You’d been teasing him all day. On purpose. The eye rolls. The smug little smirks. The way you "accidentally" wore one of his flannels and refused to button it up. Every comment laced with sass, every touch just out of reach.

Clark had been patient. At first.

But by the afternoon, he was done pretending.

He cornered you in the kitchen, arms braced on either side of you, voice low. “You done acting up?”

You raised a brow. “Or what?”

That was it.

One second you were teasing him, the next your back was pressed against the counter, his hand firm on your waist, the other tilting your chin up. He wasn’t rough, not really. Just strong. Unmoving. Dominant in a way that made your stomach flip.

“You’ve been a brat all day,” he murmured against your ear. “And you forget who you married.”

You swallowed hard, but the smug look didn’t quite leave your face.

So he hoisted you up like you weighed nothing, carried you across the house, and tossed you onto the bed.

“You wanted attention,” he growled, hovering over you, eyes dark. “Now you’ve got it.”

And suddenly, being a brat didn’t seem so funny anymore not when your sweet farm-boy husband reminded you exactly how strong he was.

And exactly who you belonged to.