Love Me Tender (23 page)

She brushed her fingers across her own chest, then the tops of her breasts, knowing that Dave was imagining his hands there. She undid the front clasp of her bra and eased the cups aside, freeing her breasts, the nipples puckered with her arousal. Clasping her hands at the back of her neck, she arched her back so her breasts thrust toward Dave.

“Definitely steamy,” he said. His cheeks were flushed; his eyes glittered.

There might be a horrible, incurable illness inside her, but there was no pity or sadness in his hazel eyes, only appreciation. And lust. Tonight she needed this. To be in control; to be the seductress; to be utterly desired as a woman.

And to stop thinking about MS, for God's sake.

She rose and, with movements constricted by her shirt, managed to free herself from her jeans. Her panties stayed on, along with the loosely hanging shirt and bra. Kneeling in front of Dave, she unzipped his jeans and tugged them off, but left his tented boxers on.

Then she sat back down astride his lap. Shimmying her crotch against the bulge in his underwear, she enjoyed the sweet build of pressure between her thighs. Her hands at his waist, she arched back, increasing the pressure where their bodies joined.

He groaned and finally moved, his hands coming up under her shirt to firmly stroke her back and urge her toward him so he could suck her nipple into his mouth. He teased it with his tongue, lips, and the edge of his teeth until this time it was she who moaned.

She wanted to hold his head, weave her fingers through his hair, but her shirt trapped her arms. Instead, she pressed kisses to the top of his head. Undulating her hips, she pressed against his erection, keeping her movements slow and sultry to suit that New Orleans mood.

Dave did the same. The perfect partner in this sensual dance.

Easing back, she reached into the slit in his boxers, freed his thick erection, and slid her fingers up and down the shaft, pausing to circle the damp head with her thumb.

He moaned. Muttered, “Shit, you're hot” against her breast. Then he raised his head, sitting back again, as she lifted up a little and reached her other hand between their bodies.

Her fingers trembling with need, she slid the moist crotch of her panties aside and opened her slick folds. Rising higher, she guided him to her center until he slid in, a tiny bit at a time as she slowly sank down to encompass him.

So sweet, feeling him fill her, skin to skin for the first time. She was on birth control, he'd had no other lover since Anita, and Cassidy's blood work had included HIV tests. Today Dr. Young had confirmed—in the one bit of good news—that there was no need for a condom. This nakedness was new for Cassidy, and she loved the flesh-to-flesh intimacy, the heightening of sensation.

Gripping his waist for balance, she lifted up and down, setting a slow but intense pace.

“You feel so good, Cassidy.”

“I feel very good,” she purred throatily.

He caressed her bare shoulders. Ran his fingers up her neck, into her hair. And all the time he gazed into her eyes, maintaining the connection, not letting her drift away into a private world of pure sensation. Yes, she was having great sex, but he wasn't for one moment letting her forget that she was having it with him. Not that she wanted to. The fact that this was Dave was what made the whole thing so perfect.

Pressure, pleasure, need. They built inexorably until, with a soft cry, she surrendered and climaxed in throbbing waves around him.

Now he took over, gripping her hips and holding her firmly as he thrust harder, faster, and she whimpered helplessly as a second orgasm echoed the first. Less intense, but perhaps even sweeter. He drove high and deep, his hoarse gasp and pumping hips signaling his own climax.

This moment. This man. Utter perfection. Pure happiness. If she could only stay in this moment forever.

 

 

Late Friday afternoon, Cassidy, at her desk in the lobby, saw Robin come down from Dave's suite, her backpack on her back. The girl hung around while Cassidy, speaking Spanish, finished listing the town's highlights to tourists from Mexico.

“Hey, Robin,” Cassidy said after the family had headed out. “I hear you're having dinner and a sleepover with Kimiko.”

“Yup. Her grannie's going to make doughnuts. She makes the best ones ever!”

“Have fun, and say hi to everyone from me.”

“You bet. See you tomorrow when we go riding.”

“You bet,” she echoed, trying to sound cheerful.

