Hi, i’m Julia

It starts small.

Little touches. Strategic.

He comes up behind you while you’re folding laundry and runs his hands down your hips, his voice husky in your ear as he says, “Miss watchin’ you crawl across the bed all fucked out, baby.”

You drop the towel.

You pretend not to hear it.

Later, he walks into the kitchen shirtless, wet from a shower, towel slung low. You’re trying to roll out sugar cookie dough for the favor bags.

He leans over your shoulder and breathes, “You still want that lemon cake, right? ‘Cause I been thinkin’ about bending you over this counter with frosting on your thighs.”

You nearly roll the pin off the edge of the counter.

By day five, he starts using your rules against you.

“Hey, babe,” he calls from the other room, casually. “Can you come zip me up?” It’s his hoodie.

You walk in and he’s standing there, dick hard, grinning like the devil.

Or when he’s on the couch in just a blanket, arms behind his head, watching some documentary on sharks like he’s not deliberately putting that stupid V-cut on display.

You try to take it in stride.

But you are not okay.

You are, in fact, hanging on by a thread.

Day seven, you try to hide in the guest room just to fold your bridal lingerie in peace. He finds you in there sitting cross-legged on the bed, holding white lace in your lap like a secret.

“What’s that?” he asks innocently.

You try to shove it under a pillow.

He snatches it, holds it up between his fingers, whistles.

“Damn. This for me?”

“You’re not supposed to see it!”

He just grins, drags his tongue across his bottom lip. “I ain’t even touchin’ you, sweetheart. You said no sex. Didn’t say nothin’ about torment.”

You throw the pillow at his head.

Day ten, he’s relentless.

It’s 2 a.m. and you’re asleep—dead asleep—when you feel the bed dip.

Then his mouth is at your neck, barely touching, just enough for his breath to send shivers down your spine.

“Still stickin’ to that little rule, baby?” he whispers, hand sliding up your thigh under your nightgown, so close.

You whimper in your sleep, legs parting instinctively. Then you snap awake, shoving at his shoulder.

“Marshall!”

He smirks in the dark. “What? Just makin’ sure you’re still committed.”

You sit up, flustered, aching, and glare at him.

“You’re evil.”

“Not evil,” he hums. “Just miss my pussy.”

By day thirteen, you’re both wrecked.

You spend every waking minute bracing for the next sneak attack. He keeps “accidentally” walking in on you changing. You keep “forgetting” to wear panties. He kisses you like he’s starving. You kiss him like you’re ready to cave.

You’ve edged yourselves into madness.

And you still have one. More. Day.

At breakfast, you stare across the table at him with narrowed eyes, hair a mess, lips swollen from last night’s very intense makeout.

“You better not try anything tonight.”

He just smirks, bites into a slice of toast.

“I would never,” he lies.

Then he kicks your bare foot under the table and gives you that look.

You were so close to making it.

So damn close.

---

It’s the night before the wedding, and your dress is hanging in the hotel closet, pressed and ready. Your makeup bag’s packed. Your girls are downstairs finishing dinner, buzzing with champagne and excitement. Your phone’s blowing up with last-minute texts from vendors and your mother about floral arrangements, but your mind is on one thing and one thing only:

Him.

Because Marshall had been quiet all day.

Too quiet.

You thought maybe he was finally tapping out, giving you a reprieve before the big day. Letting you breathe.

But no. Of course not.

You should’ve known something was coming the second he knocked on your hotel room door.

Just three slow knocks.

You freeze.

You’re still in your silky pajama set, lace trim skimming your thighs, hair pinned up from your trial styling, barefoot on the plush carpet. You were about to light a lavender candle and call it a night.

Instead, your breath catches in your throat as you open the door.

He’s leaning against the frame, hoodie sleeves shoved to his elbows, neck glinting with his favorite chain, tattoos out in full display.

And that smirk.

God, that smirk.

“Hey, housewife,” he murmurs, eyes dragging down your body slowly, like he’s starving. “Thought I’d come kiss you goodnight.”

Your stomach flips.

