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And I'll be damned if I don't help make that dream a reality.
"Who's ready for some pasta?"
Andrea's head pops up. "At this hour?"
I raise an eyebrow. "Aren't you the rulebreaker?" I tease. "Besides, it's gotta be dinnertime somewhere, right?"
We leave the sheets behind, tired but not yet satiated with each other. We return to the kitchen because we need carbs to fuel our next round.
Andrea stands in the kitchen, my shirt hanging loosely on her, just a few buttons fastened. Her curves, so inviting, but I need to save our dinner, or rather, now, our breakfast.
As I stare at her, my blood boils, aching to tear her clothes off and claim her mouth again, but I rein it in. Five orgasms in one night may not quench my thirst, but it's enough to satiate me for now and let her catch her breath. Next time, I'll aim higher.
Andrea's eyes cloud over, and she takes a deep breath. "It's not a happy story," she says, her voice neutral, as if she's practiced this line a thousand times.
"I know it won't be," I reply, reaching out to squeeze her hand.
She looks up and looks at me and frowns slightly. "What about you, Chef Ramsay? You cooked during your vacation in Tuscany, and then what?"
"That's not the point," I say.
"You can't demand anything from me if you don't give me something in return."
"I thought I gave you more than just 'something' in return."
Andrea's cheeks burn red. "You know that's not what I meant."
She looks at me with a gleam of insistence in her light blue orbs and I understand she won't let this go, so I decide to change tactics.
"You first, and then we'll see if I tell you my sob story."
Andrea frowns a lot more, which makes her expression look like a sexy pout, but she finally relents.
She shrugs and looks back down at her plate I sit in front of her.
Andrea's lips purse as her gaze drops to the plate. "My childhood was...difficult." She exhales slowly. "Dad was a drunk who took out his frustrations on Mom. And she lived in a fantasy world, completely unprepared for reality."
Her fingers toy with the silverware, eyes downcast. "They never should have had a kid. I was just caught in the crossfire of their mess."
Andrea's knuckles whiten on the utensils as she falls silent, jaw clenched.
I nod slowly, taking in Andrea's words as she recounts her difficult childhood. The weight of her experiences hangs heavy in the air between us.
She sighs, her fingers idly twisting a strand of her reddish-brown hair. "My father left when I was seven, which would have been great, but he took the money with him."
A rueful smile ghosts across her lips, her eyes clouding with memories. "Mom would go out in the evenings, claiming to be working, but she always came back with less money than we had to start with."
I imagine a young Andrea, her belly growling with hunger, waiting alone in that run-down apartment for a mother who couldn't be bothered to provide for her. My jaw clenches at the injustice of it all.
She glances up at me, a hint of challenge in her gaze. "Back then, boxes of macaroni and cheese and instant soup seemed like a real delicacy to me, even if they don't to you."
The slight dismissal in her tone stings, a reminder of the vast chasm between our upbringings. But I don't let it deter me.
"What happened? How did you get out of that situation?" I ask gently, leaning forward to show her she has my full attention.
Andrea seems to consider her words carefully. After a moment, she gestures vaguely, as if waving away the dark memories. "At ten or twelve Mom discovered that I did in fact have a talent for music."
A wistful smile softens her features. "She said I inherited it from my grandfather, but she never specified which one. She started getting me into auditions and somehow the money was enough to make ends meet."