Tonight, she and Dave were going over to Ms. H's for what Dave, the basketball coach, called a team meeting. They would discuss the various treatment options, so that the Monday appointment with Dr. Young and, by Skype, the neurologist, would be productive.

Shortly after Robin left, Dave came over. His hair was still damp from the shower he'd taken after basketball practice, and he carried two Wild Rose tote bags. “Three of Mitch's chicken pot pies, three salads, and three servings of blueberry pie.”

“Sounds like a party,” she muttered, standing and stretching. “Okay, let's go do this.” And get it over with. Then she could try to enjoy the weekend. Although the word “enjoy” wasn't really in her vocabulary these days.

They walked the four blocks, stopping to buy homemade vanilla ice cream from The Soda Jerk.

Ms. H had the kitchen table set and, teetotaler that she was, glasses of iced tea poured. While Cassidy forced herself to eat Mitch's delicious food, Dave and Ms. H talked about some of the people who'd been in his fourth-grade class. A number of them had left Caribou Crossing to pursue careers and relationships, but many still lived there—or, like Evan Kincaid, had returned after an absence. It seemed that people either loved or hated small-town Western life.

Personally, she couldn't see a single thing to hate—but then big-city lights, exotic beaches, and all sorts of other locations had their advantages too. A year from now, she'd be exploring that world again. And why did that exciting prospect seem, for once, a little lonely?

After the kitchen was tidy, the three of them went to the living room. Cassidy upended the envelope containing treatment information so that the brochures and articles slid onto the coffee table. Although she'd rather be anywhere other than there, she forced herself to sit beside Dave on the couch. Ms. H had taken the reading chair.

“So,” Cassidy said, “we've all been through this information.”

“The good news,” Ms. H said, “is that since you haven't suffered any symptoms lately, the only thing you need to worry about for the moment is deciding on a DMT.” DMT was short for disease-modifying therapy, a treatment that attempted to alter the course of the disease itself, not deal with specific symptoms.

Yeah, that was really great news. “None of those drugs sound like fun.”

“They can slow the course of the disease, reduce the number of lesions, and reduce attacks.” The older woman sounded exactly like a teacher lecturing, which was hardly a surprise.

“I know,” Cassidy said.

“You have to try one,” Dave said.

“I know! Of course I'm going to fight this. Just allow me a minute to whine, okay?” Was she sounding like a frustrated child? That had to be better than sounding like a furious adult, which was the truth. Her mind kept repeating,
Why? Why me? What did I do to deserve this?

“All we're doing tonight,” Dave said, “is talking about the options so you're prepared on Monday.”

“I know.” One step at a time. She took a deep breath. “Okay. So basically there are the drugs that have been around for a while, and they're either injected into a muscle or injected subcutaneously.” She shuddered. “I've never liked needles. Or there's the newer drug, and it just means taking a capsule every day, which sounds much better.”

“But it seems to be more of a second-line choice if the other ones don't work for the individual,” Dave said.

“You also need to consider the possible side effects of the various drugs,” Ms. H said. “Flulike symptoms, injection site reactions, fatigue, depression.”

Depression. Hah. Was it possible to have MS and
not
be depressed? “Bad side effects can happen with any of the drugs,” she said gloomily. “There's no obvious right answer, is there?”

“If there was, Dr. Young would have told you,” Dave said.

They discussed the various drugs in more detail, then Cassidy said, “With the injection therapies, sticking a prefilled syringe through my skin seems a little more doable than injecting one into my thigh muscle or upper arm.”

“If it turns out the best choice is the intramuscular one, I could do it for you,” Dave said. He swallowed. “I think I could. I mean, I'm sure I could learn.”

“I could do it,” Ms. H said briskly. “You two are too squeamish.”

Oh yeah. This whole thing made her nauseous: having to stick needles into her body to inject drugs that might make her feel worse, that wouldn't even cure her disease anyhow because there was no freaking cure. Damn it, she hated this. She grabbed the scattered material and shoved it all back in the envelope. “Okay, I'm prepared to talk to Dr. Young and the neurologist. Now can we please, please talk about something else? Something normal?”

