Always (Spiral of Bliss #5) (14 page)

She looks at me as if to say,
“right?”
Anderson stands, his expression sober.

“It’s all right if you do, Dean,” he says. “I can take it. But I want you to know that, bad jokes aside, I’m doing everything I can to help Liv, and I’m deeply committed to her care. I’m fully on her side, and yours.”

I can’t muster up any words of thanks, but I manage to nod before turning and leaving the office. I stop in the hallway, holding the door open for Liv, hearing her voice as she speaks to Dr. Anderson again.

We walk to the parking lot in silence, Liv’s mood shifting palpably into one of tension. Now, in addition to being irritated by the doctor’s remark, I’m angry with myself for smothering my wife’s first real amusement since her diagnosis.

“Dean, come on.” She closes the passenger door and puts her hand on my arm. “I’m glad to have a doctor who doesn’t feel like he has to walk on eggshells around me.”

My fingers tighten on the steering wheel.
This is about her,
I remind myself. What I think or feel doesn’t matter one fucking bit if Liv is happy—or at least, satisfied—with the way things are going.

“Is this about you not liking Dr. Anderson?” Liv asks.

“What? No.”

She drops her hand away from my arm. I can practically feel her withdrawing, and my self-directed disgust intensifies. I start the car and back out of the parking space.

“He’s my doctor, Dean,” Liv says. “It would be nice if you both accepted that and realized he’s the one who can help me. Do you think for one second it’s remotely helpful for me to know you don’t like him?”

“I don’t dislike him,” I say, slamming too hard on the brakes at a stop sign. “He’s not as experienced as the others, but he’s competent and—”

“He’s far more than
competent,
Dean, and you know it. There is no way in hell you would let a doctor who was only
competent
treat me.”

That’s true. I take a breath, acknowledging that maybe Anderson is more qualified than I’ve been willing to give him credit for.

So what the hell is going on? If Liv trusts him and is comfortable with him, and if she likes his sense of humor, and he’s committed to helping her through this nightmare, then who the fuck am I to argue?

Liv and I are silent for the rest of the ride home. I don’t even know what to say to myself, much less her. I sure as hell don’t know what my problem is—aside from the fact that the love of my life and center of my universe has a life-threatening disease.

A thousand curses blister in my head. The anger is like an active volcano I can’t control—sometimes it only simmers, and other times it explodes without warning through my blood, drenching everything in a red haze of rage.

When that happens, all I can do is run. The kids are still at school, so after Liv and I get home, I change into track pants and take off, running on the sidewalks bordering Colonial houses and leaf-strewn lawns.

Down the street leading to the high school, across the parking lot to the football stadium where I can circle the track and pound my way up and down the steps of the bleachers.

Get out! Get out. Get the fuck out of my wife, you goddamned fucking insidious disease… I will fucking crush you, obliterate you, rip you apart…

I stop at the top of the bleachers, my chest burning. Sweat drips from my temples. I grip the chain-link fence lining the back of the bleachers and fight to catch my breath.

As my heartbeat slows, a thin thread of sanity filters past my anger. A fuck lot of good it does anyone for me to rage at cancer.

I turn and go back down the steps. A grayish light has fallen, storm clouds covering the sun and rising over the mountains.

I walk home slowly. Hollowness opens inside my chest. The rage burned away my guard, and now bitter helplessness and fear slither through me. My pulse ratchets up again, my muscles stiffening in defense.

I reach the Butterfly House just as a crack of lightning splits through the sky and rain starts to fall. I toss my keys onto the foyer table and go into the kitchen.

Liv is at the table in the sunroom, working on her laptop. The table is covered with papers—insurance forms, prescriptions, website printouts, pamphlets…

“Oh, I’m glad you made it back.” Liv turns to look at me. “Looks like a heavy storm for the next hour at least.”

I stop in the doorway and look at her. Long hair pulled into a ponytail. Soft, curvy body underneath her fleece shirt and yoga pants. Pale skin. Sprinkle of freckles over her nose.

The fear digs in harder, like claws. Puncturing. Bleeding. My hands curl into fists. My breathing is fast, choking my throat.

“Dean?” A crease appears between Liv’s eyebrows. “Are you—”

I can’t stop myself. Don’t want to.
Won’t.