“I—Marshall, we said—”

“I know what we said.” He leans in close, breath warm on your jaw. “Not gonna fuck you, baby. Promise. Just wanna see you. One last time before I’m stuck in a suit waitin’ for you to walk down the aisle.”

His voice is low, gentle, full of something that burns.

You nod slowly, stepping back to let him in. “Just a kiss.”

“Just a kiss,” he agrees.

You don’t know how it escalates so fast.

One minute his mouth is on yours, soft and slow, familiar and so deeply yours.

The next minute, he’s got your back pressed to the hotel door, his hands splayed wide on either side of your head, his hips brushing yours in that perfect way he knows drives you crazy.

You whimper, pulling back to gasp, “Marsh—”

He cuts you off with another kiss. Filthy. Hot. Possessive.

“Last night, baby,” he murmurs between licks against your bottom lip. “Last fuckin’ night without you in my bed. You know what that’s doin’ to me?”

Your knees go weak.

He presses his forehead to yours, breathing hard.

“I ain’t even gonna touch your pussy. I’m not. But I swear to God, if you don’t let me taste your skin, I’m gonna lose my goddamn mind.”

You nod. You nod, and his mouth is at your neck in a second, tongue warm and wet, teeth scraping lightly before he trails lower—past your collarbone, down to your chest where he sucks a bruise above your heart, right where your dress won’t hide it.

“Look at you,” he groans, dragging his teeth along the edge of your lace tank. “My little housewife. Practically married already. Still smell like vanilla and home.”

You moan his name, thighs pressing together.

“Don’t,” he pants, gripping your hips. “Don’t move like that unless you want me to fail as a man tonight.”

You giggle—giggle—half-drunk off him, and he groans like it physically hurts him.

He spins you, suddenly, palms sliding over your waist as he presses you up against the full-length mirror near the bathroom.

“You see that?” he growls, kissing the back of your neck, rucking your shirt up just enough to bare your hips. “See how pretty you look? Can’t even touch you, baby, and I’m still fuckin’ obsessed.”

You whimper, leaning your forehead against the mirror. “Marsh…”

“I know,” he soothes, even as his hands smooth over your thighs, not quite high enough to be disqualifying. “I know. Just let me… let me hold you like this for a sec. Just like this.”

And he does.

Just grinds against you, panting into your neck like it’s killing him. Groaning every time you shift or breathe too heavy or make the tiniest whine of need.

When he finally pulls back, both of you look wrecked.

Your lips are red and kiss-swollen. His jeans are tented and painfully tight. Your hair’s messed up, one strap of your top has slipped off your shoulder, and the room smells like heat and restraint.

He cups your face gently, eyes searching yours. “You still sure?”

You nod.

Even though you’re shaking, you nod.

He kisses your forehead, then your lips. Tender. Reverent.

“Okay,” he whispers, breath catching. “Okay. Tomorrow, you’re mine. You hear me?”

You nod again, eyes burning with how much you feel.

“Go to your room,” you whisper.

He lingers a second too long.

Then finally, he goes.

And you collapse back onto the bed, half in love, half in ruin.

---

You didn’t think you’d be nervous.

You’d spent the entire week focused—coordinating the seating chart, finalizing catering, arguing with your florist about whether peonies would wilt in April heat. You didn’t even blink when your dress alterations came down to the wire.

But now?

Now you’re tucked away in a quiet little garden courtyard behind the venue, heart pounding, breath coming in shallow little gasps as you wait—hands clutching your bouquet too tight, eyes flickering toward the tall figure with his back turned just a few yards ahead.

Marshall.

In his suit.

Hands in his pockets. Shoulders squared. That chain you love peeking just above the collar of his shirt, glinting in the soft spring sun.

You grip your dress tighter to lift it as you walk, trying not to trip on nerves or lace.

It’s quiet.

The moment feels suspended, like the world’s holding its breath.

And when you reach him—so close now you can see the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders twitch like he’s fighting the urge to turn around—you stop. Your voice shakes just a little.

“Marshall.”

He doesn’t move.

“Turn around.”

He does.

And for a second… he doesn’t say a word.

He just stares.

Like he’s never seen you before.

