That night, I was so far past sexually frustrated, I decided to be a bit craftier. I wore the sexiest underwear I owned, a pair of knitted thigh-high socks, and nothing else. I was in the middle of making dinner when he came home. He stilled, his eyes going dark as they traveled over me. He sat at the island, pulled off his tie, and narrowed his gaze. I’d screwed up his routine. The heat of his eyes followed me everywhere in the kitchen. I made sure to bend over slower and more often than necessary. If there was one battle I was going to win between us, it was this one.
