“What exactly are you talking about?” Joyce cut in impatiently.
“Oh, please, there’s no need to pretend. The whole of San Antonio already knows. Your Dorothy of a niece has snagged the unsnaggable—”
Even though her neighbor had yet to finish speaking, her heart had already started to shrivel.
“I know you wanted to be his bride, darling,” the other woman said with a laught that was vicious even in its sweetness, “but it seems Paul would rather have you as an aunt.”
Chapter Twelve
ANDIE WOKE UP FEELINGlike her old self.
No more hot flashes that she had the misfortune of experiencing even in her late teens. No heaviness in her belly. No brain fog. She was almost afraid to hope, but when a quick dash to the en-suite confirmed the good news—
Oh, finally!
She showered and took her time applying a bit of lotion and perfume, heart racing throughout it while her mind raced with the kind of thoughts that made her blush.
Behave, Andie, behave!
Memories of how her husband had stoically refused her shy, awkward offer to touch him had her turning even redder even as her toes curled. She still couldn’t believe she had made such an offer in the first place, but at the same time, she just couldn’t believe he had been so patient all this time, and when she recalled just how many cold showers he had subjected himself to in a day...
How was it possible that a man like Paul Mitropoulos could have such great desire for someone ordinary like her?
Andie felt like runningandrunning away the moment she returned to the bedroom, with her husband still asleep in bed. She had obviouslyneverdone anything like what she was planning—well, ‘hoping’would probably be more accurate.
Sheknewwhat she had to do. She had read about it countless times. But knowledge was a lot different from execution, and so...
You can do him, I mean, do this! Just...just take it one inch, I mean, one step at a time, and will you please stop panicking, Andromeda Jackson—I mean, Mitropoulos!
Her gorgeous husband lay on his back, one arm thrown above his head, the sheets pooled low around his hips. The early morning light caught the copper in his hair, turned his skin to gold. Even in sleep, there was something almost unbearably beautiful about him—the sharp line of his jaw, the sweep of his lashes against his cheeks, the steady rise and fall of his chest.
Her husband.
This impossible, infuriating, secretly tender man was her husband.
And she was done waiting.
Andie climbed onto the bed, her movements careful and deliberate. The mattress dipped beneath her weight, but Paul didn’t stir. She positioned herself between his legs, her heart hammering so loud she was certain it would wake him.
It didn’t.
She reached for the waistband of his sleep pants, easing them down with trembling fingers. He wore nothing beneath, and the sight of him—already half-hard, even in sleep—made her mouth go dry.
Reading was nothing compared to this.
Nothing compared to the reality of him, thick and heavy and right there, close enough to touch.
Close enough to taste.
Andie lowered her head.
And took him into her mouth.
The sound Paul made—a sharp intake of breath, a groan that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest—sent a thrill racing down her spine. His hips jerked involuntarily, and she felt him swell against her tongue, hardening fully in a matter of seconds.
“Wha—” His voice was rough with sleep, confused. “Andromeda?”
She didn’t answer.