Like you’ve stolen every word he’s ever known.

His eyes drag over you—slow, reverent—taking in the lace sleeves, the low sweep of the neckline, the cinch of your waist, the glittering veil pinned into your hair.

You can see the moment his throat works. The way his eyes glass a little at the edges.

“Fuck,” he whispers, stepping forward with a shaking hand. “You’re… baby, you’re unreal.”

You laugh, soft and a little watery. “You look pretty good yourself.”

He huffs a breath, eyes still locked on you like he can’t tear them away. His fingers reach out slowly to brush your waist. “I can’t believe I get to marry you.”

“You already married me, remember?” you tease quietly, voice trembling as you lean into his touch. “This is just the dress rehearsal.”

He laughs, low and choked, resting his forehead against yours. “I’m still not over the fact you asked for a twelve-thousand-dollar dress while riding me. Like what the fuck, baby.”

You smile through your tears. “Worked though, didn’t it?”

He cups your face, suddenly gentle again. His thumb sweeps the high point of your cheek, brushing beneath your eye as if to catch a tear before it can fall.

“I don’t care if you wear this or a damn garbage bag. You’re already mine.”

You lean in, touching your nose to his. “I’m still wearing this one. You picked it off the floor after I threw my phone at the mirror, remember?”

His mouth lifts into a crooked grin. “Yeah. You were real dramatic. Almost canceled the whole wedding over sleeves.”

You laugh through the emotion clogging your chest, arms curling around his waist as you finally let yourself breathe.

Because this is it.

This is him.

And somehow, in that quiet garden with birds chirping faintly in the trees, the soft rustle of your dress against the breeze, and the smell of fresh-cut flowers hanging in the air—

You remember exactly why you wanted this.

Exactly why no part of you could ever walk away.

He kisses you. Soft. Sweet. Deep.

And when he pulls back, his eyes are burning.

“You ready, Mrs. Mathers?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, smiling like your heart could burst. “Let’s go get married.”

---

The ceremony passes like a dream—one warm, golden blur of soft music, quiet laughter, and the sound of your heartbeat pounding in your ears as Marshall says “I do.”

You didn’t even write your vows. You kept them traditional—short, sweet, to the point—and yet somehow, tears still streak down your cheeks as you say them. You barely even remember getting the words out. Just the look in his eyes, the way his thumb brushed over your fingers, the way he mouthed mine when he slid the ring onto your hand.

Now you’re walking back down the aisle, arm in arm with your husband.

Your husband.

Marshall’s hand doesn’t leave the small of your back as he guides you through the cheers, the guests tossing dried petals and clapping. His palm slides up your spine, heavy and possessive, and when you glance up at him, he’s already watching you.

Like you’re dessert.

Like he’s starving.

You don’t know who pulls who, but suddenly you're tucked into his side, fingers laced with his as he leans down to murmur against your temple.

“You look so fuckin’ good in white, baby. I’ve been hard since the second I saw you.”

You whimper before you can stop it, and he smirks.

The reception tent is strung with fairy lights and white roses, soft jazz humming under the murmur of voices and clinking glasses. It should be romantic.

And it is.

But the moment you’re under that canopy, it becomes a game.

An unspoken one.

Marshall pulls out your chair at the head table, presses a kiss to your shoulder while helping you sit, and lets his hand linger just a second too long on your waist. He takes his seat beside you and immediately drapes an arm over the back of your chair, fingers playing idly with the top of your dress.

Every few minutes, he leans in to whisper something absolutely filthy in your ear.

No one else can hear.

No one knows what he’s saying when you suddenly shift in your seat or press your thighs together under the tablecloth.

You don’t even think he expected how hard this would hit him. Because every time you smile shyly at a guest or tilt your head and laugh, he watches you like he’s imagining what he’s going to do to you later.

You lean in close sometime after the salad course and whisper, “You’re not going to make it to the cake, are you?”

He hums low. “I might bend you over the damn sweetheart table if you keep lookin’ at me like that, Mrs. Mathers.”

You clench around nothing. Your eyes flutter shut for half a second.

And that’s the moment you know: you aren’t going to last either.

