Chapter 179: Spoiling Her Man
And just like that, the exhaustion of the evening eased from Stan’s face.
Sophie was already waiting by the private entrance, looking dangerously beautiful in a soft cream-colored silk nightgown that draped perfectly over her figure. The delicate fabric clung to her, showcasing every every curve beneath it, the neckline low enough to leave Stan briefly staring before he caught himself.
As for what he saw it was her glistening, milky cleavage that spilled generously from that low neckline, the soft, luminous skin catching the light with a dewy sheen that made it look impossibly smooth and inviting.
He swallowed once, unable to help it, feeding his eyes with that sight.
She looked unreal.
The moment Sophie saw him emerge from the Lamborghini, her entire face lit up with pure happiness.
"Stan!"
She practically skipped into his arms.
Stan barely had time to brace himself before she wrapped herself tightly around him, burying her face against his chest as though she’d been waiting hours for exactly this moment.
His lustful mind was already on her breasts, so when she stepped forward and hugged him, he couldn’t help but swallow hard again. The soft, warm weight of her full, milky breasts pressed firmly against his chest, molding plushly into him with every subtle shift of her body. He could even feel her erect nipples.
"You finally came..." she murmured softly, inhaling deeply. "I missed you so much."
She tilted her head up and kissed him sweetly, once on the lips, then again on his cheek, then along his jaw in a trail of affectionate little welcomes that made him laugh quietly under his breath.
Stan’s arms settled naturally around her waist, pulling her closer.
"Missed you too, Sophie."
Their embrace tightened instinctively.
For a long moment, she simply stayed there, pressed against him, breathing him in, leather jacket, faint cologne, and the lingering cold-night scent of someone who had spent hours carrying the weight of an intense evening.
"You’re freezing," she murmured against his shirt.
"It’s cold outside."
"I know. I’ve been watching the temperature drop for the last hour and worrying about you."
Stan smiled faintly, brushing a hand down her back.
"I’m fine, Sophie."
"I know you are," she said softly. "But don’t underestimate the cold."
Reluctantly, she loosened her hold on him, though her fingers immediately slipped into his hand as if she still needed the contact.
Then she led him toward the private elevator.
Inside, the ride upward was quiet and warm. Sophie leaned against his arm comfortably, resting her head there while looking up at him with bright, contented eyes.
"I wanted to tell you something," she said.
Stan glanced down at her. "Hmm?"
A proud little smile appeared on her lips.
"I’ve started openly renting out the floors and apartments here."
Stan glanced down at her. "The whole tower?"
"Yes. Every floor I’m not personally using." Sophie looked faintly sheepish, though there was unmistakable pride beneath it. "You gifted me an entire building and it was mostly sitting here empty, which honestly felt like such a waste. So I contacted a property management company, had them set up listings, and we’ve already started screening tenants."
She paused briefly before adding, softer this time:
"It should generate a pretty significant monthly income. I wanted your gift to actually work for me instead of just standing here looking pretty." Her fingers tightened gently around his hand. "Thank you again, Stan. Really."
Stan smiled at that.
"That’s thoughtful," he said. "And smart. I figured you’d do something worthwhile with it."
Sophie’s entire expression brightened at the praise.
"I had a good teacher," she replied warmly.
Then, after a small hesitation, she added with quiet sincerity:
"I want to make you proud too."
Stan looked at her for a second longer than usual before giving her hand a gentle squeeze.
"You already do."
The answer visibly affected her.
Sophie beamed, pressing herself a little closer against his arm without trying to hide how happy the words had made her.
The apartment itself looked exactly the way he remembered, warm lighting, soft neutral colors, spotless without feeling staged. It wasn’t the artificial perfection of a showroom. It felt lived in. Cared for. Beautiful in the way homes become when someone genuinely enjoys creating comfort.
And the moment the door opened, the scent of food drifted toward him.
Butter. Garlic. Herbs. Something subtly citrusy underneath it all.
It instantly made him realize how hungry he actually was.
Sophie gently nudged him toward the oversized couch.
"Sit down, baby," she said softly. "You’ve had a long day. Let me take care of you tonight."
Stan raised both hands in amused surrender before dropping comfortably onto the sofa.
Sophie disappeared into the kitchen.
He could hear cabinet doors opening, the soft hum of the microwave, plates shifting against marble countertops. Somewhere in the middle of it all, she started humming quietly to herself, small, absentminded little notes that carried the unmistakable sound of someone deeply content.
It made the entire apartment feel even warmer.
A few minutes later, she returned carrying a large tray.
The food looked almost absurdly well-prepared.
Baked salmon coated in a glossy herb-butter glaze. Garlic butter rice shaped neatly beside it. Bright green broccoli and asparagus arranged carefully along the edge of the plate. A steaming bowl of soup resting beside a small dish of lemon slices.
And, because apparently Sophie refused to let him pretend he didn’t love junk food, there was also fried chicken stacked neatly at the side.
Stan stared at the amount of food and genuinely questioned whether she expected him to eat an food enough to feed a family of four.
She set the tray carefully onto the coffee table.
Then, without warning or ceremony, Sophie settled directly into his lap instead of taking the open seat beside him.
She turned sideways across his thighs with effortless familiarity, one arm looping loosely around his shoulders as though this was the most natural position in the world.
Which, for her, it probably was.
The movement carried the easy possessiveness of a woman who had already decided exactly how the rest of the evening was going to go, and had absolutely no intention of negotiating about it.