I cross the room to my wife in three strides and grab her shoulders, hauling her perfect, beautiful body against mine. Her gasp of surprise is lost against the pressure of my mouth. I grip her harder, forcing her lips apart with mine, needing to taste every part of her.

Liv tenses in resistance. Her fingers curl into the front of my damp shirt. Fire boils through my veins. I drive my tongue into her mouth. Sweet. So fucking sweet. My cock hardens.

She makes a muffled noise in her throat. I tighten my hold on her arms and lift my head. My breath scorches my lungs. My vision is dark at the edges, but she’s in clear light, her brown eyes wide with shock and her lips parted. We stare at each other. Thunder rumbles outside, rain sleeting against the windows.

Before Liv can speak, I grab her hips and push her back. I reach behind her and shove my arm across the table, sending the laptop crashing to the floor along with all the goddamned medical papers.

Liv startles, her fingers tightening on my shirt. I lift her to sit on the table, slanting my mouth over hers again. The taste and scent of her flood me. Lightning streaks through my blood.

A moan escapes Liv as she opens her mouth to let me in. Our tongues slide together. The kiss is hot, wet, deep. I shove my cock against her, push my hands under her shirt to feel her warm, smooth skin. Liv lifts her head, her face flushed and her eyes still wide.

Some part of me knows I should stop—this isn’t how it’s supposed to happen, not now—but my mind is a haze of urgency and all I want is to get inside my wife as fast and hard as I can, to possess her,
own her
.

Liv brings her hands to my jaw, rubs her thumb across my mouth. Something dark and painful shadows her expression. Before the sight of her can spear me through the heart, I cover her mouth with mine again and push her to lie across the table.

She tenses but parts her legs again so I can get between them. I grab her shirt, fumbling to yank it off her and drop it to the floor. I stare down at her, all spread out in front of me with her ponytail draped over her shoulder and her breasts cupped in a white bra that displays the deep valley of her cleavage.

My dick throbs. A gust of wind lashes the rain against the windows. I move back to pull off Liv’s pants and underwear, sliding my hands over her bare legs, making her open wider. Her breath quickens as she pushes to her elbows.

“Dean—”

“I’m going to fuck you.” My voice sounds hoarse, rough, foreign. “Hard.”

Her throat ripples with a swallow. I press my fingers into her pussy, working her until she’s slick and ready, until she starts making those little gasping noises I know so well. She sinks to her back again, her chest heaving. Her nipples are dark circles against her white bra.

Heat scorches me. I push my pants down and off, releasing my stiff dick. I’m already about to come, but I need to be inside her when I do. I grab Liv’s waist and pull her to the edge of the table, thrusting my cock into her with one fast movement.

Oh, fucking heaven…

She cries out, her body arching upward. I stop, inhaling a sharp breath as pressure tightens my spine. I clutch her waist, pull back, and thrust again. Again.
Again.

Her body jostles against the table, the smacking noise of sex filling the air. All thought disappears into blinding lust. I spread my hand over her belly, sliding it up to flick open the front clasp of her bra. The cups fall to the sides like seashells, exposing the fucking gorgeous sight of my wife’s breasts bouncing in rhythm with every thrust of my cock into her.

“Oh my God.” Liv gasps, her hot gaze crashing with mine. She’s starting to sweat, a glistening sheen painting her skin. “I’m… I feel you so deep…”

I pound into her harder, faster, pushing her legs up to her chest, wanting to plunge into the core of her body. Just the sight of her naked and writhing beneath me is enough to trigger an explosion.

I drive into her again. I’m hurting her—I can tell by the way she’s biting on her lower lip and tensing with every thrust, but I’m too desperate, too relentless, and I can’t fucking stop. When she grabs the edge of the table, her body bending as if she’s trying to pull away from me, I clench my teeth and force myself to pause.

I grip her hips, fighting for self-control. Our breath saws through the air. Liv runs her hands over my arms, her gaze locking to mine—hot, desperate, pained.

“Okay,” she whispers, winding her legs around my hips, pulling me closer. “Okay, love of my life.”

I thrust into her again, but slower this time. Liv moves her hands to her breasts, twisting her nipples, her throat arching as she presses her head back. She moans, rubbing the stiff peaks before sliding her hands down to cup her breasts. She hesitates for a fraction of an instant—just long enough for me to notice—before moving her hands away from her breasts.