He brushes his knuckles along the inside of your thigh beneath the table, breath warm against your cheek.

“You wanna know what I keep thinkin’ about, baby?”

You blink, dazed. “What?”

“You, on that hotel bed. Spread out and dripping for me. With that fuckin’ veil still in your hair.” His voice drops. “That ring on your finger. My last name on your tongue.”

You bite back a gasp.

He grins, pleased, and pulls away just enough to sip from his champagne like he didn’t just gut you in front of two hundred people.

It’s a game now.

One neither of you are winning.

And the second someone announces dinner is done and the floor is open for dancing?

You don’t even get the chance to rise before Marshall is grabbing your hand, lacing your fingers tight in his, and murmuring, “Let’s take a walk, Mrs. Mathers.”

You don't even ask where. You already know.

You just follow him.

Buzzing.

Shaking.

And so ready to lose.

---

You’ve barely made it past the edge of the tent, the fairy lights blurring behind you, Marshall’s hand wrapped around yours like he’s dragging you straight to the altar again—only this time, it’s the bed he’s about to marry you into.

But halfway down the path that winds toward the hotel—your suite glowing on the horizon like something sacred—you tug on his hand, just the slightest pull to slow him down.

“What about cutting the cake?” you ask, breathless, trying not to sound as shaky as you feel.

He stops mid-step, turning to face you.

His eyes drag over you from head to toe, like he’s reminding himself this is his, that he did the damn thing, that he put a ring on it and now you belong to him in every sense of the word.

Then he steps in close—real close. His hand slides to the back of your neck, thumb brushing your jaw as he tilts your face up.

“You wanna stop and cut cake right now?” he murmurs, voice low and gritty and just this side of dangerous. “When I got my wife walkin’ around in that dress, with my last name, and that tight little body I haven’t touched in two fuckin’ weeks?”

You blink up at him, lips parted, stomach fluttering like you’re still a virgin.

Like he hasn’t had you a hundred different ways.

Like he doesn’t already know every sound you make when he breaks you open.

“Marshall,” you whisper, heat rising into your cheeks. “People are going to notice we’re gone.”

He grins.

“Let ’em.” He leans in, mouth brushing your ear. “Cake can wait. My wife can’t.”

You whimper—actually whimper—and that’s all it takes for his restraint to snap completely.

He laces your fingers tighter in his, and this time when he pulls, it’s less of a walk and more of a mission.

The hotel suite isn’t far, but it feels like miles.

You’re both breathless by the time you reach the door, the weight of anticipation crushing you under the silk and lace of your dress.

And as he shoves the key card in and shoulders the door open, he glances back at you with something feral in his eyes.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he growls, “I’ll feed you later.”

The door had barely shut behind you when his hands were already on your hips.

No words. No gentle easing in. Just the sharp rasp of his breath as he spun you toward the wall, wedding dress crushed between you and the velvet wallpaper as his mouth pressed hot and hungry behind your ear.

"Two weeks," he growled, his voice low and jagged with restraint he was no longer pretending to hold onto. "You made me wait two fucking weeks, baby. Doin’ that sweet little ‘let’s wait till we’re married’ thing like you didn’t know I was gonna lose my fuckin' mind."

Your breath hitched when his hands found the zipper, tugging it down in a rush that left you gasping. “I-I just thought—”

“Thought what?” His hand slipped into the opening, dragging down the curve of your bare back, his ring catching on the lace. “That you could walk around my house every day in those little sundresses, hummin’ while you clean, wearin' my ring, and I wasn’t gonna snap the second I could finally fuck my wife again?”

You moaned as he pulled the dress down, slowly now—too slowly—until it pooled at your feet, and you were left in just your garter and panties, your veil slipping down over your shoulders like a halo.

Marshall stepped back to look at you, chest heaving. His tie was still tight at his throat, suit jacket still buttoned—still in control—but his eyes were molten, hungry.

“Turn around.”

You did, trembling. His gaze dragged over you like a physical touch, and then he was on you again, mouth crashing into yours, his tongue demanding, his hands everywhere. Rough, sure, claiming.

