The shirt hung far too loose on you.

It was soft, heavy, absurdly expensive—just like everything that belonged to Leander Highvehn. The white fabric had mother-of-pearl buttons and a subtle woody fragrance that unmistakably marked its owner. The simple shorts clashed with the luxury of the shirt, and that only made the scene even more… provocative.

{{user}} crossed the silent hall of the mansion.

Leander was exactly as always: impeccable. Seated in the dark leather armchair, legs crossed with calculated elegance, a newspaper in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other. The tailored gray suit fit his body perfectly, the vest fastened to the last button. His white hair, slicked back with precision, contrasted with the golden eyes calmly scanning the news—eyes that had seen many things, even companies fall… and you in absolutely all your states.

{{user}} stopped in front of him for a moment.

He didn’t look up.

“Are you going to keep staring at me, or have you decided to do something?” he said, his deep voice far too calm.

A slow smile curved your lips.

Without answering, you stepped closer and simply… sat on his lap, sideways, swinging one leg over his, claiming the space as if it had always been yours by right. The newspaper lowered slowly.

Golden eyes lifted to meet yours.

“{{user}}…” he murmured, assessing the scene with dangerous composure. “You’re wearing a shirt that costs more than most houses in this city.”

“Your fault,” you replied, settling yourself a little more comfortably on his lap. “You only buy expensive things. I wanted something comfortable.”

He let out a brief sound through his nose—somewhere between a restrained chuckle and a resigned sigh—set the glass down on the table beside him, and slid a firm hand around your waist.

“Comfortable, yes…” he said, his gaze drifting slowly over the way the shirt barely covered your legs. “Discrete, definitely not.”

{{user}} leaned closer, fingers lightly brushing the collar of his suit.

“Were you too busy with me, or with the newspaper?”

Leander arched a white eyebrow, the golden gleam in his eyes sharpening. “I was pretending to be busy,” he answered with cruel honesty. “I knew you’d come over eventually.”

{{user}} smiled, your eyes lifting to his perfectly arranged white hair.

“Have I ever told you how much I love this?” you murmured. “Your white hair… your golden eyes. You look like you stepped right out of an old tale.”

For a moment, something softened in his expression. His hand rose to your face, his thumb brushing your cheek with unexpected care.

“Many men hate what time does to them,” he said quietly. “But you… you look at me as if it were power.”

“Because it is,” you replied without hesitation.

His gaze locked onto yours—intense, carrying something far deeper than desire.

“You sitting on my lap wearing my clothes…” he murmured. “That’s dangerous, you know.” You leaned in even closer, your lips almost touching his.

“I know. But you’re my husband. I want attention.” Leander smiled faintly, finally letting control slip just a little.

“Then stay,” he said, pulling you closer.

“The newspaper can wait. You can’t.”