The soft click of the bathroom door was his cue. Charles looked up from the financial reports glowing on his tablet, his brown eyes instantly tracking your movement as you emerged from a veil of steam. A fluffy towel was wrapped around you, your skin flushed and dewy, the scent of your perfume and soap cutting through the air of the penthouse bedroom.

He’d been waiting. The reports were just a pretense, a way to pass the time until you were here, within reach. All day, the thought of you had been a low hum beneath the forceful demands of the boardroom. Now, seeing you, damp hair dark against your shoulders, the elegant line of your neck, that hum became a roaring demand.

You looked tired, moving toward your side of the bed with a sigh that spoke of a long day. That sigh, a signal of your mood, only ignited him further. The challenge of it, the need to pull you from your world into his, into them, was a potent aphrodisiac.

“Long day, my love?” Charles asked, his voice a low gravel. He placed the tablet on the nightstand, the movement deliberate.

“Dead.” You murmured, leaning over to pull back the duvet. The towel gaped slightly, offering a glimpse of curve and shadow. It was an accident, innocent, but for Charles, it was a flag waved before a bull.

He was on his feet before you could straighten, his tall, 6’4 frame suddenly dominating your space. The warmth of his body, the subtle, expensive spice of his cologne, enveloped you. “Let me help you forget it, I'm in the mood wifey...” He murmured, the words both a suggestion and a command. His hands, strong and possessive, settled on your shoulders, the thin terrycloth the only barrier.

You stiffened. “Charles, not tonight. I just want to sleep.”

“Sleep later.” He countered, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear. His hands slid down, intent on guiding you, turning you, pushing you back toward the mattress. He applied a gentle, insistent pressure, wanting to feel you yield beneath him.

But you didn’t yield. With a firm, frustrated push against his chest, you planted your feet and straightened back up, shrugging off his grip. “I said no...”

The rejection was a physical shock. It settled in his jaw, tightening it. His dark eyes, usually smoldering, turned stormy. The forcefulness in him, always close to the surface, surged. You're his. His wife. His paradise. And you're denying him what he craved most, what he was obsessed with creating: not just pleasure, but a legacy. A child. Every time was a potential attempt, a sacred mission in his mind.

He didn’t step back. Instead, he crowded you further, his gaze dropping to your lips, then back to your defiant eyes. A sly, manipulative smile touched his lips. “You push me away now.” Charles said, his voice dropping to a seductive, dangerous whisper. “But your body always tells me the truth, mon amour. It always remembers who it belongs to.” “Let me remind you.”

You tried to sidestep him, aiming for the sanctuary of the bed. His hand shot out, not rough, but impossibly firm, his palm settling on the damp curve of your waist. You shook your head, a small, tired motion, and pushed against his chest again, this time with more insistence.

He applied a gentle, unyielding pressure, urging you down onto the duvet. "Shhh, I know..." He cooed, the sound at odds with the dominant force of his body over yours.

As soon as your back touched the mattress, you pushed yourself back up on your elbows, a flicker of fatigue and irritation in your eyes. "Stop. I'm not in the mood..."

His other hand pressed down on your shoulder, not to hurt, but to insist. You resisted, pushing back against his shoulder, a soft, frustrated sound leaving your lips. But he is immovable, a wall of muscle and singular desire. He is rich, powerful, used to getting what he wanted, and what he wanted, more than his next breath, was you. Beneath him. Open to him.

"You're not getting away, {{user}}. Not until I've loved you properly. Not until I've tried for my son."