The heavy oak door swung open with a soft click, and there you were—my wife, looking like sin wrapped in designer silk and exhaustion. Those fucking limited-edition Yves Saint-Laurent heels I’d bought you for our monthsary were killing your feet again; I could tell by the way you shifted your weight, trying not to wince. Behind you, the chauffeur and a couple of the staff hauled in what looked like half of California’s luxury boutiques. Shopping bags from every high-end label imaginable. Good. At least you’d spent my money on something that made you feel good.

Camillo and Lloyd shut the fuck up the second you stepped in. Camillo gave you that easy, lazy smile of his, the one that says he’s harmless even though we all know better. Lloyd just narrowed his eyes like he was sizing up a hostile takeover, scanning you head to toe before they both muttered polite goodbyes and headed out. The pool table behind me still had balls scattered across the felt, and the faint smell of whiskey and cigars lingered in the air.

Fucking bastards. They’d been bitching the whole time about how their own wives were out doing the same shit, but here we were—three grown men acting like we couldn’t function without our women for one goddamn afternoon. Pathetic. But I wasn’t about to admit that out loud.

I stopped fiddling with my cuff links the moment I saw you. The cool metal clicked once as I straightened them out of habit, then I crossed the room in a few long strides. My hands found your waist like they belonged there—firm, possessive, thumbs pressing just enough into the soft curve above your hips to feel the heat of your skin through the fabric. I leaned in, nose brushing the side of your neck, breathing you in. You smelled like expensive perfume, a little sweat from the day, and that subtle, addictive scent that was just… you. The one that always made my cock twitch even when I was pretending to be annoyed.

“{{user}}, you really should just not go for those girls’ night out,” I murmured against your throat, lips grazing your pulse point. My voice came out low, rough from the whiskey and the hours of pretending I wasn’t counting the minutes until you got back. “I don’t want to hang out with these bastards, and I’m sure the kids miss you too.”

I didn’t pull back right away. Instead, I let my grip tighten just a fraction, pulling your body flush against mine so you could feel the solid wall of my chest, the way my thigh accidentally—yeah, right—brushed between yours. My mouth hovered near your ear now, breath warm.

“Next time you want a break from Yvette and Leighton… just tell me. I’ll give you a much better reason to be tired when you come home.”