A resurgence of fear needles through my lust, but I’m too far gone to let it interfere with my drive for release. I move my hands up to clutch her bare shoulders—too rough, I know, I’m going to bruise her, but I can’t get inside her deep enough, hard enough. I pull her down onto my shaft, the pressure building as I surge into her hot, tight body again and again…

“Oh,
fuck
…”

Sensation explodes through me. Her pussy tightens around my cock as I come inside her with a force that feels like it could rip me apart. Liv whispers something I can’t hear past the pounding of my heart.

I collapse on top of her, pressing my face to her throat, her breasts rising and falling against my chest. She winds her arms around me. Her breath stirs the hair sticking to my damp forehead.

Rain spills down the windows. I inhale the scent of my wife, absorb the crush of her body beneath mine, the unbelievably soft, yielding
feel
of her.

As the world comes slowly back into focus, bitter self-disgust starts crawling up my throat. Even now, I can’t control myself, can’t treat my wife with care.

I push away from Liv and get to my feet, unable to look at her as I pull on my boxers. Tension thickens the air.

I turn. Liv is sitting up, pulling her bra on. The sight of her breasts fills me with a combination of pain and renewed lust.

Fuck. Despite the complicated shit Liv and I have been through, never once has my desire for her changed. I’ve felt other negative things toward her—anger, sadness, irritation, resentment, impatience, frustration—but nothing has ever affected my intense craving and need for her.

In fact, our struggles have fueled my lust for my wife, deepened and intensified it. Every time I touch Liv, it’s more than simple pleasure. It’s a reminder that she’s mine, body and soul. She is more than my greatest love, my obsession, the center of my being. She belongs to me, in me, with me. Yesterday. Now. Forever.

And
pain
at the sight of her naked breasts is a fucking arrow plunging straight into my chest.

She lifts her arms to tighten the band around her ponytail, glancing up at the same time. Our gazes collide. A shadow falls over her eyes, as if with that one look, she knows exactly what I’m thinking.

Of course she does.

“Dean.” Liv gestures for me to come closer.

My heart feels like a fist. I back away from her, my throat constricting. I hate not knowing what to do for her. I hate that she thinks there’s nothing I
can
do.

“Dean. Come here. Please.”

I move closer to her, but not even her body heat can warm the chill spreading through me from the inside out. She wraps her legs around my waist and slides her hands over my shoulders, up to the sides of my neck.

She lifts my face to look at her. If I gaze into her brown eyes long enough, I’ll discover all the secrets of the universe.

“I’m scared,” Liv says. “Terrified. I will be until we get through this nightmare. Until we see hope again. I’m scared of this disease, of the treatment, of surgery and tests and whatever else has to happen.”

She moves her hands up into my hair and presses her forehead against mine.

“But I want you to know this,” she continues. “I will never,
never,
be afraid of you. I will never fear anything you feel, anything you say, anything you do. Never. Believe that, professor, because it’s the truth. You are the only place in the world where I feel safe. You always will be.”

My heart cracks. Once upon a time, I’d known I could protect her. I’d known how to defend the goddamned castle. I’d known without a doubt I could keep my wife safe. But now?

Nothing is safe anymore. Least of all me.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

OLIVIA

HE CAN HARDLY LOOK AT ME.
At breakfast, his gaze touches on the bruises exposed by the scooped collar of my nightgown, and his expression darkens with self-directed disgust.

“Dean.” I curl my hand around his wrist as he stands at the central island, making a sandwich for Nicholas’s lunch. “It’s okay.”

His jaw tightens. “Nothing about this is okay.”

“Yes, it is.” I slide my fingers over his forearm. “You and I are okay. We will
always
be okay, no matter what happens. We know that. And the only way you can ever hurt me is by shutting me out. Please don’t do that. Not now.”

The tension in his arm eases a little, but I know the source of his aggravation runs too deep to be easily excavated. The stark truth is that he can’t protect me from this. He can’t fight this battle for me.

And those are the only things he wants right now. He would give anything to be able to step in front of me and slay this monster. To be my hero.

Dean brushes his lips across my forehead and turns away to pack Nicholas’s lunch. I let him go.

I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen Dean on the verge of breaking. But
this
could be the thing that finally severs him right in half. And I need to be the one to hold us together.

I maintain control by taking a proactive approach to hiring a nanny, hoping the extra help will serve the purpose of making things easier. After interviewing and checking references, we hire Claire, a young energetic woman who has several years of nanny experience and an undergrad degree in Elementary Education.

