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She turns back to the machine and continues making coffee. If she’s worried about me seeing her almost naked, she doesn’t show it. She’s too pissed at me to care. Which is good, because I can't help but watch how she moves as she makes coffee effortlessly. The fact that she isn't trying to tempt me makes it infinitely more intriguing.

Which, I’m not going to lie, is a problem.

Right now, I should be anywhere but sitting in my own kitchen watching my wife make coffee in a T-shirt and barely-there panties while my body responds like I'm sixteen.

But still I don't move.

She crosses to the island and sets a small cup in front of me. It’s an espresso with no sugar.

Exactly how I like it.

“How did you know?” I ask, taking a sip and enjoying the taste.

“Know what?”

“How I take my coffee.”

“I didn’t. It’s how I take mine. So that’s what you get.”

I can’t help but smile as I take another sip.

"Don't read into it," she says. "The machine makes two shots. It would've gone to waste."

"Of course."

Her eyes narrow like my agreement is worse than an argument.

She picks up her cup and leans back against the counter, putting the island between us.

I change the subject to distract myself from noticing her nipples pressing tight against her T-shirt.

"We have a dinner," I say. "A week from Friday. With some … business associates.”

My wife doesn’t know who she married. And I don’t intend to reveal too much too soon. For now, I’m just an asshole billionaire who owns a casino and a gun.

“I expect you to attend." I hold her gaze over the cup. "As my wife."

She lifts an eyebrow. "Your adoring wife."

"Dutiful," I say. "And adoring. Yes."

She holds my stare over the rim of her cup, and I can see her deciding how much of a fight she wants to pick before breakfast.

She takes a long sip instead.

When she lowers the cup, there's a drop of coffee at the corner of her mouth.

Before I can stop myself, I reach up and drag my thumb across the corner of her mouth. Her lips part, her eyes widen, and a soft gasp escapes her lips. A sweet, gentle sound that I feel all the way down to my cock.

When I pull my thumb away and put it in my mouth, her breath rushes out.

“You said you wouldn’t touch me,” she whispers, her eyes transfixed on mine.

“I said I had no intention of touching you. Intentions change.”

She swallows thickly, and I have to fight the urge to take her face in my hands and claim her glossy mouth with mine.

"But don’t worry," I say, and my voice comes out raspier than I intend. "It won’t happen again."