15. Andrea
— ? —
Andrea
I make it to my hotel room with twelve minutes to spare.
Twelve minutes to change my mind. Twelve minutes to text Kirk and tell him not to come. Twelve minutes to be sensible, to protect myself, to remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea.
I spend eleven of those minutes pacing the floor and biting my thumbnail down to the quick.
At minute twelve, a knock lands on the door.
I open it.
Kirk stands in the hallway, jacket gone, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up to reveal those forearms I’ve been trying not to notice all night.
“You came,” I say stupidly.
“You asked me to.”
“I know. I just-” I step back to let him in. “I wasn’t sure you would.”
“Andrea.” He closes the door behind him and turns to face me. “I would walk through fire if you asked me to. Don’t you know that by now?”
The room shrinks. Kirk is right there, close enough to touch, and every nerve in my body is screaming at me to close the distance.
“We need to talk,” I say instead. “Actually talk. Not just-”
“Not just what?”
I swallow. “You know what.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
His voice is low. Dangerous. It curls something hot and unwilling low in my stomach.
“We can’t just fall into bed and pretend that fixes everything,” I manage.
“I’m not pretending anything.” He takes a step toward me. “I know exactly how broken things are between us. I know exactly how much I have to make up for.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because you asked me to come.” Another step. “Because I’ve been dying to be alone with you for weeks. Because every time I see you, I have to fight myself not to touch you, and I’m tired of fighting.”
“Kirk-”
“Tell me you don’t feel it.” He’s close enough now that the heat of his body reaches me through two layers of formal wear. “Tell me you don’t lie awake at night thinking about us. Tell me you don’t want me, and I’ll walk out that door right now.”
I should tell him. I should lie through my teeth and save myself.
But I’ve never been able to lie to Kirk.
“I feel it,” I admit, and my voice comes out broken. “Every goddamn day, I feel it. I read your letters and I remember what we had, and I hate myself for wanting it back.”
“Why?”
“Because you hurt me!” The words explode out of me. “Because you took everything I believed about us and you threw it away as if it was nothing! Because I gave you my whole heart, Kirk, and you - you-”
I can’t finish. The tears come now, hot and angry, and I hate them. I hate feeling this vulnerable. I hate that he still holds the power to destroy me.
“I know.” His voice cracks. “I know what I did. I live with it every day.”
“Good.”
“I deserve that.” He reaches for me, and I don’t pull away. His hands cup my face, his thumbs brushing away the tears. “I deserve every terrible thing you want to say to me. But please, Andrea. Please let me try to make it right.”
“You can’t make it right.” My voice is barely a whisper. “You can’t undo what happened.”
“No. I can’t.” He presses his forehead to mine. “But I can spend every day after this proving that nothing like it will ever happen again. I can choose you every single day, the way I promised to when we got married. I can be the husband you deserve, even if I wasn’t before.”
“How do I know you won’t believe the next lie someone tells you?”
“Because I’ve learned.” His voice is fierce. “Because I’ve spent weeks in therapy digging through the poison my mother put in my head. Because I understand now why I was so afraid of losing you. The fear was the problem. Not you. Never you.”
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly it hurts.
“I don’t know if I can trust you,” I admit.
“I know. I’m not asking you to trust me tonight.” He pulls back enough to look into my eyes. “I’m just asking you to give me a chance to earn it. One day at a time. One moment at a time.”
The space between our bodies has opinions. Every inch of it. The pull of him is magnetic and relentless.
“This doesn’t mean I forgive you,” I whisper.
“I know.”
“This doesn’t mean we’re okay.”
“I know.”
“I still don’t trust you.”
He nods. Waits.
“But I’m so goddamn tired,” I continue, and my voice breaks. “Tired of sleeping alone. Tired of missing you. Tired of pretending I don’t want this.”
“Then stop pretending.” His voice is rough and desperate. “Just for tonight. Let me show you how sorry I am.”
I should say no. Every rational part of my brain is screaming at me to protect myself.
But my body has other ideas.
I grab the front of his shirt and drag his mouth to mine.
The kiss is everything. Fury and longing and weeks of pent-up wanting, all colliding at once. I bite his lip, hard, and he groans, his hands fisting in my hair, pulling my head back to expose my throat.
Heat rolls off him, and my skin prickles with it. I’ve spent so long pretending I didn’t want this, but now that I have him, the hunger is ravenous.
He smells of expensive cologne and the faint, metallic tang of adrenaline, a scent that makes my stomach flip with a desperate, primal need.
