Always (Spiral of Bliss #5) (32 page)

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.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

OLIVIA

May 10

THE AIR DRIFTING INTO THE CAR
smells like salt and earth. Wheat-colored hills undulate toward the rocky coastline of the Pacific, bisected by the black ribbon of the road. In the backseat, Bella and Nicholas are listening to audio books with their headphones, the silence punctuated by occasional complaints of boredom.

“We’re almost there,” I assure Nicholas, when he whines about being hungry.

Almost there.

Dean turns the rental car onto the long stretch of road leading toward a cluster of buildings nestled near a swathe of artichoke fields and orchards. My body tightens with anxiety as we get closer. It looks the same, of course, though there’s a new building near the garden. A few trucks are parked outside the garage, their beds loaded with wooden furniture.

“Is this a farm?” Nicholas asks.

“Sort of,” I reply. “There are a few cats, chickens, and goats, but no horses or cows or anything. People just live and work together here. I stayed here a couple of times when I was younger. It’s a very special place.”

“I like goats,” Bella remarks.

After Dean parks the car and we all get out, I inhale a deep breath of the delicious air, feeling like it’s flooding my veins with renewed energy. After a lengthy lecture about precautions, Dr. Anderson gave me his blessing for this week-long trip to Santa Cruz, especially since the chemo drugs I’m on now have a milder effect on my system.

Dean had been harder to convince, but after he researched “travel and chemotherapy,” and drove Dr. Anderson crazy with questions, he’d agreed that getting away would be good for us. Especially getting away to Twelve Oaks, the place where
goodness
is part of the earth.

I shade my eyes from the sun and look toward the main building. Dean comes around the side of the car, his gaze scanning the landscape. Already there’s less tension in the set of his shoulders.

“This is beautiful,” he says. “I can see why you love it here.”

I slide my hand to his lower back. “I’m so glad we came.”

The door to the building opens, and a medium-height man with a gray-streaked beard and long hair pulled back into a ponytail approaches. Happiness lights inside me as I start toward him, even as my anxiety intensifies. My friends at home have gotten used to me looking so different, but I haven’t seen North or anyone at Twelve Oaks in ages and—

“Come here, Liv.” North strides toward me, his arms outstretched and a wide smile splitting through his beard.

Every fear and insecurity falls away the instant his arms close around me. Tears fill my eyes and spill down my cheeks, but for the first time in a long time, they are tears of happiness. I hug North with all my strength, feeling as if the embrace alone can—and
will
—sustain me.

We ease back at the same time to look at each other. Gazing at North’s weathered face and into his warm brown eyes, still so familiar and dear, is like remembering only the good parts of my past. He reaches up to put his hands on the sides of my head.

“Welcome home, Liv,” he says.

I smile through my tears, a smile that feels like it comes from deep inside me.

“Thank you. I’m so glad to be back.”

The sound of Bella laughing finally prompts me to ease away from North and turn toward my husband and children. Dean is standing a short distance away, keeping an eye on Nicholas and Bella. He approaches us with a smile.

“How’ve you been, North? It’s great to see you again.”

“Likewise, my good man.” North puts his hand into Dean’s, and they pull each other into an embrace that includes a bit of manly backslapping. “Really glad you both made it back here. Asha has you all set up in the house, if you want to get settled in.”

We turn to the car as Nicholas and Bella come running up, after having chased a skittish kitten around the side of the garage. They met North in France, but don’t remember him well. I reintroduce them, and North gives Nicholas a handshake and tells Bella he hopes she’ll help him in the flower garden.

As we walk toward the main house, the children dashing ahead of us, I feel the magic of Twelve Oaks taking effect, wrapping around my family like the comfort of my old quilt. Giving us back to ourselves.

Though things have changed at Twelve Oaks over the years, the rhythm of the place is the same. The residents all have job assignments and work shifts throughout the day, the children are either home-schooled or leave each morning for local public schools, and there is a constant, easy flow of activity like a river.

Everyone greets us with warmth and a genuine sense of welcome—there are about six families whom I remember from my time here over fifteen years ago, and new groups of people treat us like old friends. No one says anything about my lack of hair or my illness.

Dean volunteers both himself and Nicholas to help in the apple orchard, while I work in the kitchen and—at North’s request—spend time curating the books in the library, which was my job when I stayed here after college.

Bella is at first wary of being away from me, but she slowly warms to Asha, who cares for the younger children, and before long they’re playing duck-duck-goose out in the grass. At noon, everyone piles back into the main house for lunch.