He walked you back until your knees hit the edge of the bed, and you fell into the plush mattress with a gasp.

He didn’t give you time to breathe. He was already on his knees, dragging your panties down and burying his face between your thighs with a desperate growl like he’d been starving for this.

“Mine now,” he murmured, tongue stroking deep, slow licks through your folds, already soaked from the anticipation. “My fuckin’ wife. You know how long I’ve wanted to say that while I had you like this?”

You cried out, arching off the bed, fingers tangling in his hair.

He didn’t let up. Didn’t ease. He devoured you like he had something to prove, and maybe he did—maybe he needed to remind you what you’d been denying him for fourteen days. Maybe he just needed to hear you sob his name on your wedding night.

By the time he stood, he was panting, hands already undoing his belt. You reached for him, dizzy, skin glowing, body aching for more.

But he caught your wrist, eyes dark. “Uh-uh. You said after the wedding, and that means now, baby. That means you’re not callin’ the shots anymore.”

You whimpered, wide-eyed as he shoved his pants down just enough to free himself, already flushed, thick, so hard it looked painful.

“You know what happens now?” he asked, crawling over you until he loomed above, the tip of his cock sliding through your slick folds, teasing your entrance but not pressing in—not yet.

“What?” you whispered, already trembling beneath him.

He smirked, dark and dangerous.

“Now I fuckin’ ruin you.”

And he did.

He thrust in hard, slow and deep, until you gasped his name like a prayer. His fingers tangled in your veil as he pinned you down, hips grinding into you with every thrust, claiming you over and over again like the ring wasn’t enough.

“Tell me whose pussy this is,” he snarled into your neck.

“Y-Yours, Marshall—oh my God—it’s yours,” you sobbed, nails digging into his back.

“Say husband.”

“It’s—fuck—it’s my husband’s,” you cried, legs wrapping around him like you’d never let him go again.

“That’s right.” His thrusts sped up, deeper, rougher, until the bed shook with it, until your whole body was trembling. “And you better never make me wait that long again.”

You came around him with a cry, clenching tight and breathless as he groaned your name into your mouth and followed you over the edge.

He didn’t pull out right away.

Didn’t want to.

Just held you there, panting against your neck, still buried inside you, both of you flushed and sweating and tangled up in silk and love and too much want.

Your husband.

Your everything.

And you hadn't even cut the cake yet.

---

“Mrs. Mathers?”

The voice came muffled through the door—polite, chipper, horribly well-timed.

Your mouth fell open in a silent gasp just as Marshall sank into you again, slow but deep, eyes locked on yours like he was daring you to answer. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Mrs. Mathers?” the wedding planner called again, her voice sweet and businesslike. “It’s time to cut the cake.”

You slapped a hand over your mouth, trying to hold in a sound that definitely wasn’t appropriate for a woman in a wedding dress… except yours was halfway off your body, veil tossed somewhere across the suite, legs hooked around your husband’s hips as he buried his cock inside you again like the first round hadn’t been nearly enough.

“I—I’ll be right there!” you called out breathlessly, voice cracking halfway through the sentence as Marshall thrust.

He grinned.

That smug, sinful, bastard grin.

Your hands flew to his shoulders, trying to shove him off but he didn’t budge—just rolled his hips deeper, teeth grazing your collarbone as he whispered, “You already are there, baby. And if she doesn’t get the fuck away from the door, she’s gonna hear how I made you Mrs. Mathers.”

“Marshall,” you hissed, face flaming.

“I’m serious, we need you for cake cutting,” the planner added, clearly still on the other side, unaware—or maybe suspicious—of just how newlywed this situation was getting.

Marshall thrust again, sharp and slow, and you let out a strangled moan you barely caught with your palm.

“Tell her to give us five minutes,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear. “No—three. That’s all I need, baby.”

“You’re the worst,” you gasped, still trying not to squirm, even as your hips bucked up into his on instinct.

“And you love it,” he grinned, dragging back out until just the tip was inside you—then slamming back in, making the whole bed jolt.

