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Holy God, it hurt so bad. When all he wanted was for her to know he would brave the devil for her. Just tell her what you did, Fairchild, and get it over with. You don’t need to fucking do this all over again.
Maybe his father was right, and he should tell her.
How could he woo her as if they shared no past? As if his life didn’t already revolve around her? How was he expected to stand back, and give her the space she needed, when every pore in his body screamed to him that she was his?
Whitney was stronger now. Different in an amazing way that he was just soaking up like he’d soak up the healing heat of a blazing sun. Yeah, she might be strong enough to know the truth, but honestly, the mere thought of telling her would be like puking his insides out.
Whitney wouldn’t be satisfied with a meager recounting. He’d have to tell her where he slept, what he ate, how he’d coped. The memory made him angry and frustrated all over again, and the nausea continued building as he watched her laugh with other men. She smiled at them warmly, without restraint. Without anger or accusation.
He froze in sudden disbelief as she was asked to dance, and suddenly, she was dancing. With some . . . dude. Some motherfucking son of a motherless . . .
She glanced in Andrew’s direction, her green eyes shining in victory, and then she tossed her hair back and smiled at her new dance partner. Andrew took a sip of his drink. That haughty glare lured him like a red flag to a bull. He gritted his teeth and watched her toss her hair again, then she put her hand on the man’s arm as they finished dancing and headed outside to take some air. Anger whirled inside his stomach as they disappeared through the ballroom’s terrace doors.
He was trying to be patient, trying to understand her. He knew she was testing his limits, testing the strength of their bond. She felt hurt and wanted attention, and he knew that if he was patient, then Whitney would run out of stupid things to do, and stupid things to say, and in the end, she’d realize Andrew wasn’t going anywhere. He was still here and he was staying here. With her. She’d feel secure again, cherished again. He’d allowed her little game tonight, soothing her hurting pride, wanting her to feel safe. But stand here and watch? Watch her offer to another man what belonged to him?
He had been through hell, his only consolation had been the sight of her name on his wrists, the thought of finally coming back to her.
Quietly seething, he set his wine aside on a table and strode across the ballroom, then out the terrace doors, his every muscle tense with blood flow. He could hear her voice, talking animatedly to the man in a way Andrew ached for her to speak to him again. The man was touching her shoulder, bending his head as though to listen.
“. . . which is incredibly funny, once you think about it . . .”
With soul-consuming jealousy, he grabbed that man’s offending hand and, with a harsh yank, folded his arm behind him at an awkward angle. “Is your name Andrew?” he ground out.
Whitney gasped, her hands flying to her mouth, and Andrew silenced her with a glare. Both her tattoos—the name Andrew, dark and almost menacing on her milky skin—were perfectly visible with her raised hands, and so he pulled the man’s arm even tighter at his back.
“Is your name Andrew?” he demanded.
“N-no.”
“Then why are you touching her?”
The man was so stunned, he didn’t answer. Andrew tightened his hold.
“This woman is a wife to me. This woman is my life. So do me a favor and walk out of here. Don’t touch her, don’t talk to her, don’t even look at her.”
He abruptly released him and watched the man stumble away, aware of Whitney’s gaze on his profile, her eyes wide in disbelief. He glanced sharply around, his look scathing, his body primed for fighting. “Is revenge all that it’s meant to be? Are you satisfied that I wanted to hurt him?”
Her eyes watered, and he cursed and grabbed her by the elbow, leading her forcibly down the steps and around the hotel.
In the car, she sat across from him, trembling, and for long minutes, neither of them spoke.
Andrew’s ears echoed with the sound of his heartbeat, a sick sense of jealousy clawing at his gut. Whitney’s eyes had for the past few minutes been fixed on his hands, lying flat on the seat at his sides. He knew she wanted them on her. He knew she wanted his mouth. His cock. She’d been taunting him all night, inciting his jealousy, and now Andrew was going to give it to her as hard as she deserved. As hard as she could take it.
“I’m patient, Whitney. But don’t ever confuse me
for a fool.”
She met his gaze, her breasts rising and falling fast, her eyes bright with lust and challenge.
He could kiss her right now until their mouths bled. He could drag her into a corner and pound her until they were both in little pieces. He’d never felt so out of control before, so unstable. He’d always been a calm, rational person. But then he’d met her. He’d lost his heart to her. His lost his life for her. And now he would not, could not, lose her.
“Did you have fun tonight?” he asked her in a low, hard voice.
Her chin came up in challenge. “Tons. Did you?”
“My fun is about to start. Come here.”
She stiffened, and her eyes flared in an obvious internal struggle. Eventually, she came. She sat tightly on his lap, her small frame tense.
