Chapter Thirty-Two-Andrea
“Andy.”
My name rolls out of him like gravel and fire, straight through my chest like an arrow, and the tears come before I can stop them.
But I’m a coward, so I keep my back to him.
“Andy, look at me.”
“How was your trip?” My voice is sharp, mocking, but my head is shaking violently—no, no, no—I won’t turn around.
“It was work.”
“Work?” I snap. “Half-naked women and princes, private concerts with superstars, private chefs—that was work?”
“Yeah,” he says, unbothered. “Work. And most of the women were all naked. Not half.”
I whirl on him, mouth falling open. “Really? Well, how nice for you.”
His lips twitch. He’s smirking. Smirking.
Something inside me unravels.
I grab the nearest thing in reach—the dish towel—and hurl it at his face. He catches it one-handed, lazy, like I just tossed him a softball.
The bastard.
So, I grab the tin of tea leaves next. Hurl it straight at his chest.
He bats it away with a chuckle.
“Why are you throwing things, Wife?”
His eyes narrow, nostrils flare, and my whole body buzzes with anger, lust, and raw, choking need.
“Tell me,” he demands, voice low, dangerous.
“Fuck you,” I spit. “I want a divorce.”
His growl shakes the room.
“No. You’re mine, Mrs. Falco. I’m never giving you a divorce.”
He closes the distance in two long strides, hands gripping my arms, pulling me tight against him—close enough that I feel caged, trapped, branded.
He’s careful of my belly, but the power in his hold—the possession—is unmistakable.
“Now tell me the real reason you’re mad. You jealous, Wife? You think I was fooling around with that Greek prick and those plastic dolls of his?”
Images flash—Remy’s inked-up body wrapped around someone else. His big hands gripping hips that aren’t mine. His mouth on another woman’s skin.
The thought blinds me with rage.
“Were you?” The words tear out of me, raw, jagged.
I shove against him, desperate to get free, but it’s like fighting steel. His arms are iron bands, unyielding.
He lets me squirm for a moment before locking me even tighter to him, one hand sliding up to cup the back of my neck, forcing my gaze to his.
“No.” His voice is a growl, a snarl, a vow.
His grip tightens, and his eyes—those glittering emeralds—are blazing.
Not just with anger, but with hurt. With desire. With something dangerously close to devotion.
And suddenly, I feel like the one who’s bleeding here. Like I wounded him.
“How would I know?” My voice cracks, traitorously soft.
“Because I am telling you—”
“Well, why should I believe you?” My voice spikes, shrill with desperation. “We hardly know each other, and it’s not like you married me because you wanted to!”
The words slice out, cutting me deeper than they could ever cut him. But his flinch tells me they land anyway.
And fuck, that only makes me angrier—angrier because the solid heat of him pressed against me is making me ache.
Making me wet. Making me feel things I don’t want to feel when I should be shoving him out the door.
“Stop it, Andy. Just stop.” His forehead presses to mine, rough breath spilling over my lips. “Don’t you get it? Don’t you know?”
“Know what?” My voice splinters. “How would I know anything if you don’t tell me?”
“Well, I’m telling you now.” His chest heaves like a caged animal, words molten steel.
“I married you because I wanted to. You just gave me an excuse to skip the formalities.”
“You mean I tricked you. I trapped you. And now you’re stuck.”
Tears blur my vision, hot and relentless. I don’t know if I hate him or hate myself more for this.
“No, Baby. That’s not how it went down at all.”
“Isn’t it?”
He shakes his head. His thumb strokes my throat, and I shiver.
“You are it for me, Andy. And while you might have been planning to make a baby without telling me, I was planning the same damn thing. Hell, I took myself in my own hand more times than I want to admit, picturing just that.”
My breath stutters. “Y-you did?”
“I did.” His jaw tightens, daring me to doubt him.
“Why?” The word scrapes out of me like it’s been clawed raw.
“Why? Because I love you. Do you hear me? I love you. And I want you—you crazy, beautiful, infuriating woman—only you. The rest of the world can burn for all I care.”
My knees almost buckle.
“You love me?”
“I love you, Mrs. Falco.” His voice drops, rough, reverent, shaking. “Even though you drive me fucking insane. Hell, maybe it’s because you do.”
And then his mouth crashes onto mine.
Brutal. Possessive. Desperate.
And God help me, I don’t just let him. I clutch at him, kissing him back like I’ll drown if I don’t, tasting the salt of my own tears and the fire of everything he is—everything I swore I couldn’t let myself want.
I melt into him, sobbing against his lips, tasting salt and need and the terrifying truth.
I love him too.
And it’s time I told him.