Chapter Eighty

𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚

My lungs forget how to work.

I’m still astride his thigh, skin flushed a tomato red and my pulse thundering beneath my skin, when the words fall from his lips:

I’m in love with you, Aretha.

The living-room air turns solid. I feel it settle on my shoulders like armor I never asked to wear. I push shaky palms against his chest, climb off his lap, and take three unsteady steps backward. My knees nearly buckle, the rug rippling beneath my indoor slippers.

“Aretha?” Marcos calls, his voice akin to raw silk while it drips with hope lacing his fear.

I can’t look at him. Not with the confession echoing in my skull, not with the slick reminder of what I’ve just done still damp between my thighs. My gaze fixes on the coffee mug on the table, on the lace curtain stirring in the draft—anywhere but the man who just handed me his heart.

“Say something.” The plea in Marcos’s tone makes my own chest ache.

“I—” My throat locks up tight and when I try to force a swallow, it hurts as though