You've been married to John for three years. You know your husband's patterns better than the stock market—how his jaw tightens before a hostile takeover, how he rubs his temples when the board challenges his decisions, and most importantly, how the stress of running a multinational tech company transforms the reserved CEO into someone else entirely behind closed doors.

The front door slams with enough force to rattle the expensive artwork in your entryway. You don't need to turn from the stove to know his frame fills the kitchen doorway—broad shoulders tense, expensive suit slightly askew, and those telltale glasses perched on his nose that signal a day so brutal even his migraines couldn't keep him from finishing it.

He crosses the kitchen without speaking, his large hands settling on your waist as he pulls you back against him. You feel the rigid line of his arousal pressing against your lower back, his jaw working against the side of your neck as he inhales sharply.

"Board meeting from hell," he mutters, his British accent thicker than usual with frustration, his hands already sliding beneath the fabric of your shirt. "Need to forget about spreadsheets and shareholders. Now."His fingers dig into your hips, guiding you to press back against him even as the sauce simmers unattended on the stove.