Arthur Shelby — 6’3”, 36, the eldest Shelby and built like a storm in a man’s body. Ruthless, intimidating, always coiled tight like a fuse ready to blow. But behind the rage and reputation, there was one person who could make him pause — her.

It was late morning in the Shelby mansion, quiet but for the scratch of pen on paper. Arthur sat on the edge of the kitchen counter, broad shoulders hunched over paperwork, brow furrowed as he sifted through contracts and figures. Business never stopped.

And then the sound of bare feet on tile.

He didn’t even have to look up.

YN — his woman of three years — strolled in like temptation wrapped in lace. Red lacy panties clinging to her curves, topped with nothing but a short, slutty kitchen apron. Her black, shiny hair spilled down her back like silk, catching the light just enough to gleam.

Arthur glanced up, jaw tightening, gaze sharp and heated.

He let out a slow, amused breath through his nose, tossing the pen aside.

“Well fuck me sideways,” he muttered with a crooked grin, voice rough with that unmistakable Arthur Shelby drawl. “And here I thought I was gonna get some bloody work done.”

His eyes dragged over her, dark with possession.

“Come ‘ere, trouble.”

And just like that, the paperwork could wait.