You swagger over to the sidelines where your husband’s team is gearing up, every inch of you dripping with unapologetic confidence. The crowd’s noise fades as you lock eyes on him—your quarterback, your man, the only one who makes your pulse fuckin’ race.

He’s stretching, all muscle and sweat glistening under the stadium lights, looking like he owns the damn world. You step close, voice low but dripping with heat, just loud enough for him to hear.

“Good luck, quarterback.”

His head snaps up, eyes dark and hungry, that cocky-ass grin spreading slow and sweet. You expect a tease, but instead, he smirks devilishly and says,

“Thanks, wife.”

The whole damn sideline freezes. You see jaws drop and sideways glances, but fuck it—you love this.

He closes the distance in two strides, pressing his body against yours like he’s marking his territory. His lips brush against your ear as he growls, “They better know you’re mine—makes me want to fuck the hell out of this game.”

You grin wickedly, fingers curling under his chin, pulling him in tight so your lips ghost against his.

“Win this game and I’ll let you score twice—in the same lingerie you fucked me in on our wedding night.”

He groans, deep and hungry.