Dean and Nicholas return, triumphantly bearing a basket of apples, and we sit at the trestle tables in the dining room to eat fragrant bread fresh from the oven and homemade vegetable soup.

After lunch, Dean, Nicholas, and Bella play board games in the library while I go in search of North. As expected, I find him in his woodworking shop.

The smell of sawdust fills the air. The tables are covered with woodworking tools, as well as dozens of finished and half-finished bowls, boxes, and toys.

North is sitting on a stool, a work light illuminating the table in front of him as he sands a small piece of wood.

“What are you working on?” I hitch myself onto the stool beside him.

He holds up the piece. It’s an intricately carved chess piece—a knight on horseback. I take it from North and examine the details.

“It’s beautiful. Is it a commission?”

“No, but we’re renting out space in a few downtown shops, so I thought I’d put it up there.” He nods toward the other pieces on the table, all finely carved and crafted, and the smooth, glossy chessboard.

“What kind of wood did you use?”

“Walnut and maple.”

I pick up a pawn and study it, rubbing my finger over the curves.

“When I was in Russia, I saw this chess set that had been made by a guy who was a prisoner in the gulag,” North says. “Looked like a regular set, you know, maybe of wood. Then I found out it had been made of breadcrumbs. The prisoners would chew bits of bread and press them together to form the pieces so they’d have a way to pass the time. Still standing all these years later.”

I try to picture it—a prisoner carefully sculpting an entire chess set out of bread. I wonder how long it took to make, how many games the prisoner played. How many he won.

“Aside from knowing it was a work of art, in a sense,” North continues, “I thought it was amazing this guy who probably got one piece of bread per day would sacrifice eating it to create something. In the damned gulag, even.”

I do that,
I think with sudden clarity.

Okay, not entire chess sets out of chewed-up breadcrumbs, but chocolate swirl cupcakes and lemon parfaits, and crayon pictures of hedgehogs with my daughter, and multi-colored Lego fortresses with my son, and drawings of Paris, butterflies, and gardens where everything blooms bright. Even in my own personal gulag of cancer, I create things too.

North hands me the knight and points to a clean cloth. I pick up the cloth and clean the sawdust off the piece. North begins to smooth away the rough edges on the queen.

“You’re doing all right, then?” he asks.

“Most of the time.” I shrug. “But it’s rough. Scary. I won’t know if the cancer has spread more until I have scans after chemo. I have dreams where it’s digging into all different parts of my body, like barbed wire. And even with a good prognosis, I still wake up sometimes wondering if I’ll be alive this time next year.”

This is what I love about North. He doesn’t say, “We all wonder that.” He doesn’t tell me that of course I’ll be alive. He doesn’t try to tell me everything will be okay or that other people have it much worse than I do. He doesn’t tell me not to worry.

He just nods.

We sit in silence for a while—him carving chess pieces and me polishing them. I’m cloaked in the warm, comfortable feeling I had so many years ago, when the world had jagged edges and Twelve Oaks was the only place where I knew they couldn’t hurt me.

I know differently now. Safety isn’t a physical place—it’s knowing you are unconditionally loved and accepted, and it’s a feeling of peace that you somehow cling to even in the darkest of times. Not that I always do, but I’m learning to try.

The love and acceptance part, though… I’ve got that.

“He is a good guy,” North says, tilting his head to the door. “You were right.”

I smile. “It’s hard to feel sorry for myself when I look at my family. I have so much. How can I not be grateful?”

“You can be grateful and human at the same time,” North says. “And it’s okay to shake your fist at the universe every now and then. The universe is tough. It can take some cursing.”

“Oh, I’ve done my fair share of that,” I admit. “Sometimes it feels good, too. Turns out I like being a bit of a bad-ass.”

North grins. “You remember when I told you once not to come back to Twelve Oaks too often?”

“I remember. You wanted this wounded baby bird to spread her wings, and you thought if she came flying crookedly back to Twelve Oaks, she would never leave. Never learn what she was made of.”

“Yeah.” North pats my shoulder. “You did good, Liv. Soared like an eagle.”

I extend my fist, and he bumps his against mine.

“And I thought you would never leave Twelve Oaks, but off you went to walk around the world,” I say. “What brought you back?”

He shrugs. “Always wanted to end up back home. That’s part of the reason you travel, I think. To go, but also to come back.”

I learned that too, before Dean and I left for Paris. I could go, happily, off on new adventures because I knew he and I would return to Mirror Lake.

But I also learned that life isn’t always about coming and going, leaving and returning. Sometimes, like now, it’s just about
being.