We arrange to have her pick Bella and Nicholas up from school on the days I’m working and bring them to the café before their afternoon activities. The first week goes smoothly, and both children seem to take to her well enough.

“The nanny was Dean’s idea?” Kelsey asks me, as she sits at the front counter with her laptop and a cookie.

“You sound surprised,” I remark, pouring her a cup of coffee.

“Well, he bit my head off when I offered to take over his seat on a committee,” she says. “Told me to leave him the hell alone.”

“Oh, Kelsey, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Kelsey shakes her head, flicking her blue-streaked hair back over her shoulder. “I mean, I
know
him. Mr. Fix-It has his way of dealing with shit, and one of those ways is to attack. I can take it. I’m just surprised he’s the one who suggested you hire a nanny, considering how he wants to do everything.”

That’s part of the issue. Dean
knows
he can’t do everything this time. That’s exactly what he can’t stand.

The front door opens. Bella and Nicholas run in with shouts of greeting, and my cloudy mood falls away. Claire follows, lugging their backpacks and coats. She smiles ruefully at me as Nicholas and Bella clamber onto stools at the counter.

“In the last fifteen minutes, I’ve heard all of Nicholas’s
Star Wars
voices, and Bella sang me five songs she made up,” Claire says, sitting beside them. “You clearly have performers on your hands, Liv.”

I smile and set a plate of fruit salad and cookies on the counter. “Thanks for picking them up. By the way, this is our friend Kelsey. Kelsey, Claire Finney, our new nanny.”

They exchange greetings and pleasantries. I almost see Kelsey’s sharp brain clicking and whirring as she processes a first-impression evaluation of Claire, the young woman who is partly in charge of Kelsey’s beloved niece and nephew.

“What’s shakin’, bacon?” booms Archer’s voice, as he comes through the kitchen doors.

Nicholas and Bella both light up with delight—you’d think they see Archer once a month the way they react to him—and he makes the rounds of fist-bumping and hugging as Kelsey packs up her laptop.

“We’re going to—” she starts to tell me.

“Omigod,” Claire says suddenly.

I glance at her, to find her staring at Archer. She swings her gaze from Archer to Kelsey and back again.

“I totally didn’t get… I mean, are you Archer West?” she asks.

“Of course he’s Archer West,” Nicholas says, as if that should be obvious.

“And you’re Kelsey March.” Claire shakes her head, as if she can’t believe this is just dawning on her. “I totally didn’t realize it, but of
course
it’s you! You’re the
Storm Hunters.
I watch the show all the time. That dog rescue was amazing.”

“Yes, it was,” Kelsey agrees, slanting Archer a glance.

“So are you… what, like, friends of Liv and Dean?” Claire asks.

“Archer is Dean’s brother,” I explain.

“
Dean’s
brother?” Claire blinks. “You’re Dean’s brother?”

Archer nods. Claire looks as if she can’t quite make the connection between suit-and-tie Professor West and rugged, storm chaser Archer with motorcycle oil staining his hands.

“I got the better one,” Kelsey tells her.

Claire cracks a smile and glances at me. “Did she?”

I shake my head and say, “I let her think so.”

Because as much as I love Archer, I know differently.

“Mommy, potty,” Bella announces.

“I can take her.” Claire climbs off the stool and holds her hand out for Bella’s. “Is the restroom at the back?”

“Yes, just down the hall to the right,” I say. “Thanks.”

Bella tucks her hand into Claire’s as they head down the corridor. Archer steps away from Nicholas and closer to me.

“Hey, speaking of the old man,” he says, his voice low, “how’s he doing?”

I’m not even sure how to answer that. I don’t want to lie to Archer, but Dean wouldn’t want me to tell anyone, even his brother, that he’s not doing well at all.

“Have you talked to him lately?” I ask.

“No. He was supposed to bring his car in for a tire rotation, but he didn’t show up,” Archer says. “I know he’s busy and all. I was just wondering if he’s okay.”

“You should call him yourself and find out,” Kelsey suggests.

Archer shrugs and picks up Kelsey’s laptop case. “Let us know if you need anything, Liv.”

“I will.”

After Archer and Kelsey have gone, I take out my phone and text Dean:

LIV:
I love you like macaroni loves cheese.

