Joshua unlocked the apartment door and found the place dark except for a trail of candles leading down the hall. Pink rose petals had been scattered on the floor. Well, well, well. Guess he wasn’t the only one who’d gone to the florist. Pebbles, their dog, was asleep on her back on the sofa.

“Is this your work?” he asked Pebbles. Pebbles wagged her tail but didn’t open her eyes.

He took off his shoes and shrugged off his coat, which was wet from melting sleet. Cradling the huge bouquet, he walked slowly down the hall to the master bedroom, savoring the moment, banishing the worry over knowing she’d gone out in this raw weather. Anticipation fizzed through his veins. The bedroom door was open a crack, and the room flickered with more candlelight. He pushed the door open, a smile spreading slowly across his face.

His wife lay on the bed on her stomach, wearing nothing but a red ribbon around her waist, tied in a bow on the small of her back. Her chin was propped on her hands, her knees bent so that her heels almost touched her very lovely ass.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” she said, her voice husky.

“Happy anniversary.” He leaned in the doorway and just took in the sight—his wife (the word still gave him a thrill)—her dark red hair loose around her shoulders, her creamy skin glowing in the candlelight.

“Guess what I got you,” she said.

“I have no idea.”

“It starts with ‘sexy’ and ends with ‘time.’”

“Just what I wanted.” He loosened his tie. “You’re not too tired?” he asked.

“Do I look tired? Or do I look like someone who’s about to get shagged silly?”

He laughed. “Definitely the latter.” He went to their bed, knelt down and kissed her with all the love, gratitude, lust and happiness in his heart.

“You taste like chocolate,” he said, pulling back a little. “Shame on you.”

“Is it my fault you left me alone in the house with Fran’s salted caramels?” she asked. “I think we both knew what would happen.”

“Those were hidden.”

“Not very well. In a shoebox in a suitcase on the top shelf of the closet? Please. You’re such an amateur.”

“You have a nose like a bloodhound.”

“Yes, yes, talk dirty to me,” she said, laughing. “Come on. Unwrap your present and make love to your wife.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and he did, sliding his hands over her silky skin. God, he loved being married. He loved Lauren, loved this room and this bed and the fact that she’d go to the effort of lighting candles and scattering rose petals and undressing and finding a red ribbon. Her skin smelled like almonds and oranges from her shower gel. She’d painted her toenails red. All for him.

“I’m the luckiest guy in the world,” he whispered against her neck.