you know you can always call me with any concerns.”
“She wouldn’t have to call you if she saw you every week,” I say, unable to keep the irritation from my voice.
Liv throws me a placating look.
Dr. Anderson nods. “I understand your concern, Dean, but Liv is doing very well. And Liv, you have my cell number. You can call me any time.”
“That’s why you’re such a great on-call-ogist,” Liv remarks.
She and the doctor both chuckle.
“Really, thank you, Dr. Anderson,” she continues. “I wouldn’t want to take up your time unnecessarily, and no offense, but I really don’t want to see you any more than I have to.”
He smiles. “Yeah, I get that a lot. Now let’s have a look at your blood counts.”
He opens her file and turns the folder so she can see what he’s pointing out.
I sit back, making an effort to remind myself that they’re both right. Too many appointments with the doctor would make Liv feel worse, and of course it’s stupid to take time away from other patients.
I listen to Dr. Anderson explaining her test results. Despite my selfish wish that Liv’s entire team of doctors and specialists would focus on her alone, I can’t get rid of the simmer of anger I feel every time we meet with Anderson.
It makes no sense, since he’s proven to be all the things an excellent doctor should be—attentive, patient, knowledgeable, empathetic. As far as Liv is concerned, the good doctor’s word is the law. Every time I question him, she gets annoyed.
Which means I’ve had to make an effort to shut the fuck up. Especially now, when my wife is getting toxic drugs that are supposed to heal her by killing off all her cells.
Liv and Dr. Anderson do more of their joking thing—“At least I won’t have to worry about head lice”—and I focus my brain on the fact that my wife is the important one here. This is all about her.
After the appointment, we drive back home in silence. Rationally, I know the doctor is on Liv’s side, intent on helping her get wel
l, but every time we meet with him, the fucking methods of his treatment make me rage all over again.
Cutting. Poisoning. Injecting. Burning.
My perfect wife. Doctor’s orders.
When we go into the Butterfly House and start to take off our coats, Liv stops with a sudden, “Oh no.”
“What’s wrong?”
“My wedding ring.” She holds out her left hand, showing me that the silver band is so loose around her finger she can spin it around. “It almost fell off.”
She pulls it off, a flash of sadness crossing her expression. My heart clenches.
“It’s the weight loss.” Liv sighs. “I can’t wear it anymore.”
She shakes her head, staring down at the ring nestled in the palm of her hand. I put my hand under her chin and lift her face to look at me.
“Hey,” I say gently. “You’ll wear your ring again one day.”
“I know. I just…” She pulls away from me, her expression shadowed. “My breasts, my hair, my figure…now my wedding ring. It’s like being stripped layer by layer of everything that makes me a woman.”
“Those aren’t the things that make you a woman. You are what makes you a woman.”
She holds the ring out to me. “Keep it for me, like you did when I had the surgery.”
“Of course.” I slip the ring into the pocket of my suit jacket and run my hand over Liv’s thinning hair. “By summer, you’ll be wearing your wedding ring again.”
She smiles. It’s a heartening thought. Summer—when flowers are in bloom, boats float on the lake, Nicholas is antsy for the end of school, Bella wants to plant a garden, and the town is setting up ice-cream stands and paddle-boat rentals.
By then, my wife will be wearing her wedding ring again.
“You’d better go.” Liv glances at the clock. “Your meeting is at two.”
