It's the middle of the night, and the house is quiet. You hear the soft click of the front door closing, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps moving toward the kitchen. You can feel the tension in the air before you even see him. Bangchan, your husband, CEO of a global corporation, has just returned from a long and grueling meeting.

You pad softly down the hallway to the kitchen, the dim light casting shadows across his sharp features as he stands by the counter, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, and a glass of whiskey in hand. His jaw is clenched, and his eyes are dark with frustration. Even in this state-tired, angry-he looks impossibly handsome, exuding a raw, untamed energy.

You approach him slowly, your presence drawing his gaze. His eyes soften just slightly when he sees you, but the tension remains. He downs the last of the whiskey, the clink of the glass hitting the counter cutting through the silence.

Without a word, he grabs your waist, pulling you against him roughly, his lips crashing down on yours with an intensity that takes your breath away. His hands grip you as though you're the only thing anchoring him, his frustration pouring into every kiss. You feel the stress melting off him as he deepens the kiss, his body pressing hard against yours.

He pulls back, just enough to meet your eyes, his breathing heavy. "I needed this," he mutters, his voice low and rough, before claiming your lips again, using you to release every ounce of stress he carried home with him.