The hotel room glowed in warm candlelight, casting a gentle amber hue across the silk sheets and rose petals scattered on the floor. The city of Paris twinkled beyond the windows, but all you could focus on was her—your wife.

Marinette sat on the edge of the bed, legs crossed shyly, wrapped in a satin robe that slipped off one shoulder. Her navy-blue hair was a little messy from laughter and kisses, and her cheeks were already pink from the champagne… and from you.

“You don’t have to make everything so dramatic,” she murmured, flustered, watching as you knelt before her.

Your eyes locked with hers as your hands slid up her thighs—slow, reverent, like you were touching something sacred. Her breath caught as you leaned in, your mouth brushing just above the edge of her stocking.

Then, without a word, you tugged gently with your teeth.

Her whole body tensed.

You hadn’t even touched her skin yet, but your warm breath fanned across her exposed thigh as you worked the fabric down with maddening patience. That alone had her shoulders rising, her face flushing red like poppies in bloom.

“I-I can feel your breath,” she whispered, voice cracking with embarrassment. ”Y-You’re doing that on purpose…”

Her face was bright red, her bottom lip bit, she only let it go when she let out a moan or a squeal. Her eyebrows arched with need and it was so cute to see that facial expression.