I check my phone several times over the next hour, but there’s no answer.

“Where’s Allie?” Kelsey sits beside me on her living room sofa and reaches for one of the Chinese food containers on the coffee table. “I told her seven o’clock.”

I pick up my phone. There’s a text from Allie:
Sorry, can’t make it tonight. Something came up. Have fun!

Unease flickers in my gut. Ever since I told Allie about the cancer, she’s been oddly distant, wanting only to talk about work-related issues. And in the year since I returned from Paris, she’s never missed one of our monthly girls’ nights.

Until now.

I put the phone aside. “Looks like she had to cancel.”

“Oh.” Kelsey looks faintly surprised. “Did she say why?”

“No, just that something came up.” I keep my voice light so Kelsey won’t sense something is amiss between me and Allie. “Well, more food for us anyway.”

“True.” Kelsey forks some noodles onto her plate. “And this lo mein practically gives me an orgasm.”

I grin. “Does Archer know that?”

“No, I don’t want to give him a complex. Not that he’d ever be threatened by Chinese food.”

Kelsey leans forward to pour ginger ale into our glasses. Since I’m under doctor’s orders not to drink alcohol, we’re having soda instead of our usual wine or margaritas. Aside from small concessions like that, no one has suddenly started treating me as if I’m sick, though The Moms help out with more playdates and have brought us casseroles. Kelsey and our friends Susan and Carol have planned several fun outings—to movies, dinner, an art fair—which prove to be a welcome distraction.

My friends also do not find it necessary to focus our conversations entirely on me or what I’m facing. In fact, most of the time we still talk about celebrity gossip, new books and movies, kid-related issues, and which girl is the most cray-cray on the latest episode of
Millionaire Bachelor.

After we eat, Kelsey sets her empty plate on the coffee table. The front door opens and Archer comes in, a leash in one hand. Attached to the leash is a medium-sized black dog with white paws and a white circle around its left eye.

I glance from the dog to Kelsey in surprise. “I didn’t know you kept the dog.”

“We didn’t.” Kelsey looks pointedly at Archer. “Archer is supposed to be trying to find it a new home.”

“I put up fliers everywhere and called the shelter twice,” Archer says defensively. “No one wants him.”

“Except you,” I say.

“We’re not keeping it,” Kelsey says.

The dog barks at her.

“Easy, boy.” Archer strokes the dog’s head. “He can just hang out with me at the garage, then go with us on the road. Play up my new role as a romantic action hero taming the hardcore scientist.”

He winks at Kelsey. She scowls.

I can’t help being amused by the fact that she’s put out—not because of Archer’s new fame but because she had little to do with it. Instead it’s all about him and the dog. Who is resting his head on Archer’s knee with clear devotion.

Kelsey reaches for a fortune cookie and breaks it open, pulling out the scrap of paper to read.

“Big journeys begin with a single step,” she says. “Well, duh. Every journey begins with a single step.”

She breaks apart another cookie. After smoothing out the fortune, she reads it and goes utterly still.

“Kels?” I set my chopsticks down. “What is it?”

She lifts her head and looks at Archer. “What the…”

He gives her a slow, lazy grin.

Kelsey hands me the fortune. Printed on the pink paper is the phrase:

Marry me, storm girl.

“Aww.” My heart gets all soft and mushy. “How sweet.”

“How suspicious,” Kelsey says.

“I’m telling you, baby.” Archer doesn’t take his eyes off her. “You and I could rock the institution of marriage just like we’ve done with everything else.”

“Sure,” Kelsey says. “Right when you’re basking in the glow of your newfound fame and fangirl adoration, you want to get married. Save
Storm Hunters
, just like you saved the dog.”

Archer pushes slowly to his feet, his hand still wrapped around the leash.

“I’ll take that as a no,” he remarks.

“Archer, I’m not marrying you for ratings.”

“I don’t
want
to marry you for ratings,” he replies. “I want to marry you for
us.
You were the one who told that girl Claire you got the best one, right? So come on, storm girl.
Get me.
”

Kelsey looks at him, heat rising to her cheeks, unable to hide the amusement and adoration in her eyes.

An unexpected twinge of envy goes through me as I think about how different things would be if Dean and I were only engaged in a flirty challenge about our relationship instead of facing…
this.

Archer hauls himself out of the chair, turning to snap his fingers at the dog. “Come on, Patch.”