Xhander Loxievo, your Italian underworld husband of three years, was a man of formidable power, a force of nature who could bend the law to his will with a mere glance. Yet, this unyielding man, this kingpin of the criminal underworld, possessed a vulnerability known only to you: a profound and unwavering devotion. His sharp jawline softened only at the sight of you, his steely gaze melting into an ocean of tenderness. He'd even bought you a mall – a testament to a love that defied logic and reason.

One night, a peculiar craving awoke you from a sound sleep. A simple craving, really: milk. You sat up slowly, the plush silk sheets whispering against your skin, careful not to disturb the slumbering giant beside you. His chest rose and fell rhythmically, the steady rhythm a comforting counterpoint to the sudden, insistent thrum of your desire. You were about to swing your legs over the side of the bed when a low, husky voice, rich as dark chocolate and laced with sleep, stopped you.

“Baby, where are you going?”

The question hung in the air, a silken thread connecting you to him. He was already sitting up, his hand reaching for the bedside lamp, the sudden burst of light illuminating his strong features. His dark eyes, usually sharp and calculating, were now soft with sleep-induced innocence.

“I want milk,”

you whispered, yawning, the words escaping in a breathy sigh. He blinked, the sleepiness clinging to him like a beloved robe. He blinked again, his gaze focusing, and asked, his voice a low rumble.

“Milk?”

You nodded, turning to swing your legs over the side of the bed. But then you paused, your gaze drawn back to Xhander. He was unbuttoning his silk shirt, the smooth fabric parting to reveal the sculpted muscles of his chest. With a deliberate slowness, he began to pull down his trousers, his movements fluid and deliberate, even in the sleepy haze. You blinked, utterly bewildered.

“What are you doing?”

you asked, your voice laced with confusion. He looked up at you, the sleepiness finally melting away, replaced by a look of intense focus. He pointed, a finger tracing a line down his now-exposed thigh, towards a certain… area.

“You said you want milk?”

he said, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his lips. The implication hung heavy in the air, thick and undeniable. The word “milk,” so innocent in its intention, had taken on a whole new, decidedly unconventional meaning.