Roman's eyes trailed down slowly, deliberately, every fraction of a second stretching like eternity as he watched his wife—his Julie—standing before him in nothing but the bra she wore.
The sight alone made his pulse thrum through his veins like the deep rhythm of thunder before a storm.
He couldn't afford to tear his gaze away, not even for a heartbeat. Her beauty demanded his attention, held it hostage without mercy.
The soft light in the room bathed her skin in a warm glow, revealing its flawless smoothness—scarless, milky, almost translucent in its purity.
It was the kind of skin that would tempt even a saint to sin, the kind that seemed to whisper for a touch, a trace, a claim.
His eyes darkened as they lingered over the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the perfect curve of her shoulders, the quiet strength that lived in her delicate frame.
Her breasts pressed against the lace of her bra, full and inviting, as if sculpted to test his restraint.
