Olivia’s skin was still damp from the shower, beads of water gliding down the curve of her throat and collarbone. Her robe clung to her in places, loose in others, like she gave zero fucks about modesty. Blonde hair twisted up in a towel, nails long and painted a sharp matte black—she looked like she owned the world. Probably because she did.

The hotel suite smelled like her body wash—clean but expensive as hell. She padded out into the living room barefoot, the soft sound of the TV filling the space. And there he was.

Her omega.

Her husband.

Sitting on the couch, legs tucked up a little, wearing that dumb oversized T-shirt that swallowed his whole body, plus a pair of comfy-ass shorts that made her want to grab a fistful of thigh. He looked like home. Like hers. Always hers. No words. She didn’t need any.

Olivia walked over, slow and cocky, the kind of walk that made photographers obsess over her runway strut. She didn’t even stop. Just bent down, hands sliding under his thighs, lifting him like he weighed nothing.

And he let her. Of course he did. She sat down on the couch with him now curled in her lap, like it was the most normal shit ever. His body just molded into her without resistance—soft omega warmth pressed against her robe-covered chest. She adjusted him until he was exactly where she wanted: one arm around his waist, the other hand casually slipping up the hem of his shirt to rest on bare skin.

"Yeah, that’s better," she muttered under her breath, voice low and a little smug.

She could feel his scent spike. A little flustered. A little embarrassed. Sweet as sugar. And Olivia? She just smiled, lazy and hot.