You moaned into his neck this time, too close, too full, pleasure already threatening to snap right through you because he knew your body now—knew exactly how to touch you, how to fuck you, how to ruin you in seconds flat.

Outside, the footsteps finally faded.

You both stilled.

You looked up at him, wide-eyed, trembling. “She’s gone.”

Marshall’s expression turned feral.

“Good.”

And then he flipped you.

Hands braced on your hips, he dragged your ass to the edge of the bed, wedding garter still clinging to your thigh, and slammed into you from behind with a guttural sound like he’d been waiting to fuck you like this since the second he slipped that ring on your finger.

The slap of skin, the slick sound of him driving into you, the way he groaned your name—it was all too much.

And he didn’t let up.

He fucked you like you were his to ruin now, like he owned you.

Like no one—not even your cake—could interrupt what was his.

“You’re gonna go down there all fucked out and flushed,” he growled, one hand tangled in your hair, the other pressing down on the small of your back to keep you in place. “And they’re gonna know. They’re gonna see it on your face, baby. That you’re mine.”

You came hard, legs shaking, sobbing his name into the mattress as he followed with a low, filthy groan, hips jerking once, twice, before stilling deep inside you.

You stayed like that for a beat—both of you panting, sweaty, ruined.

Then—

“We’re definitely late for the cake.”

You laughed, breathless, as he kissed the back of your shoulder.

“Think they’ll forgive us?”

He pulled out slowly, helped you sit up—wedding hair tousled, lipstick smudged, veil long forgotten.

He cupped your cheek with that big, warm hand, thumb brushing just under your eye.

“They’ll get over it,” he murmured.

And then, smirking:

“But I’m gettin’ a second slice.”

---

You were breathless, flushed, and absolutely wrecked in the best way possible—but still, somehow, standing upright as Marshall helped tug your dress back up over your hips. He chuckled softly when he caught sight of the faint bite mark blooming on your shoulder.

"You sure you don’t wanna just say the cake fell over?” he teased, smoothing the fabric over your waist before reaching around to zip you up.

You swatted his chest with a muffled laugh, trying to fix your hair in the mirror. “You’re the one who couldn't wait.”

He leaned in behind you, hands settling at your hips again like he had no intention of not touching you. “You made me wait two weeks, baby. I think I’ve earned cake and a fuckin’ medal.”

You snorted, reaching up to adjust a stray pin in your hair. It wasn’t perfect—you were far too tousled for that—but your skin was glowing, lips kiss-swollen, and your eyes… your eyes looked nothing short of blissed out.

Marshall noticed.

He watched your reflection for a long beat, gaze flicking from your mouth to your dress to the way your shoulders still trembled faintly from aftershocks.

Then he murmured, “Goddamn. That’s my wife.”

The way he said it—gruff and reverent like he couldn’t believe it even now—sent something warm and sweet flooding through your chest.

You turned, wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing him softly. “And you’re mine.”

His grin curved against your lips before he pulled back, squeezing your waist. “Alright. Let’s go cut this cake before I bend you over the dessert table.”

You rolled your eyes with a laugh and took his hand.

The walk back to the reception tent was short, but every step had people cheering again—family, friends, someone’s drunk cousin shouting "Newlyweds in the building!"

Marshall didn’t let go of you once.

His hand stayed on your waist, thumb brushing the small of your back as he walked a step behind you like he wanted everyone to see that you were his now. Claimed. Cherished.

When you reached the towering, buttercream-frosted cake, the planner appeared again, slightly flushed but smiling like she wasn’t at all suspicious.

“Ready?” she asked gently.

You nodded, cheeks warm as Marshall leaned close.

“Don’t look so nervous, Mrs. Mathers,” he murmured in your ear. “Just think about how much frosting I’m gonna lick off you later.”

You bit back a squeak and shoved the cake knife into his hand, glancing around as cameras flashed and guests gathered.

With one hand over his, you both sliced through the first tier together, and the room erupted into applause.

Marshall didn’t look at the crowd, though.

He looked at you.

Like you were the only thing worth celebrating.

And as you fed him the first bite—delicately smearing just a little frosting on his bottom lip—he grabbed your wrist, licked it clean, and whispered low enough for only you to hear:

“Now that’s what I call a sweet fuckin’ life.”