“Andrea-”
“Shut up.” I’m already working at his buttons, my fingers trembling but determined. “I don’t want to talk anymore.”
“Wait.” He catches my hands. Holds them still. “Wait.”
“What?”
“I need you to be sure.” His eyes search mine, dark and swirling with a mixture of devotion and desperation. “If this is just - if you’re going to regret it tomorrow-”
“I might regret it tomorrow.” My voice is honest. Raw. “But I’ll regret not doing it more.”
His expression shifts into a darker, hungrier gear.
He doesn’t just want me; he’s starving for me.
The way he looks at me - like I’m the only thing in the world that matters - makes a liquid heat pool between my thighs.
I want to break him. I want to be the one to decide when he finally gets relief.
Suddenly, he drops to his knees.
This fixes nothing, the last clear part of me warns. You’ll wake up tomorrow still furious, and you’ll have handed him this too. I hear it. I ignore it. Some hungers don’t take counsel.
The sight of him there, looking up at me with such absolute surrender, sends a jolt of electricity straight to my clit. I step back just an inch, letting my dress slide slightly, teasing him. He doesn’t move. He waits for my permission, his breath hitching.
“Good,” I whisper, the words tasting like power.
He doesn’t waste another second. His hands slide up my thighs, lifting the fabric of my dress, and then his mouth is there. The first touch of his tongue is a shock, a hot, wet stroke that makes my knees buckle.
I gasp, my fingers digging into his shoulders, anchoring myself as he laps at me with a focused, rhythmic intensity.
He knows exactly where to press, his tongue swirling around my nub, sucking it deep into his mouth.
I moan, my head tossing back, my inner thoughts a chaotic blur of finally, finally, finally. He is so good at this, so attuned to every twitch of my muscles. I feel my walls pulsing, clamping down on the empty air, begging for him to fill me.
“Bed,” I demand, my voice hoarse. “Now.”
We barely make it there. I push his shirt off his shoulders, the fabric fluttering to the floor. He unzips my dress in one fluid motion, the garment pooling around my ankles. Clothes scatter: his belt, my bra, his pants hitting the carpet with a muffled thud.
Then we’re on the bed, skin to skin. I climb on top of him, my breasts brushing against his chest, the friction making my nipples harden instantly.
I love the contrast of us - his broad shoulders and hard muscle beneath my softer curves. He is a mountain of a man, and right now, he is mine to command.
“Andrea-”
“My turn.” I straddle his hips, feeling his cock hard and throbbing against my wetness. “You don’t get to be in control right now.”
His hands come up to my waist, then stop. He freezes, waiting. Asking. I love this part - the way he yields to me, the way he lets me dictate the pace of our pleasure. I sink down onto him slowly, inch by agonizing inch.
We both groan, the sound raw and desperate in the quiet room. He fills me completely, stretching me open, hitting that perfect spot deep inside that makes my toes curl. My body remembers this. My body has been starving for this.
As I settle fully onto him, the dominance I felt moments ago begins to melt into a desperate, aching need. I lean forward, pressing my chest against his, and for a moment, I just cling to him, letting out a shaky breath.
I am the one on top, but the way he holds my hips - firm, possessive, yet supportive - makes me feel cherished. I feel myself softening, my heart hammering against his ribs.
“I hate that this feels so good,” I breathe, starting to move. “I hate that you still-”
“I know.” His hands find my hips, guiding my rhythm without trying to change it, his thumbs rubbing circles into my skin. “I know.”
I begin to ride him hard. Punishing. Taking what I need without apology. I watch his face, the way his jaw clenches, the way his eyes flutter shut as I grind my pelvis against his. He is taking every bit of it, absorbing my anger and my love in equal measure.
“You don’t get to come yet,” I tell him, my voice a command. “Not until I say.”
“Andrea-” He’s shaking now, his muscles taut. His grip on my hips is bruising, his fingers digging into my flesh. “Please-”
“Not yet.”
I slow down. I draw it out, rolling my hips in a slow, agonizing circle that makes him hiss through his teeth. I want to see him suffer the way I’ve been suffering for weeks. I want him on the edge, vibrating with the need to explode.
“You hurt me,” I whisper, leaning down to bite his shoulder, my voice trembling. “Do you understand how much you hurt me?”
“Yes.” His voice breaks, a sob catching in his throat. “Every day, Andrea. I understand it more every day.”
“Good.”
I lean down to kiss him. Softer this time. Longer. When I pull back, his eyes are wet.
“I love you,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry. I love you.”
