feel him 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. He 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. He 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