---

You thought maybe—maybe—after the wedding, after the champagne and the three-week surprise honeymoon in Italy that he refused to let you plan a single second of, the newlywed haze would start to lift.

But it didn’t.

If anything, Marshall doubled down.

The flight home had barely landed before he was dragging your suitcase with one hand and gripping your hip with the other like you might vanish at baggage claim.

He carried you over the threshold of his—your—house, kissed you against the wall like he was starved for you despite twenty-one uninterrupted days of having you all to himself, and murmured into your hair, “Bet.”

You didn’t know what it meant then.

You figured it out when you woke up the next morning to fresh flowers on the kitchen counter, your favorite iced coffee already in the fridge, and a brand-new pink iPad on the table next to a sticky note that just read:

“Meal planning made sexy. – M”

You tried to argue.

He ignored you.

You tried to pay for groceries.

He threatened to bend you over the produce section.

So you stopped trying.

And slowly… you started to sink into it.

You stopped waking up early to put on jeans or try to look put-together. You stayed in soft little sets, lacy shorts, and dresses that tied at the shoulders and made his eyes darken the second he saw you twirling around the kitchen.

You cooked more. Danced more. Hummed while vacuuming again.

Every time you so much as bent over to get a pan, he was behind you with a low groan and a hand sliding down your side.

“You like playing house, huh?” he murmured one morning, his voice thick from sleep as he watched you scramble eggs in nothing but one of his t-shirts and a pair of tiny cotton panties.

You smiled at the stove, soft and smug. “I like being your wife.”

A beat of silence.

Then the scrape of the barstool.

Then hands on your hips, warm and firm, pulling you back against him.

“I ever tell you how dangerous you are?”

You giggled until his lips touched the back of your neck and made your knees weaken.

And he just kept doing it.

Buying you things—without reason, without asking.

You walked into the bathroom one afternoon and found a vanity already built, your skincare organized in acrylic drawers, your initials monogrammed into a velvet stool cushion.

Another day, a diamond tennis bracelet just… appeared on your nightstand. No note. No reason.

You cried and he acted like you were the crazy one.

“You married me,” he said, brushing tears from your cheeks. “That was it. That was the moment you stopped needing to earn anything.”

He was still working—but now, almost exclusively from the home studio. Because he “didn’t like being too far from his girl.” Because “you looked too good vacuuming for him to focus anywhere else.”

It wasn’t possessive in a cold way. It was obsessive in the most indulgent, addicted-to-you, want-every-second kind of way.

He was loud about it too—bold, constant, relentless in his affection. Always touching, always kissing, always holding.

It wasn’t a honeymoon phase.

It was Marshall claiming you, day in and day out, with every gift, every kiss, every whispered “my fuckin’ wife.”

And when you teased him one night, soft and sleepy under his arm, “You know I’d love you even without the diamonds,” he just kissed your forehead and muttered,

“Yeah, well… I like you sparkly.”

---

It was the first time in weeks Marshall had to leave the house for more than a few hours.

He didn’t like it.

Didn’t like packing his own bags, didn’t like being in a studio that didn’t have your scent lingering in the air or the faint sound of you humming down the hall. He didn’t even like the music that day—everything felt off.

But you had kissed his cheek that morning, sweet and slow and soft as ever, and said you’d be waiting for him.

And that was enough.

Until it wasn’t.

Until he came home and the house was silent.

No music. No humming. No smell of dinner on the stove or fresh flowers in the kitchen or you wrapped up in one of your stupid little sundresses that drove him fucking insane.

He called your name once.

Then again, louder.

Still nothing.

His chest went tight.

You hadn’t texted. You hadn’t left a note. No mention of plans when he left this morning. His mind spiraled—he knew it wasn’t rational, knew you were probably just out, but logic didn't do shit when it came to you.

Not when his whole life had shifted into this rhythm of having you close. Safe. Home.

By the time you came back—arms full of grocery bags and cheeks flushed from the sun—you barely got the front door open before he was there.

Waiting.

Watching.

