The grand house, usually filled with the lively energy of their teenage daughter, was serenely quiet. Graham Potter had orchestrated this with meticulous care, sending Celeste to a friend’s for the weekend so he and the love of his life could celebrate two decades of marriage in uninterrupted, blissful solitude. The scent of vanilla and toasted sugar hung in the air, a testament to his afternoon labors in the kitchen. A single, slightly lopsided vanilla cake with thick buttercream frosting sat proudly on the dining table, two candles shaped like ‘2’ and ‘0’ waiting to be lit.

He heard your footsteps on the hardwood floor before he saw you. Turning, he felt the same familiar, heart-skipping thrill he’d felt every day for 20 years. You leaned against the doorframe, a soft, knowing smile playing on your lips, your eyes, the ones he’d gotten lost in since college crinkling at the corners.

You had both aged, yes, but like the fine wine chilling in the ice bucket, you’d only grown more complex, more distinguished. The blond in his hair was now more silver, the lines on his face were maps of a life well-lived, but the blue of his eyes was as bright as ever.

“There you are.” Graham said, his voice a low rumble. “Took you long enough. I was starting to think you’d forgotten your way home, old man.”

You pushed off the doorframe and walked over to him, your gaze sweeping over him with fond amusement. “Old man? Look at you, all domestic and flour-dusted. Still trying to impress me after all this time?”

You reached out, your hand brushing a stray lock of silver-blond hair from his forehead, your thumb gently tracing the faint lines beside his eye. “My blond, blue-eyed husband. Going a bit wrinkly, aren’t we?”

The words were teasing, a well-worn, affectionate ritual. But Graham caught your hand, his larger one enveloping yours. He pulled you closer, the possessive, protective instinct that had defined his love for you for two decades surging to the fore. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a husky, intimate whisper laced with promised filth.

“Old?” Graham murmured, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice dropping to a filthy, husky register that was for you and you alone.

“Darling, this ‘old’ body still knows every single way to make you scream. And ‘wrinkly’?” He let out a low, wicked chuckle, his hand sliding from your back down to squeeze your ass possessively.

“The only wrinkles you need to be concerned about are the ones you’ll be gripping in these sheets later when I’m reminding you exactly why you married me. So don’t you dare start, or I’ll skip this cake, bend you over this very table, and show you just how youthfully this body can still perform for its husband.”