Chapter 1
Franchesca stood by the doorway of the study, arms crossed against her chest while Miguel remained seated behind his massive desk, eyes fixed on the glow of his laptop screen.
The soft light sharpened the angles of his face, the dark robe hanging loosely over his broad shoulders, exposing just enough skin to remind her why leaving him was such a dangerous idea.
Even after years of marriage, the man still looked unfairly attractive.
“Let’s divorce.”
Her voice sliced through the quiet room.
Miguel’s fingers paused above the keyboard before he slowly lifted his gaze toward her.
Calm.
Unbothered.
Annoyingly composed.
“What is it this time?” he asked lazily, leaning back in his chair.
“Another dramatic phase?”
The corner of Franchesca’s eye twitched. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he murmured, “you’re still here.”
“I find you boring,” she declared.
That finally earned a reaction.
Miguel arched one dark brow, lips curving into a smug smile.
“Boring?” His deep chuckle filled the room.
“That’s interesting, considering you were screaming my name loud enough to wake the entire household last night.”
Heat rushed to her cheeks.
“Not in bed,” she snapped quickly. “I meant everything else. I could easily find another man who’s just as good as you.”
The second the words left her mouth, Miguel shut his laptop with a sharp click.
Dangerous.
That was the only word that described the look in his eyes now.
Before Franchesca could react, Miguel grabbed her wrist and pulled her straight into his lap. She gasped, hands landing against his chest as his arm locked firmly around her waist.
“Miguel—”
“So,” he interrupted softly, voice rough against her ear, “you think I’m replaceable?”
“I think you’re arrogant,” she shot back, though her breathing had already become uneven.
Miguel smirked slowly, his fingers sliding beneath the thin fabric of her dress, tracing the curve of her thigh with maddening patience.
“You talk too much when you’re upset,” he murmured.
Franchesca tried to push against him, but the warmth of his body, the familiar scent of cedar and expensive cologne, weakened her resolve. It always did.
And Miguel knew it.
He always knew exactly how to unravel her.
His lips brushed the sensitive spot beneath her ear, sending a shiver down her spine.
“I think,” he whispered, “I need to remind my wife exactly why she keeps failing to leave me.”
“That’s not—”
Her protest dissolved into a sharp inhale when his hand slid higher.
Miguel’s expression darkened with satisfaction as he felt her tremble.
“There she is,” he said softly. “My stubborn little liar.”
Franchesca hated how quickly her body betrayed her. Hated how one touch from him could melt every ounce of anger she had carefully built.
Miguel tilted her chin toward him and kissed her.
Slow at first.
Then devastating.
The kind of kiss that stole thought and reason, leaving behind only heat and hunger. Franchesca gripped his robe as he deepened it, his hands roaming possessively over her body like he was reacquainting himself with territory he already owned.
“You still think I’m boring?” he asked against her lips.
She glared at him breathlessly. “Insufferable.”
Miguel laughed under his breath before standing abruptly, carrying her effortlessly toward the desk.
“Then suffer with me.”
Papers scattered as he sat her on the edge of the mahogany surface. His mouth moved along her neck while his hands explored her curves with practiced confidence, every touch deliberate, every kiss designed to drive her insane.
Franchesca bit back a moan as he murmured against her skin, “You always come in here ready for war…”
His lips traveled lower.
“…and leave forgetting why you were angry in the first place.”
“Miguel—”
“Tell me to stop.”
She opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
That smug bastard smiled against her throat because he already knew she wouldn’t.
And honestly?
That only made her hate him more.
It didn’t end in the study.
Not even close.
Franchesca was still trembling in Miguel’s arms, breathless from the intensity of her release, when he lifted her effortlessly against his chest. Her fingers curled weakly around his shoulders while he carried her toward the bathroom like she weighed nothing at all.
“Miguel…” she whispered, half warning, half plea.
He only kissed her temple.
The bathroom lights glowed softly against the marble walls as steam slowly filled the air. Miguel stepped beneath the warm spray with her still wrapped around him, water cascading over his dark hair and broad shoulders.
Franchesca should have been exhausted.
She was exhausted.
But the way he looked at her—hungry, possessive, completely consumed—sent heat curling low in her stomach all over again.
“You’re still shaking,” Miguel murmured, brushing wet strands of hair from her face.
“That’s your fault.”
A slow grin spread across his lips. “And yet you keep letting me.”
Before she could answer, his mouth captured hers again.
Deep.
Demanding.
The kind of kiss that made her forget where one breath ended and the next began.
The warm water poured over them as Miguel pressed her gently against the tiled wall, his hands roaming over her soaked skin with unbearable familiarity. Franchesca gasped softly when he lifted her effortlessly, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.
Every movement between them felt slow and consuming, like he was savoring her instead of rushing her.
And somehow, that was even worse.
“Miguel…” she breathed against his neck, fingers tangling into his wet hair.
He answered with a rough groan, forehead resting briefly against hers as he held her securely.
The steam, the heat, the sound of water crashing around them—it all blurred together until there was nothing left except him.
His touch.
His voice.
The way he whispered her name like a prayer and a sin at the same time.
Franchesca buried her face against his shoulder as another wave of pleasure tore through her, leaving her trembling so badly she could barely hold herself upright afterward.
Miguel immediately steadied her, pressing soft kisses against her damp forehead while she tried to catch her breath.
“There you go,” he murmured gently, completely different now. Softer.
Tender.
“I’ve got you.”
And he did.
Always.
He carefully washed her hair himself afterward, fingers massaging her scalp while she leaned against him bonelessly. Then he dried her skin with slow patience, almost worshipful in the way he touched her.
Franchesca watched him through sleepy eyes as he disappeared into the walk-in closet before returning with one of her silk nightgowns.
“You spoiled me too much,” she mumbled tiredly while he slipped it over her head.
Miguel smirked faintly. “And whose fault is that?”
She was too exhausted to argue.
He guided her toward the bed, tucked the blankets around her, then pressed a lingering kiss against her forehead.
“Sleep, baby.”
Franchesca barely remembered closing her eyes.
The next time she stirred, darkness still cloaked the room.
A faint blue glow from the city lights filtered through the curtains.
And Miguel was already awake.
She felt him before she fully opened her eyes—his warmth behind her, his arm wrapped possessively around her waist, his lips brushing slowly against her shoulder.
A soft moan escaped her before she could stop it.
“There she is,” Miguel whispered huskily.
Franchesca melted back against him instinctively, still hazy with sleep while his hands moved over her body with familiar confidence.
“You never get tired?” she mumbled weakly.
He chuckled low against her skin. “Not when it comes to you.”
The room filled with quiet breaths and tangled sheets as she moved with him lazily, completely surrendered beneath the weight of dawn and desire.
And when another trembling climax finally swept through her, Miguel held her tightly against his chest, lips brushing her ear as he whispered in a deep, possessive voice—
“You can run all you want, baby…”
His hand tightened slightly around her waist.
“But you’re mine forever.”
