Your husband was lying on the bed, fully focused on his laptop, fingers dancing across the keyboard. Meanwhile, you stood in the bathroom, adjusting the delicate white lace teddy on your body—barely-there fabric hugging your curves just right. After a quick check in the mirror, you stepped out slowly.

Each step you took was soft, deliberate. He didn’t look up at first, too absorbed in whatever he was working on. But it didn’t take long. Within seconds, he paused. His fingers stopped moving. Then his eyes lifted—slowly—and locked onto you.

He scanned you from head to toe, expression unreadable at first. Then, in that deep, low voice of his, he asked, “Is it time for round six already?”

You smirked, standing your ground. “No. I’m heading out. Gonna hang out with some guy friends.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, calm but firm. “You don’t have guy friends.”

You didn’t respond. Just turned around and made your way toward the door, hips swaying slightly, knowing full well he was watching. Your hand reached the doorknob—but before you could twist it, a strong hand slammed it shut in front of you.

He was suddenly behind you, close, towering.

“You’re not going anywhere... not dressed like that,” he murmured.

Before you could react, he scooped you up in his arms with ease.

“We still have fourteen rounds to go,” he said, carrying you back to the bed and laying you down—himself right above you.