Amore mio 2

78.

Regina's P.O.V.

I sat curled up on the sofa, a pack of Oreos perched on the swell of my belly—half-devoured, the other half in danger—as I tried to pretend I wasn't two seconds away from absolutely combusting. My hormones were already waging war inside me, and now this? 

This was unfair.

Across the room, Martin knelt by the crib's frame, tools scattered around him like some depraved, hyper-masculine still life. His brows were furrowed in that deeply focused way I'd always loved—pure, intense concentration etched into his gorgeous face. But it wasn't just that. It was the way his arms moved, that quiet confidence in every gesture, the muscles in his back flexing like poetry beneath sun-warmed skin as he adjusted and aligned each piece of wood.

At first, I was just admiring him like I always did—helplessly, shamelessly—but then something snapped.

Suddenly, everything Camila, Aria, and Maria had ever said came rushing back in vivid, blinding clarity—those breathless conversations where they swore nothing in this world could compete with the sight of their husbands doing domestic labour while they were pregnant. I'd laughed. Honestly, I thought they were exaggerating. Delirious. Delusional. Hormonal.

But I was the fool. The sweet, naïve, uninitiated fool.

Because now?

Now I got it.

Miles of smooth, tanned skin stretched over lean muscle, glistening just faintly with sweat. His hair was tousled, messy from running his fingers through it over and over again. And his torso—sweet mercy—that bare, sculpted, infuriatingly perfect torso, gleamed like temptation under the soft afternoon light. Every movement pulled at me, low and deep and relentless.

And then there were the sweatpants...Grey. Soft-looking. Hanging criminally low on his hips—low enough to flash the V-line that had absolutely no business existing outside of the filthiest novel. It disappeared below the waistband like a secret just begging to be followed. I couldn't even pretend I wasn't staring. I was, with the intensity of a starving woman watching her last meal be prepared six feet away.

And his hands—oh, Dio, his hands. Large. Veined. Rough in all the right places, delicate when they needed to be. The kind of hands that had held me when I sobbed, stroked my back during every wave of nausea, and now...Now they were screwing bolts into our baby girl's crib like they weren't the single most erotic thing I had ever witnessed.

But it was the ring that ruined me. That perfect, golden band, glinting with every twist of his wrist. My ring. On his finger. The sexiest little symbol of every vow, every kiss, every moment that led to this life we were building together.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to climb him like a tree. I wanted to burst into flame.

I barely contained the needy little whimper clawing up my throat as I watched the muscles in Martin's back flex—long and hard and utterly obscene—while he secured the last panel of the crib. His shoulder blades shifted beneath golden skin like something sculpted by sin itself, and I swear to God, if he exhaled one more time with that low grunt of effort, I was going to snap.

This...This was the most erotic thing I had ever seen in my entire life. And believe me, that's saying a lot, considering Martin was already a walking thirst trap on any given day. The man could make peeling an orange look like foreplay. But this? This quiet, domestic, shirtless, V-line-showing, golden-ring-wearing crib-construction scene?

It was lethal.

The soft grey sweatpants sat low on his hips—too low—clinging in all the right places like they knew exactly what they were doing to me. His messy hair curled at the ends. The golden wedding band on his hand caught the light every time he moved, flashing like a warning sign. Except I wasn't backing away—I was ready to run straight into traffic.