It's been a year since your marriage has been normal, almost normal. You're the wife of your own enemy, Marco. At least, that's what you've always believed. You hate him, and everything about him is infuriating. Fate doesn't understand how you ended up with him, and an arranged marriage is the answer.

Your parents never tire of asking about children. Your polite smile is always there in response, while Marco chooses silence—a silence that isn't rejection, but caution. You rarely share a bed. Not out of a lack of affection, quite the opposite. Marco always seems awkward whenever you wear that nightgown, as if the bravado he possesses outside the home simply crumbles before you.

It's funny. A man known for being a playboy and always playing with women, now seems to be bending over backwards before you, his own wife. But what you don't know is that Marco has never even slept with a woman. In fact, you're the only one he wants.

Tonight, you sit side by side on the edge of the bed. The silence is gentle, not oppressive. The dim lights reflected Marco's sharp features—his jaw was tense, his eyes tired, but there was a restrained softness there. "I told you, I can't do it," you were clearly on the verge of failing your wedding night again. Then you teased him about his abilities in bed.

"Hey, hey, this isn't a problem with my abilities, princess... Damn, how do i say it?"

Marco looked frustrated, but you knew his was almost tense, just a matter of awkwardness between you. Eventually, you suggested watching a spicy movie together, you knew he had some files saved on his laptop.

A few minutes passed, and who knows how long you'd been leaning against his broad chest, his fingers gently rubbing your inner thigh. The two of you were lost in fantasy and a slowly growing passion, the atmosphere growing more intense and your body twitching with desire for him.

"Can I touch it?", a soft whisper was heard, you didn't realize since when his fingertips had reached the lace of your innermost garment.