a way to reconnect, indulge in each other, lose ourselves, remember just one of the reasons we’re so good together.
But even taking sex out of the equation, I’ve just known what my husband needs. I knew he needed to go to Italy after the trauma of our miscarriage. I knew he needed the job with the World Heritage Center. I knew he needed to make peace with Archer and to reconcile with his family. I even knew when an ear massage would help him. And I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he needed to be a father.
But now? Dean needs to research and understand my diagnosis because it’s his way of being in control, but it’s not doing a damn thing to help either him or us.
What else does he need right now and why can’t I give it to him?
I strip out of my clothes, avoiding looking at myself in the mirror, and change into my nightgown. On doctor’s orders, I’ve been wearing a sports bra to bed, but tonight for the first time since the surgery, I leave it off. I crawl into bed alone and lie on my back.
My breasts are naked beneath my nightgown. I tentatively put my hands over them. My nipples are still hard, poking against the thin cotton. I rub them both, but only the right one sends a pulse of electricity to my core.
My heart thumps against my ribs. I edge my nightgown up over my hips. I’m not wearing any panties. I skim my fingertips over my thighs, parting them a little to touch my cleft. I haven’t touched myself sexually in what seems like ages.
While Dean and I have always had a phenomenal sex life, I’m no stranger to masturbation. If he’s traveling or at work, and I’m feeling needy, I’m accustomed to fantasizing and getting myself off. I don’t have to do it often, but it’s part of my sexual repertoire—one Dean is well aware of, to his own erotic pleasure.
Will I even be able to do this again? I press a finger against my clit, my breath catching when it pulses in response. I’m still dry down there, but maybe if I…
Anxiety coils through me. I force it away and close my eyes, pulling my nightgown up farther to bare my breasts. The rush of cooler air sensitizes my nipples—my right one at least. I settle my hands over my breasts, feeling their familiar weight, trying to accept that the scar and indentation will be there from now on.
I press my fingers over the scar, which is tender but no longer hurts. I can’t feel my own touch, only the slight pressure. I nudge my fingers around until I reach the area where there’s still sensation. According to the doctor, more feeling will come back as the nerves heal.
I glide my hands back down over my belly, pushing the sheet away as I lift my knees and spread my thighs. I curve my fingers between them, settling the heel of my hand against my clit as I work my forefinger gently into my opening. The sensation is pleasant enough, though I’m unable to rouse myself to wetness.
Relax, I tell myself.
Alone, there’s no pressure, no one to disappoint. I close my eyes and think of how Dean and I have managed to sustain our sex life through all the changes in our lives—certainly not without a few bumps in the road, but we’ve always gotten past them and rediscovered each other.
And Paris…being there again after our wedding and honeymoon lit a new fire between us, one fueled by the lure of adventures. Even in our small apartment, Dean and I found time for each other—usually either after the kids were asleep or before they woke up in the morning.
I think of myself back then—whole, sexy, happy—with nothing more to do in those stolen moments than enjoy the incredible sensation of fucking the man I love with such intense, tender devotion.
I think of Dean—masculine, confident, generous—and the way everything about me has always aroused and excited him, like I’m a feast he wants to indulge in for eternity.
Even the changes in my body over the years, the weight gain from both pregnancy and an admitted overindulgence in croissants, the heavy sensitivity of my breasts during nursing, the here forever curves of my belly and hips—he loves it all. He just loves me.
I want that life back. I want to relive our honeymoon, our travels with our children,