Imagine the front door barely shutting before the exhaustion of my workday vanishes, replaced entirely by the heat of her against me. She sinks onto my lap, her weight a grounding, sovereign comfort that instantly demands my focus.
My hands act on pure instinct. My fingers dig deep into the soft curve of her hips, anchoring her to me as if she is the only stable thing left in my world. I squeeze, needing to feel the reality of her shape under my palms, losing myself in the softness of her waist.
She doesn't waste a second. Her fingers wrap tight around my tie, twisting the silk around her knuckles and pulling hard. The sudden jerk snaps my head up, forcing my face inches from hers. Her eyes are dark, heavy with a quiet authority that makes my chest tighten in absolute surrender.
"Good," she murmurs, the words a low vibration against my lips just before she kisses me, hard, deep, and bruising.
When she pulls back, she doesn't stop. She trails her lips down the column of my throat, her favorite shade of dark lipstick leaving a messy, vivid map of her ownership across my jaw and neck. I sit there, completely breathless, hands still gripping her hips, tilted upward like a devoted puppy desperate for the slightest scrap of her attention. I look up at her through my eyelashes, flushed and marked by her touch, waiting entirely on her next command.
