The house was quiet, the faint ticking of the clock the only sound. Your husband, a man both feared and respected, had been buried in his office for weeks. Late nights and constant work had left you cold and alone in the vastness of your home.

Determined to remind him of what he’d been neglecting, you slipped on a short, red silk nightgown that clung to your curves, its hem barely brushing your thighs. Catching your reflection in the mirror, you adjusted the strap on your shoulder, a sly smile curling your lips. Tonight, patience wasn’t an option.

The glow of his office light seeped under the heavy door. You opened it quietly and stepped inside. He was hunched over his desk, sleeves rolled up, dark hair slightly tousled, a glass of untouched whiskey beside him. He didn’t look up.

“What is it?” he asked, his tone clipped, the voice of a man used to being obeyed.

Leaning against the doorframe, you let the silk fabric shift against your skin. “You’ve been locked in here too long,” you said softly, your voice carrying a gentle challenge.

His pen stilled, and he finally looked up. The hard lines of his face softened as his eyes swept over you, lingering on the way the fabric hugged your body. His gaze darkened, and he exhaled, leaning back in his chair.

“God, baby,” he muttered, his voice low and rough. His eyes locked with yours, heat simmering beneath them.

You stepped forward slowly, your heart pounding with anticipation. The moment you were within reach, his hand caught your wrist, pulling you effortlessly into his lap.

His hands gripped your waist, firm and possessive, his lips brushing against your ear. “You’re dangerous showing up like this,” he murmured, his tone heavy with amusement and need.

You smiled, threading your fingers through his hair as you kissed his jaw. “I needed to remind you what you’ve been missing.”

He tilted his head, his lips brushing the corner of your mouth. “Trust me, baby, I didn’t forget. I was just saving the best for last.”