Chapter Twenty-Two-Remy
We eat dinner out because Callie is starving the second her little ballet recital ends, and Andy has a craving for steak.
I take them to the best spot in town—an unassuming little steakhouse run by a chef who was trained in Brazil.
The man does ungodly, beautiful things with charcoal and grass-fed beef.
I swear, one bite and you forget there’s anything else in the world.
Callie demolishes her meal.
Andy lingers over hers, her lips shiny with butter and salt, eyes fluttering shut with each bite like she’s tasting heaven itself.
Then it’s on to a chocolate cake that’s dark and rich and paired with homemade vanilla bean gelato. Andy moans after each bite.
I linger on her instead of dessert, but I have some anyway, because she likes the idea of sharing.
By the time we get home, my wife insists on helping Callie with her bath, which is a blessing in disguise because my hands are itching.
Not for work. Not for a weapon. Not for anything that used to center me.
For her.
So I brew myself an espresso. Decaf, because I don’t need the buzz.
My nerves are already on fire from watching her all night in that silk blouse and those wide-leg pants.
Classy as hell, but somehow sinful too, hugging the curve of her ass, flowing over the swell of her belly.
She looked like sex in motion—my wife, my obsession, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I walk to Callie’s room when I hear the soft hum of Andy’s voice.
Peeking in, I see her perched on the edge of the bed, golden hair falling forward, reading aloud from a picture book.
Callie’s already fighting sleep, eyelids heavy, fists curled in the blanket.
My chest aches at the sight.
I step in quietly, lean down, and kiss my little girl’s head.
Andy doesn’t miss a beat, finishing the story with that soft cadence that makes Callie’s little body go slack with sleep.
And then it’s my turn to do the dad thing—tucking her in, clicking on the night-light, checking the window latch before pulling the door almost closed.
It feels good. Normal.
Like maybe I can give her the life she deserves.
After that, Andy goes to shower and I head for the security room. Double check the alarm system. Scroll through the feeds.
Sigma employees man the gates. All clear.
Exactly why I bought this house in an exclusive community—to keep them safe. My girls.
I even buzz the guards, confirming with a quick word that all is quiet outside.
Only then do I let myself head toward the bedroom.
And I’m hoping, praying, that Andy’s already in bed.
Because if she’s waiting up? If she’s in some little nightgown or even one of those oversized shirts she favors, glowing with that stubborn, effortless beauty—God help me, I’ll lose every ounce of control.
I want to take her. Claim her again. Make her body remember exactly who she belongs to.
But I know we need time. Time for my plan to work. For her to fall for me, not just tolerate me.
For her to realize this life—our life—is the only one that fits.
So, I grit my teeth and tell myself I’ll wait.
Even though every nerve in my body is begging me to forget patience and crawl into bed with my wife and take her like the monster I sometimes think I am.
I move slowly down the long hallway, shutting off lights, closing doors one by one.
When I bought it, I was afraid this house would feel like just walls and stone.
I worried I wouldn’t be enough to make it a home. But with Andy here? I have nothing to worry about.
It’s like she makes this house—our house—feel alive.
Because Andy’s left her mark everywhere.
She found the little darkroom I had converted just for her—just in case she wanted it—and she actually used it. Developed photos I didn’t even know she took. Callie, grinning with mud on her cheeks. Me, mid-laugh in the kitchen. Both framed and hung.
They look good. Great. But there’s one missing. One of her.
I’ll fix that. Soon.
There’s more too—pillows, curtains, a bright red tea kettle, a whole army of travel cups because she can’t go anywhere without coffee.
Her clothes are a mess, tossed everywhere, but I don’t care. I’ll pick them up a thousand times over.
We’ve got a cleaning service for the big stuff—dishes, bathrooms, laundry.
I cook because I like cooking for her, feeding her, knowing she’s cared for.
Also, I like being a dad. To Callie. To our babies. Callie is a wonderful kid, and every day she cements herself further inside my heart.
I wish Renee could see how she’s turning out, but I have to believe that she can see it wherever she is, and I pray she’s found some peace.
But I don’t dwell long on the dead. I can’t. I have to take care of the living—no, I get to take care of them.
That feels better. Truer somehow.
I have someone else shop and a delivery service that comes daily for essentials and fresh produce and protein—all organic. The very best.
I do everything I can think of to keep busy, to bide my time, praying that Andy is asleep so I can creep into bed with her, leaving without a trace before she wakes like I do every morning.
But the second I reach our bedroom door, hand on the knob, everything changes.
I hear it.
Not her soft, nearly silent snores.
Something else. Mechanical.
A hum.
My brows pull together. My body goes tight. I turn the knob.
And nothing—nothing—could have prepared me for what’s waiting inside.
Andy.
My wife.
Naked. Gloriously naked. Her belly swollen with our babies. Her legs splayed.
One hand tugging at her tit, pulling her nipple, the other pressed between her thick thighs.
A little pink toy pressed against her glistening, soaked pussy.
That’s it.
That’s my breaking point.
The beast in me snarls, surges forward, takes over.
I slam the door closed behind me and I stalk across the room.
Her eyes fly open.
But instead of embarrassed?
She looks excited. Turned on. Pupils blown wide, chest heaving.
“Jesus Christ, Baby. You need to come? Is that it?” My voice is a growl, low and jagged with need.
“Yes, Remy. I-I feel so needy,” she whimpers.
“You just had to ask, Baby.”
I slap the toy out of her hand.
She gasps, but not in protest.
Because I’m there.
On my knees. Falling face first into her dripping cunt. Devouring her like a starving man who finally found his first meal in weeks.
Tongue buried in her sweetness. Hands gripping her thighs like iron as I gorge myself on the taste of my wife, my obsession, my everything.
She moans, trembling, the sound shooting straight to my cock, and I know—I’m never letting her use any toy alone ever again. Not when she has me.
Not when she was made for me to worship like this.
My dick thumps against my pants, and I’m already unzipping the fucking things, because any second now I’m going to explode, and I refuse to come in my fucking boxers like a goddamn kid.
“Remy,” she whimpers my name, trying to wiggle out of my grasp, but I don’t let her.
“Don’t run, Baby. You give me this. You take this.”
Then I punish her.
I suckle her hard little clit, tugging and pulling the thing until she’s writhing beneath me, mindless, searching for her release.
I moan, and the vibrations do it. They send my sweet Andy right over the precipice, and I grin because that’s one.
And I’m already planning two.