In time, Sam’s feelings about it had morphed from shock, to skepticism, to acceptance, and eventually all the way to curiosity. It had taken her close to a year to get to the point where she was on board with his needs, and over the course of those months, Mike had changed as well. She came to realize that confession had been a ten-ton weight hovering above him, and with that crushing pressure gone, all those old red flags ceased to wave. No more accusations, no more confusing signals, no more too-edgy sex. The Mike she’d fallen in love with had returned, just with a kink openly in tow. And once she trusted that it wasn’t her enemy, she decided to make it her friend. Her partner in driving her husband insane in the ways he craved most.

When they’d first started exploring Mike’s kink, Sam did as she had this evening – stayed out past dinnertime and came home smelling of alien maleness. Back then she’d simply worked late, then swung by the drugstore and rubbed samples from the men’s style magazines on her wrists. But having seen in the past couple of years what their games did to her husband, she’d learned to revel in it herself. The same kink that had once belittled her now turned her into a powerful, wicked devil-goddess. A sexual supervillain.

And goddamn, it was fun having these powers.

Once or twice a month, Sam would meet friends for drinks, secretly scouting the bar for men to imagine she’d gone there to meet. She’d try new cocktails, pretending they’d been sent to her, and browse those cologne samples with relish – all part of the casting process. Now, nearly three years after the ultimatum, it was hard to remember the time when Mike’s kink had repelled her; now she couldn’t imagine their marriage without it. It would’ve been like having a favorite spice taken away, their meals still nourishing but missing that exotic kick.

“Hello?”

“Hey, baby,” Mike called back from upstairs.

His office was up there, and he must have brought the day’s paperwork with him. He preferred to finish that stuff up at the station and leave his job where it belonged, but Sam knew that doing this at home was all part of the game. Waiting up, imagining her out somewhere, getting nailed on some strange man’s bed.

Her pulse quickened as she hung her jacket on the rack, spiked as she slid off her wedding band and stowed it in a pocket. She smelled the cologne on her, breathed in that citrus zing, tasted the lingering bite of grapefruit on her tongue, and conjured the imagined man she’d just fucked behind Mike’s back. This was great, Nick, but I have to get home or my husband will suspect…

She went upstairs to their bathroom, slicking herself with a measure of lube from the bottle in the cabinet. One, two buttons to free on her blouse, low enough that someone standing close could see she was wearing a lacy mint green bra. She gave her hair a mussing and decided she looked as if she’d been thoroughly, recently, convincingly ravaged.

Down the hall, Mike’s office door was open. He swiveled in his chair when she knocked on the frame, looking her up and down with a tight smile. Game on.

“How was your day?” she asked innocently.

“Busy, and still not over. Guess I’m not the only one, huh? You’re awful late. I had to heat up leftovers.”

“Sorry. I had this conference call that just would – not – end.”

“You’re dressed up.” He took in her skirt, her heels, her cleavage.

“Some of the donors were visiting,” she lied, averting her gaze.

Mike got to his feet. He had changed out of his work clothes and into jeans and a T-shirt, the latter snug, which let bad guys know his morning rituals involved weights, not doughnuts, and that there was no softness to be found in Mike Heyer’s body or justice. But as much as his physical capability excited her, Sam wouldn’t acknowledge it that night – not while they were playing. When they played, he was a weak man, incapable of keeping his cheating wife out of the arms of stronger, more handsome, more virile men. Sam hadn’t so much as kissed another man on the lips since her first date with her husband five years before, but according to the parameters of this charade, she’d fucked half of Pittsburgh.

“You smell… different,” he said, coming closer. “What is that?”

“Gosh, I’m not sure. I don’t smell anything.”

“Smells like…” He brought his face to her temple and breathed her in. “Like men’s cologne.”

She shivered from his deep, smooth voice – a contradiction to his rough native accent. Tamping the sensation down, she slid into her role, shrugging. “That’s weird. Maybe it’s that new detergent.”

“And your breath smells like liquor.”

“I used some mouthwash before I left the office.”

His blue eyes narrowed, calculating. He clasped her wrist, holding up her bare hand. “Where’s your ring?”

“Oh. I must have taken it off before I went to wash out my mug at work.” She felt around in the little pocket of her skirt and produced the band. “See?”

He watched her slip it back on, frowning. “Who was it?”

She finger-combed his soft, sandy brown hair, not meeting his eyes. She wanted to run those same fingers down his throat, over his chest and abdomen, and cup her palm between his legs to see how hard he might be, but her role was that of an ambivalent, dissatisfied wife just now, and his cock was beneath her interest. She’d found a better one, his fantasy dictated. She couldn’t say she was turned on by these dynamics, herself, but knowing what it did to him… Nothing had ever made her feel so fiercely desired.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she bluffed. “Who was who?”

“Don’t play games with me, Sam.”

Oh, but I will. She huffed an unconvincing little laugh. “I’m not. I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You were out with some guy again. Who was he?”

Sam sighed, pretending to feel weary – not guilty – over being busted. Bored. She crossed her arms and leaned against the door frame. “Does it really matter?”

“Yeah, it does. You’re my wife.” He took her by the arm, leading her out of the room and flipping off the lights behind them, just the city’s glow from the window at the end of the hall showing the way to their bedroom. An old floorboard on the landing before the door creaked. So many times she’d been awakened by that creak – that wonderful noise that told her Mike had come home from a late night, from a bust or investigation or stakeout, safe and sound… So many nights it was her cue to relax, though at moments like this it spiked her pulse, setting heat humming low in her belly.

He coaxed her into their room with a bossy hand on her lower back – a lingering glimmer of his domineering side, soon to be shed alongside his shirt and jeans. It had no place in this room with them tonight.

Sam switched on one of the bedside lamps. “It’s Friday, Mike. We’re both exhausted. Let’s deal with this tomorrow.”

“No, we’re going to deal with it now. You’re going to tell me what happened.”

She sat on the bed, pulling off her shoes. Her throat was dry, as though she were thirsty for him.

He stood before her, hands on his hips. “Who was he?”

“Just some guy named Nick.”

“What’d you do, find him at a bar?”

She nodded. “We only had a drink. Nothing happened.”

“If nothing happened, how come you smell like him?”

She ignored the question, getting up and unclasping her necklace. “I’m tired, honey. Let’s not get into this tonight.” The heavy beads rattled as she set them on the dresser, and her fingers moved to her buttons. She could feel Mike getting close before he even touched her, his fingertips easing the top from her shoulders.

His voice heated her neck and the sternness had left him. “Tell me about him.”

“I just met him at the bar, when Lisa stood me up for a girl’s date. He bought me a drink, that’s all.” A greyhound. She pictured her imaginary fling, his warm, wicked gaze as he slid her glass across the wood, his cruel smirk as his eyes darted to her wedding band. Her imaginary flings were always colossal dicks, whatever that said about her.