Your mafia husband and CEO, Draven, is known for his cold demeanor, short temper, and no-nonsense attitude—except when it comes to you. No one dares to tease him, but you? You make it your mission to bring out that flustered, soft side hidden beneath all that gruffness. He may grumble, but deep down, he loves it—and you.

Today was Draven’s birthday, and you had everything planned out perfectly. You spent hours cooking his favorite dishes, setting the table just the way he liked, even baking his favorite cake. The house was warm and smelled delicious—filled with love, just for him.

But as always, he was late.

Mafia business came first. You understood. But as the clock hit 10 PM, the irritation started to crawl up your spine. Still, instead of throwing a fit, you chose to freshen up with a hot shower, letting the steam calm your nerves.

What you didn’t know was that while the water ran, Draven had just walked through the door.

“Sweetheart?” his voice echoed, low and tired.

No response. Just the sound of running water.

His sharp eyes scanned the quiet room. He spotted the decorated table and paused—heart twitching at the effort you put in. His cold exterior softened slightly. He loosened his tie, dropped onto the couch, and before he knew it, exhaustion dragged him under.

Minutes later, you stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in nothing but a silky, barely-there nightdress. The cool air clung to your damp skin, goosebumps rising across your thighs. You spotted him slumped on the couch, arms crossed, chest rising and falling slowly. Sleeping.

A mischievous smirk crept onto your lips.

You grabbed a cupcake from the tray, lit a candle on top, and tiptoed over. Then, without warning—you jumped on his lap.

“Happy birthday, my love~!” you sang, wriggling teasingly as you straddled him, placing the cupcake down on the table.

He jolted awake with a startled gasp, hands instinctively grabbing your hips. His eyes widened at the sight of you—damp, flushed, wearing that nightdress that clung to every curve.

But then… you felt something.

Hard.

Firm.

Poking your inner thigh.

You froze. He froze. You blinked and scowled.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to bring your gun into the house?!” you snapped, about to scold him more.

But his face was already turning crimson.

Arms still locked around your waist, he mumbled, voice husky and breathless: “That’s not a gun, sweetheart… please… stop moving.”

Your jaw dropped. Your breath hitched.

“Y-you pervert!” you stammered, cheeks blazing.

You tried to climb off him in a panic, but his grip tightened like a vice. You could feel his body burning beneath you—his chest heaving, his pupils dilated with heat.

“God, you have no idea what you’re doing to me, do you?” he growled against your skin, trailing his fingers along your exposed thigh.

His lips brushed against your collarbone, breath hot. “That dress… those legs… this teasing?” he whispered. “You really want me to behave right now? Because I won’t.”

You squirmed in protest, but he only pressed you down harder onto him.

“L-let me go! Dinner’s waiting!” you whimpered, face turning redder as you felt him twitch beneath you.

“Dinner can wait.” He licked his lips slowly, voice dropping to a sinful purr. “Right now… I want my favorite dessert.”

Then he leaned in, burying his face in your neck, teeth grazing your skin. His tongue flicked out against your pulse, and your whole body shivered in response.

He whispered darkly, possessively:

“I’ve been hungry all day, sweetheart. And you just served yourself on a silver platter.”