My chest cracks open. The wall I’ve been holding up, the anger, the self-protection, the fierce determination not to let him in again, starts to crumble.
“Kirk.” I cup his face in my hands. Tears are streaming down my cheeks. “Kirk, I-”
“I know.” He sits up, wrapping his arms around me, changing the angle so we’re face to face. “I know. I’m here.”
We move together, slower now. Every thrust is an apology. Every kiss is a vow. The pleasure builds differently this time, deeper, sweeter, tangled up with grief and forgiveness and a fragile new hope.
I feel the way he stretches me, the way our bodies lock together in a perfect, seamless fit. I surrender the control, letting him take the lead, my body arching into his as I give myself over to him completely.
“I love you,” I admit, the words torn from a place I didn’t know I was still protecting. “I never stopped. Even when I hated you.”
“I’ll earn it back.” He buries his face in my neck, his voice muffled and thick with emotion. “I swear to God, I’ll earn it back.”
The tenderness is almost too much to bear. I feel him surging inside me, his control finally snapping under the weight of our shared release.
He doesn’t wait for my permission this time; he arches his back, driving upward into me with a powerful, desperate thrust that sends me spiraling. I scream into his neck, my own climax crashing over me in violent, rhythmic waves that make my entire body shudder.
“Now,” I moan, clutching him tight. “Now, baby. Do it now.”
He lets out a guttural roar, his body shaking violently as he pumps his seed deep inside me, filling me with everything he has.
We fall together, shaking, crying, holding on to each other as if the world might end if we let go.
I collapse against him, our skin slick with sweat, our breaths mingling in the heavy air of the room. I feel small in his arms, protected and adored, finally home.
Afterward, tangled in the hotel sheets, Kirk traces patterns on my belly where our baby grows.
“I keep thinking I can feel her,” he whispers. “I know it’s too early. My hand just wants it to be true.”
“Her?” My voice is rough with emotion.
“I don’t know. I just - I have a feeling.” He presses his palm flat against my stomach. “Hi, baby. I’m your dad. I’m sorry I almost missed this.”
“Kirk-”
“I know I don’t deserve this.” His voice is raw. “You. The baby. Another chance. But I’m going to be worthy of it. Watch me.”
I thread my fingers through his hair. “Come home with me tomorrow.”
He goes still. “What?”
“Not to our house. Not yet.” I take a breath. “But to Melissa’s. We can - I don’t know. Figure out the next step. Together.”
He lifts his head. His eyes are shining.
“Really?”
“Don’t make me regret it.”
“I won’t.” He kisses me, soft and reverent. “I promise, Andrea. I won’t.”
“There’s one more thing.” I sit up against the headboard, pulling the sheet with me, because this part needs to be said with my spine straight. “The divorce filing. The paternity language.”
His face goes ashen. “Andrea, I’m withdrawing all of it. Monday morning, first call. The filing, the test, every word of it, it’s gone, I don’t need a test, I never should have-”
“We’re doing the test.”
He stops. Stares at me.
“What?”
“After she’s born. We’re doing the test.” I hold his eyes.
“Not for you. For her. Your mother built a lie designed to outlive us, Kirk. It’s in courthouse paper now.
It’s in three counties of gossip. Someday our daughter will be old enough to hear a whisper at a country club, and when that day comes, she will not have to take anyone’s word for anything.
She’ll have a boring piece of paper with numbers on it, and boring paper beats beautiful lies every single time.
” My voice stays level. “Dr. Halloran taught me that. Medicine is boring, and boring is on our side. So we do the test, and we frame the result next to the ultrasound, and the lie dies with a stake through it, in writing.”
Kirk looks at me for a long moment, and his eyes go wet, and when he speaks his voice has gravel in it.
“You’re the strongest person I have ever met.”
“I know.” I settle back down against his chest. “Now go to sleep. You have a lawyer to fire in the morning.”
We fall asleep tangled together, his hand on my belly, his heartbeat steady against my ear.
Sometime before dawn I surface, the way you do in a strange bed, and find him awake, watching the ceiling.
“Hey,” I whisper. “Regrets?”
“Inventory.” He turns his head on the pillow. “Checking that it’s real. I’ve had this dream a lot, and there’s usually a version where I wake up in the house alone.”
“And?”
“You’re still here. Your cold feet are on my shins. Dreams don’t include the feet.”
“Romance is alive,” I murmur, and burrow closer, and take his arm and wrap it around me, a blanket I’m repossessing.
For the first time in weeks, I don’t dream about losing him.
I dream about finding my way back.