How many times have I turned to her in the middle of the night, waking her with the pressure of my hand on her hip, watching her eyelashes flutter open and her mouth curve with a smile?
How many times have we fallen together, crashing into each other, our mouths meeting in a hot, hungry kiss that fired us with lust?
Countless times. Countless.
I drag a hand down my face, feeling my body tense as erotic thoughts push into my mind—Liv riding me, her beautiful breasts bouncing and her skin flushed pink. Her perfect ass in front of me, her legs open wide as she takes the thrust of my cock. The little moans and gasps streaming from her throat, the tightening of her pussy as she comes.
My dick twitches. I slide my hand down to rub it. Aside from jerking off a few times for pure release, I haven’t given sex much thought in recent months.
I’ve noticed it, though—the proliferation of ads with half-naked couples embracing, the busty models plastered over the windows of the lingerie shop at the mall, the free condom distribution on campus. I’ve noticed the pretty girls at the coffeehouses as they shed their coats to reveal fitted sweaters and low-cut shirts that display their cleavage, their long legs clad in wool tights beneath their short skirts.
Yeah, I notice. Not because I want them, but because I don’t. I want my warm, gorgeous wife back with her soft body that fits so goddamned perfectly against mine. I want to scrape my rough cheek against her pale skin and hear her laugh. I want to run my hands over her hips, caress her breasts, squeeze her round ass.
I want her.
So, apparently, does my cock.
With a muffled groan, I rub my growing erection harder. Somehow it feels disingenuous to jerk off while Liv is in the hospital. I force my hand away from my groin and close my eyes. Breathe.
Tomorrow she’ll be home. And sometime this summer, she’ll be healthy. She’ll gain back the weight she’s lost. Her hair will grow back. She’ll wear her wedding ring again. Her voice, her presence, will fill the Butterfly House.
Exactly the way it should be.
“Oh my god, Dean…”
She’s naked on the bed, all voluptuous and sexy with her arms above her head and her knees raised to open herself for me. Her moan combined with the look in her eyes—shocked, dazed, aroused—floods me with heat. I slide my dick into her sweet, warm pussy, like a key fitting into a well-oiled lock.
“Oh, yes,” Liv gasps, bringing her hands to her breasts and twisting her stiff nipples. “Fuck me deep…Jesus, Dean, I can feel you pulsing inside me…”
I press my hands against her knees to open her wider. Already I want to start driving into her as hard and fast as I can, claiming her, owning her. I want her to clench around me and beg for more. I want her to…
“Dean?”
My eyes snap open. I’m breathing hard. I might be sweating.
“Oh, sorry. Didn’t know you were…”
The female voice trails off. It takes me a second to realize Claire is standing a few feet away, the office door open behind her. Her gaze darts over my face, down my bare chest, and then lingers on my obvious hard-on.
Shit.
I grab my discarded T-shirt and drop it over my groin. Claire blushes, taking a few steps backward.
“Sorry, I…uh, didn’t know you were sleeping,” she says, gesturing vaguely behind her. “I knocked but you didn’t hear me, obviously. I’m…I’ll just go back downstairs.”
She turns and hurries away. I drag my hands over my face and groan. Now our young nanny thinks her employer is a pervert. I take a few breaths and wait for my dick to calm down.
I pull my shirt back on and go to the kitchen, where Claire is intently scrubbing the counter. I smother a wave of embarrassment as I wonder how the hell to tackle this one.
“I came up to tell you I made coffee,” she says, pointing to the coffeepot. “And to see if you want some. There are also those butterfly cookies someone left for you.”
“No, thanks.” I scratch the back of my neck. “Look, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”
She blinks. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable. You never have.”
“Oh. Okay. Good.”
I feel like I should say more, but what? An explanation will only make things worse. “So I was having a hot dream about my wife…”
I go back toward the staircase.
“Dean?”
Claire sounds closer. I turn to find