over his chest and winds them lazily around his fingers, as if in substitution for his ever-present string figures.
And everything he does, I love. Every time Dean touches my hair, whether in tenderness or fierce passion, I love it. It’s always a gesture of such adoration, love, admiration, worship, possession…a reminder that I belong to him, an assertion that he—and only he—has the right to touch me so intimately.
Another chill shivers through me. This disease could rob me of my most womanly parts, the physical characteristics that have always brought both my husband and me so much intense pleasure.
I pull my bathrobe over my shoulders and belt it around my waist. Anxiety twists inside me, and my heart pounds with every step I take up the spiral staircase to Dean’s office.
I knock on the door. “Dean?”
“Right here.”
At the sound of his deep voice, I push the door open. He’s seated at his desk, wearing flannel pajama bottoms and a King’s T-shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders.
“Hey.” He looks up, his expression one of distracted concentration. “Everything okay?”
I nod, casting a glance at the surface of his desk. Any other time, his desk would be covered with books about Charlemagne or the canons of the Fourth Lateran Council. A pile of student research papers would teeter precariously on the shelf above. There would be photos and maps of archeological digs, color replicas of illuminated manuscripts, notepads scrawled with ideas, theories, and references to medieval saints and scholars.
But now? Now his desk is littered with medical articles, insurance papers, and the multiple legal pads on which he’s written extensive notes during our doctor visits. A stack of cancer-related library books sits on the floor beside the desk, and the computer screen displays a breast cancer research website.
Pain boils up inside me. I push it back down, like clamping a lid on a bubbling pot. I approach Dean and take hold of his swivel chair, turning him toward me. We look at each other. Faint tension stretches between us.
I put my hands on the arms of the chair and lean closer to him. The V-neck of my robe opens. His gaze slides downward, over my throat to my exposed cleavage. A familiar, beautiful heat darkens his brown eyes.
Any fear I’d had that he might hesitate to touch me, or at the very least touch me differently, vanishes the second he tugs at my robe, baring my body to his stare. He cups my breasts in his warm hands, rubbing his thumbs over my nipples until they stiffen with arousal.
I tighten my grip on the chair. New shivers spiral through me, but good ones this time. Hot shivers. I look down and watch my husband’s hands moving over my naked breasts—rubbing, squeezing, fondling. He slides his fingers into the crevice beneath them, weighing them in his palms. His breath gets faster, heating the tension-laced air.
He pulls at the belt of my robe. “Take it off.”
I straighten to unknot the belt and let my robe open. My nerves tighten again, but as Dean’s slow, hot gaze rakes down my naked body, I remember I have never had anything to fear when I’m with this man. In fact, being with him banishes fear.
I lean toward him and press my lips to his.
“Kiss me,” I whisper. “Fuck me.”
A groan rumbles in his chest. He takes hold of my hips to pull me onto his lap, but I gently resist. Instead I get to my knees in front of him and ease into the juncture of his legs.
“Liv…” Dean curls his hands around my arms to urge me back up, the shadow of concern still inside him.
“I want to.” I spread my palms over his torso, feeling the warm, hard ridges of his muscles under his T-shirt. “Please let me.”
When he doesn’t respond, I look up at him. He’s watching me with a shuttered expression, a slight crease between his brows, his eyes dark. He cups my cheek, his hand strong and comforting, like a cradle. Then he moves his hands up into my hair, brushing the long strands away from my face.
Oh, yes…
I resist the urge to close my eyes, instead keeping my gaze on Dean as he worships my hair with his hands. I sink into the sensation of his strong fingers moving over my scalp, around to massage the back of my neck, combing through the length of my hair. Bittersweet warmth streams through my veins.
I reach for the drawstring of his pants to