Golden Melody (Editing)

Chapter 139

Chapter 139– The Gender Debate of the Century

Miexha’s Point of View

When I got home after the interview, I didn’t even have time to kick off my heels.

Jayson swooped in like a golden retriever on espresso, wrapping his arms around me and rocking me side to side like I’d been gone for years instead of a couple hours.

“Oh my God, dear wifey…” he whispered into my hair, voice thick with emotion,
“You bragged about me on national television.”

I blinked. “Is that… tears?”

His stupid happy little tears trickled onto me as he kissed every inch of my face—cheeks, nose, lips, chin.

“You said I’m not for sharing,” he whispered, eyes practically sparkling.

I laughed and patted his chest. “You are mine, dummy.”

That was it. He lost whatever self-control he had left.

Without warning, he scooped me up bridal-style (his favorite move lately) and started charging up the stairs like a man on a mission.

“Asha can handle dinner with the girls,” he declared halfway up.

From downstairs, Asha shouted, “You two better be paying me overtime for all this nightly babysitting!”

“Charge it to my office, Asha!” Jayson yelled back, slamming the bedroom door shut behind us.

And just like that, we were alone again.

He set me on the bed like I was a very pregnant glass statue, then stood in front of me with that smug, devastating smirk that always spells disaster.

“So, dear…” he purred, flexing his arm slowly like some ridiculous fitness model.
“Which one exactly? My abs?” — he raised his shirt and poked his stomach —
“My biceps?” — he flexed his arm shamelessly —
“Or…” he grinned as he dramatically turned around and slapped his own butt,
“…these firm cheeks you forgot to mention on TV?”

I shrieked into my hands.
“You’re ridiculous.”

“But you love me,” he teased, grinning.

Unfortunately… I did. The worst part? He knew it.

He slowly began stripping — yes, folks, your Congressman. The serious, well-respected young public servant, currently doing a very private striptease in our bedroom.

“My love,” he said huskily, tossing his shirt aside.
“You said I’m yours. So tell me—what’s your favorite part?”

I tried to resist. I really tried. But I was five months pregnant, hormonal, and married to the most dangerously adorable man in the country.

“Let me touch,” I muttered,
“so I’ll know.”

His entire face lit up. He flopped on the bed like a golden retriever offering his belly for rubs.

“Touch away, my queen.”

So I did. I traced his abs. His chest. His arms. And yes, even those smug little glutes. He chuckled every time I squeezed. I wanted to punch him and kiss him at the same time.

“People actually voted for this pervert…” I murmured.

“And they’ll vote for me again,” he said, utterly shameless.

After I finished thoroughly exploring my personal property, he leaned down, kissed me gently, and made love to me like I was the most fragile and precious treasure he ever owned — which I probably am, in his eyes.