Dave glanced at her, then at Ms. H. Trying to read his mind, Cassidy figured he was thinking that MS was her new normal. Thank God Ms. H spoke before he said it. “I have an old friend coming to visit next week.”

Those words certainly distracted Cassidy. “Irene? Seriously?”

Something soft and vulnerable touched Ms. H's face. “Irene. Seriously.”

“You're recapturing your old friendship?” Dave asked. “That'll be nice for both of you.”

“I hope so,” Ms. H said. “I truly do.” She turned to Cassidy. “This is because of you.”

“That nudge I gave you, at the bottom of my note?”

“Partly. And partly because after you left and I guessed you had MS I hoped you'd have the courage to face the truth. It made me realize how long I'd been avoiding an important truth of my own. I thought perhaps if I had the spunk to find Irene and contact her, then maybe you . . .” She gave a small, embarrassed laugh. “I'm not generally known for superstitious thinking.”

“Well,” Cassidy said, “I'm glad you found her and she's coming to visit.” How much more should she say, when Dave didn't know the story?

The retired teacher gazed at her former student. “Irene and I were in the same program at university, studying to become elementary school teachers.” Her chin lifted. “We fell in love.”

Cassidy smiled at her. How well she knew that saying something like that took courage. Knowing you'd likely say those words many more times, and sometimes get a negative reaction, was scary.

Dave's mouth opened, then slowly closed again. After a moment's reflection, he said, “That would have been a tough thing, back then.”

“It was. In fact, we decided it was more than tough; it was impossible. We went our separate ways.”

“I don't mean to pry,” he said, “but why didn't you keep in touch?”

“It would have made things harder. Looking back, I wonder if we should have fought for what mattered. But in our early twenties neither of us realized how rare our feelings were. We thought we'd get over them, perhaps fall in love with someone more suitable.”

“But you didn't.” He nodded. “There's no getting over that really special kind of love.” Cassidy knew he was thinking of Anita.

“There wasn't for me. Nor, as it turns out, for her. Even though she married.”

Ms. H had already shared much of the story with Cassidy, so she sat quietly, but Dave said, sounding surprised, “She's married?” Then, “Sorry, I don't mean to be, uh, intrusive.”

The older woman shook her head. “I think you, Cassidy, and I will get to know each other rather well. Besides, I'm tired of secrets. Irene did marry, a man she liked very much, and they had two children. But she and her husband were never truly happy. When the children were in their teens, he fell for another woman. He and Irene divorced. They shared custody.”

“And ever since the children grew up, she's lived alone,” Cassidy said.

“Yes,” Ms. H said. Again, that gentle, vulnerable expression touched her face. “She says she learned her lesson. If she couldn't be with her true love, it was better to be alone.”

Cassidy did a mental eye roll. No, it was better to stop moping and enjoy life. Would any “true love” want their loved one to be miserable? “Getting back to where this all started—you say Irene's coming to visit?”

“We spoke on the phone last night. For hours.” A tender smile lit her face. “She lives in Nelson. Her son's in the Okanagan and her daughter's in Vancouver, both of them married with children. Irene says she's used to climbing on the bus to make visits, and she'd like to come here and see the Cariboo.”

Cassidy smiled. “And to see you.”

“Perhaps we're old fools, thinking that a fire that burned hot almost sixty years ago may still have glowing embers that will reignite.” Again her chin went up. “But better to know than to always wonder.”

Dave leaned forward. “I hope it works out. And if it does, then I hope Irene likes Caribou Crossing. We'd hate to lose you, Ms. H.”

“Why, Dave Cousins, what a charming thing to say.”

Cassidy tossed him a teasing look. “He's such a romantic.”

“Hah,” Ms. H said. “This, coming from the woman who urged me to contact Irene.”

“Okay, maybe I have a soft spot in my heart,” she admitted. “I don't believe that most relationships will succeed long term, but . . .” Hmm, how to phrase this?