His jaw tight, lips pressed into a flat line.

“Oh,” you blinked, startled at the look on his face. “Hey, baby.”

“Where the fuck were you?”

You froze, eyes wide. “I—I just went to the store. You were at the studio, I figured—”

“You figured what?” he cut in, voice low, not angry—just wrecked. “That I wouldn’t care if I came home and you were gone?”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it again.

The silence cracked between you.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, setting the bags down. “I didn’t think it’d be a big deal.”

His hand curled into a fist, then released, and he ran it down his face like he was trying to keep himself grounded. “I came home and the house was empty. It was like someone ripped the fuckin’ air outta my lungs.”

Your face fell. “Marshall…”

“I’m not mad at you,” he said, voice rough and quiet now, the sharp edges fading into something soft and scared. “I just… I need to know where you are. That you’re okay. I can’t come home to that silence again, baby. Not after everything.”

You stepped toward him slowly, heart aching. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He let out a long breath, pulled you against his chest like he’d been holding himself back for hours, and buried his face in your hair. “You didn’t scare me,” he murmured. “You wrecked me.”

You melted into him, arms around his waist.

“I promise I’ll tell you next time.”

“You better,” he muttered into your skin. “Or I’m putting a fuckin’ AirTag in your purse.”

You laughed a little, and he finally relaxed.

“I’m serious,” he added. “You wanna be my spoiled little housewife, you better let your husband keep tabs on you.”

Your heart stuttered.

He felt it, right there against his chest, and he pulled back just enough to look at you—his expression gentler now, a small smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“What?” he asked, his voice softening completely. “You like the sound of that?”

You nodded.

He kissed your forehead.

You didn’t even make it to the kitchen.

The second the front door closed, Marshall had you pinned up against it, one hand on your throat, the other dragging your sundress up your thighs like it had personally offended him.

“You don’t ever walk outta this house without tellin’ me again,” he growled against your mouth, breath hot, teeth grazing your bottom lip. “You got that, baby?”

You whimpered, nodding, but he pressed closer, grinding against you so you felt just how worked up he was. “Say it.”

“I won’t,” you whispered. “I promise—I’ll tell you.”

“That’s right,” he murmured, dragging your panties down and cupping you between the legs with a rough, greedy palm. “Fuckin’ mine, sweetheart. My wife. My housewife. My everything.”

You moaned as he dipped two fingers inside you, growling low at how wet you already were.

“Went out lookin’ like this?” he asked, voice thick with heat and jealousy. “This little sundress? This sweet pussy barely covered? Anyone so much as look at you?”

“N-no,” you gasped, squirming against his hand.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said, curling his fingers just right. “You wear this for me, don’t you?”

You nodded fast, head dropping back against the door.

“All for you, Marsh.”

“Damn right.” His lips smashed into yours, filthy and possessive, and then he spun you around, pressing your chest to the wood, lifting the hem of your dress all the way up.

“No panties now, huh?” he rasped, undoing his jeans. “Guess I gotta remind you who fuckin’ owns this.”

He took you hard, fast, and deep, rutting up into you like he couldn’t get close enough even with his cock already buried inside.

“You don’t go anywhere without me again, baby,” he grunted into your neck. “You hear me? You don’t even breathe without me knowin’ where you are.”

You moaned his name, walls fluttering around him as you tried to hold on, tried to last—but he knew you too well.

“You like that?” he panted. “You like how crazy I get over you? That I can’t fuckin’ stand not knowing where you are?”

You nodded frantically, moaning louder when his hand slid between your thighs again.

“Then you won’t mind this.”

He pulled out, just long enough to flip you around and pull your phone out of your bag, his other hand never leaving your waist.

“What are you doing?” you asked breathlessly, your body still trembling.

“Putting Life360 on your phone,” he said simply, pulling it up and holding your gaze while he typed. “So I always know. You said it’s all for me, right?”

You swallowed, heart hammering, and gave a shy little nod.

“Good girl,” he murmured.

And then he bent down, tongue between your thighs before you could even catch your breath.

Because if he was gonna obsess over you, he was damn well going to worship you too.