He pushes the door open with his shoulder, tie loose around his neck.

Every light is off — except the warm glow spilling from under his bedroom door.

He freezes.

That light? He didn’t leave it on.

He walks toward the door.

Pushes it open.

And there you are. In the center of his bed, tangled in his sheets, wearing his black button-down half undone and nothing else. Hair messy. Glossy lips. Legs bare.

You glance up from your phone like you didn’t spend the last hour replaying the moment in your head.

“Took you long enough,” you say softly.

He stares at you like he can’t tell if he’s jetlagged or dreaming.

“What are you—how did you even get in?”

“Asked your housekeeper for the spare key. She likes me more than you.”

“Fuck,” he mutters. He rakes a hand through his hair. His whole body tenses like he’s fighting every urge to slam the door behind him and ruin you.

“I missed you too, by the way,” you add.

He doesn’t respond.

Just shrugs off his blazer. Unbuttons the rest of his shirt like his hands can’t move fast enough. And when he reaches the bed, you’re already sliding onto your back, eyes wide and glittering.

“If I knew this is what coming home meant, I’d have booked the earlier flight,” he murmurs, crawling over you.

“If you booked the earlier flight,” you whisper, “I wouldn’t be wearing anything at all.”

He groans. Hands everywhere now — possessive, rough, aching to make up for every single night he had to fall asleep without you.

“You touch yourself while I was gone?”

You blink up at him.

“A few times.”

He narrows his eyes.

“Good. Because you’re not allowed to anymore. Not unless I tell you.”

“You think I’m going to listen?”

He leans in.

“Say that again after I’ve had you screaming into this pillow.”

Your breath catches.