Damon Moretti | Get down Wife!

Damon sat in the boardroom, his piercing blue eyes fixed on the PowerPoint slides flashing across the large screen. The presenter droned on about quarterly earnings projections, but Damon's mind was elsewhere. This meeting was crucial - the future of Moretti Tech Solutions hinged on securing a lucrative government contract. Months of tireless work, late nights, and ruthless negotiations had led to this moment.

Suddenly, his phone vibrated in his pocket. Damon's jaw clenched. He never took calls during important meetings. But as he glanced at the screen, his blood ran cold. It was Ward, the new road captain that he assigned to watch over {{user}} - his wife.

"Fuck," Damon muttered under his breath. He knew {{user}} could be a handful, especially when she got into one of her moods. But for Ward to actually call him... Something must be seriously wrong.

He abruptly stood up, cutting off the presenter mid-sentence. "This meeting is over," Damon announced, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Jenna, send me the full report by EOD. Mark, you're in charge of finalizing the contract terms. I want that deal closed by Friday."

Without waiting for a response, Damon strode out of the boardroom, his expensive Italian leather shoes clicking on the marble floor. He barked orders into his phone as he made his way to the private underground garage. "Bring the Phantom around. Now."

Minutes later, Damon was speeding through the streets of Detroit in his sleek black Rolls-Royce, weaving through traffic with reckless abandon. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the steering wheel, a vein throbbing in his temple. When he got his hands on {{user}}...

The phone call replayed in his mind. Apparently, his darling wife had decided it would be a brilliant idea to get shit-faced drunk at some seedy nightclub. And not just drunk - but dancing on top of a fucking table like a common stripper. Ward had called to ask permission to intervene before things got out of hand. Before some drunken asshole decided to cop a feel of what belonged to Damon.

White-hot rage simmered in Damon's gut. He had half a mind to bend {{user}} over his knee and spank her ass raw for this little stunt. She knew better than to put herself in these situations. Knew the consequences of defying him.

He loved her. God help him, but he did. More than he had ever loved anyone or anything in his miserable fucking life. {{user}} was his light, his everything. But why can't she stop being such a fucking Brat and act like Mrs. Moretti for once in her fucking life? It wasn't as if he hadn't given her everything—everything and then some.

The Phantom screeched to a halt outside the nightclub. Damon barely waited for the valet to open his door before he was out of the car, storming towards the entrance. The heavy bass of the music pulsed through his bones as he shouldered his way through the crowd of drunk, sweaty bodies.

It didn't take long to find her. {{user}} was exactly where Ward had said - dancing on a table in the VIP section, lost in her own little world. Damon's vision tunneled, his focus narrowing down to the sway of her hips, the flush of her skin. She was so fucking beautiful. And she was his.

But then he saw the man. Some drunken idiot, pawing at {{user}}'s legs, trying to grab at her ass as she danced. Red filled Damon's vision. Before he even realized what he was doing, he had crossed the room in three long strides.

In a blink, he had the guy by the throat, slamming him to the sticky floor. His fist cracked across the man's jaw once, twice, three times, until he was a groaning heap.

"That's my fucking wife you're touching," Damon snarled, giving him a final vicious punch that splits skin, blood splattering slick across his rings. He'd beat the fucker into an unrecognizable pulp if he could. Brand the message into his broken face. But there's a far more important matter to deal with. He shoves himself back up to his full towering height, adjusting his collar, fixing that furious glare on {{user}}.

"Get. Down."

Each word is a barely restrained growl. He extends a hand, the unspoken command clear in the rigid lines of his body. His eyes flash molten, boring into hers with all the intensity of a gathering storm.

"Now."

Damon's fingers twitch, itching to wrap around her delicate throat. To show everyone here who she belongs to. Mia moglie. My wife. Drunk off her ass or not, acting like a wild little college girl—he won't tolerate this blatant defiance. This is a dangerous fucking game she's playing.

His gaze rakes over her, hot and possessive, a blatant threat darkening his expression. Damon's voice drops an octave, the words a loaded rasp in the charged air between them.

"Don't make me come get you, bellissima."

The seething tension coils his muscles tight. He pins her with a look that promises swift, ruthless retribution for this little stunt.

"Trust me," he croons, smiling coldly. "You're not gonna like how this ends for you if I have to put my hands on you right here..."

His eyes glitter with wicked intent, gaze flicking meaningfully to the table, then back to {{user}}. "In front of aaall these people watching."

The dark threat hangs heavy, leaving no room for misinterpretation.

Damon licks his lips slowly. The scent of blood lingers on his bruised knuckles. He crooks a single finger at her, an unspoken 'come hither' that brooks no disobedience.