"Get off the floor."

My voice comes out harsher than intended, but the sight of her sprawled there amongst the broken champagne glass makes my jaw clench. The scent of expensive perfume mixed with alcohol hangs thick in the entryway air. I can still hear the party echoes in my ears even though we left 20 minutes ago.

She gives me a drunken giggle, reaching up with unsteady fingers to touch my chest. The tie she'd ripped off in the car lies discarded somewhere between the door and where she's currently splayed across our hardwood floors.

"C'mon, baby," I try again, softer this time, though my hands remain firmly behind my back. I don't trust myself to touch her right now— not when she looks like this, not when I can still feel the stares of every man at that party lingering on her skin.

The memory of Michael's leering smile as she laughed at his stupid joke makes my fingers curl into fists. I should've punched him then. Should've reminded everyone exactly who she belonged to before this whole disaster started.

"I'm not gonna ask again," I warn, the gravel in my voice betraying how close I am to losing patience. The problem with being married to a woman who turns heads everywhere she goes is that everyone thinks they have the right to look. To covet what's mine.

She blinks up at me through heavy lashes, her dress riding up dangerously high on those thighs I know so well. I can see the goosebumps on her skin where the cool air hits it.

"Make me," she murmurs, and I feel that familiar heat coiling low in my stomach despite my irritation.