“No, you’re not.”
I glare at him. “You’re not my—”
“I’m your husband,” he cuts in, crouching in front of me. “And you’re wearing shoes designed by someone who clearly hates women.”
I blink. “Okay. That’s… weirdly progressive of you.”
He ignores me. Unclasps my heel like he’s unwrapping a gift. The other hand slides up my calf again—slower this time. He peels the second shoe off with surgeon-like precision and exposes the crime scene that is my foot: one giant blister, angry and pink.
He makes a low sound in his throat. Something between disapproval and murder.
“Don’t,” I say, flinching. “Don’t look at it like that. It’s not a war wound.”
“It’s mine now,” he says simply. “All of you is.”
And then—he starts rubbing.
Not a polite massage. No. This is calculated affection. His thumb presses in circles; his fingers work with a kind of reverence that turns my brain to pudding.
The pressure hits this exact nerve, and I nearly moan.
Oh, my God. Oh, my God. I am going to die in this goddamn velvet chair because my mafia husband is giving me a foot rub that feels like foreplay.
I bite my lip so hard it might bleed.
Don’t. Do. Anything. Weird.
Don’t accidentally orgasm on a chaise lounge.
There are probably cameras.
“Relax,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving my face. “And stop curling your toes.”
I make a noise that is definitely not a moan but also definitely not normal.
“I’m not curling them,” I lie, sounding unhinged. “They’re… recoiling. In horror.”
He doesn’t say a word. Just slides his fingers between my toes.
Fingers. Between. My. Actual. Toes.
Oh, sweet baby Jesus, why?
The way his thumb strokes the arch of my foot like he knows exactly what he’s doing? Not helpful.
Because now I’m picturing other things.
Unsafe things. Horizontal things. That mouth doing not-foot-related activities.
My brain is rapidly exiting the building. So is my dignity. One toe at a time.
I need to focus. I need to say something. Anything.
“Wh–what’s the plan now?” I blurt, panic-pivoting into small talk like my life depends on it. “Do we just, I don’t know… stand in more rooms? Smile until our faces fall off? Fake a cake-cuttingwith a golden knife while everyone pretends they don’t know you’ve probably stabbed someone with it?”
His brow lifts. “The reception,” he says dryly. “Dinner. Speeches. Dancing. You pretending to be civil.”
“God,” I mutter. “I hope there’s wine.”
