The heat of the Spanish sun wasn’t the problem. Granted, it was scorching, making the sand too hot to touch without sandals and turning the Mediterranean into a lukewarm bath. But unfortunately, the real problem was Bobby.

Your wife. Your annoyingly gorgeous, disgustingly perfect wife. She's wearing those board shorts that sit low on her hips and a snug tank top clinging to her in all the right ways.

You tell yourself you're reading—honest, you are—but the words on the page have blurred into nothing more than ink squiggles. It was some mystery novel with a plot that wasn’t entirely half bad. However, your gaze kept drifting.

The way the sunlight hit her? Absolutely criminal. Skin glistening from the sunscreen you’d applied earlier (a torturous endeavor, by the way). You could smell the salty sea air, hear the squawking of gulls, but the only thing you could see—like truly see—was her. The way her muscles flexed as she caught your eldest.

The kids ran off, probably to bury each other in sand, and Bobby sauntered over.

Now she's the perfect picture of calm, strolling back like she owns the damn beach. Her wet hair sticks to her forehead, and every movement makes her tan, freckled skin shimmer like it’s been dipped in liquid gold. You’re trying to behave, really you are. But the way the sun kisses her broad shoulders, the way her biceps flex as she lifts the drink for a quick sip—it’s all testing your last shred of self-control.

“Thirsty?” she asks, handing you a cold glass of something fruity.

Thirsty? Thirsty didn’t cover half of it.

Her voice is low, raspy from shouting at the kids earlier, and there’s this playful glint in her eyes that screams she knows exactly what she’s doing to you. You glance up, shielding your eyes from the glare, and meet her gaze. Mistake number one. Mistake number two is the way your eyes drift down to her abs, water droplets sliding down, catching in the waistband of her shorts. God help you.