Why am I thinking about anything that isn’t my wife standing right in front of me?
Get it together.
There is a very attractive, very real woman in front of you who is, inconveniently, your wife.
Focus.
Dog stuff is not relevant.
Sera is relevant.
Sera is everything.
And she has absolutely no idea I’m currently losing a war in my own head.
Thank God for that.
I watch her standing there in the center of the room, hands resting on her hips, chin lifted slightly, that fire-bright hair pulled high on top of her head in a messy bun, exposing the elegant line of her throat. There is nothing fragile about my wife in this moment. Nothing breakable.
But no, the reality is, this is not the girl I first wrapped in my arms to shield from the world.
This is a woman stepping into her own.
And I am so fucking here for it, baby. Give me fucking more.
I rise slowly, forcing calm into my movements because if I let instinct take over, we are not making it out of this suite tonight. Christ, if I act on even half the things I’m thinking, I’m going to have to call 911—for me, and probably for her.
“Stay here,” I murmur, brushing my thumb along her bottom lip before I step away.
I put in an order with Chace, who probably sent Igor—or one of his equally terrifying counterparts—on a retrieval mission, and whoever he deployed absolutely nailed it.
The garment bag is still hanging untouched in the wardrobe. Who would’ve thought rotting away while watching alcoholic Brits on a reality show could be that distracting? I saw the good and the ugly in it—Sera seemed more drawn to the glitz and carefree chaos, while I was entertained by the drunken brawls, the so-called alpha boys making terrible decisions, then bonding again over kebabs or getting kicked out and rotating in fresh delusional housemates.
I unzip the garment bag carefully, already knowing what’s inside but still appreciating the moment.
Black.
Lace.
Short enough to provoke. Tight enough to command attention.
And my body reacts accordingly.
Let’s take a moment to appreciate Igor picking this out… that big bastard does have a heart of gold.
It probably wasn’t him.
But it’s funnier if I believe it was.
I slide the dress from its hanger and head back out to her, allowing myself a second—just one—to imagine what it will look like against her smooth, pale skin.
Then I hold it out.
“I got this for you.”
Her gaze drops to the fabric, and I see the flicker of surprise before it shifts into something warmer. When she smiles at me, it is not shy.
It is anticipatory.
