Still, it was like ordering a dress online. It looks so good, seems so perfect; then it arrives and the color’s off or it fits all wrong, leaves you feeling dumpy, and you’re out seven bucks on return shipping.

“What did you say when you wrote back?” Mike asked.

“I haven’t yet. I wanted to hear that you were still interested before I went any further.”

“I am.” He kept his voice businesslike, but Sam could sense his excitement. “You want to maybe do what we talked about? Meet him at a bar?”

“With you there, spying on us?” For both titillation and safety.

Mike nodded.

“I think I might.” A rush of fear and excitement rolled through her, the whole venture suddenly feeling very… possible. “Would you like to answer his questions about what gets you off about the whole thing?”

He shook his head. “No. If we’re going to do this, I want him and me to be as close to strangers as possible. Since that’s how the fantasy’s worked, with me being oblivious to the other guy’s existence. As long as you’re comfortable being the liaison, I don’t want to have any contact with him, outside of the role-playing.”

“Okay.”

“Going forward… even if this guy is as decent as he comes off in an e-mail, I want to imagine he’s the cocky shithead my wife’s fucking around on me with. So if it’s cool, I’m happy to trust your judgment the rest of the way. Plus you’re better at wording stuff. You’ll explain my freaky streak better than I ever could. And it’ll sound better coming from a woman.”

“Okay, then. And you’re feeling… okay with it?”

“Sure.”

She sighed, smiling up at him wearily. “I know you’re trying to sound like you couldn’t care less, so I won’t feel pressured – but tell me honestly if this is exciting you or not.”

Mike said nothing, just took her wrist, drawing her hand from the mouse and back to cup his cock, rock-hard behind his fly.

“I see.”

He let go of her hand, smiling. “If I had the luxury of staying home tonight, I’d drag you to the bedroom and listen to all your horny theories about this Bern guy. I’m just trying to be blasé so if you’re not into it, you won’t feel bad about pulling the plug.”

She turned onto her hip and held the back of the chair. Mike smoothed her hair, tucking it behind her ears.

“Don’t be blasé,” she said. “I know it’s my decision. And for now, I’m excited, in no small part because you’re excited. So don’t downplay anything.” She gave his erection another quick squeeze. “At least part of you is always forthcoming.”

He leaned down to kiss her temple. “You’re the most amazing wife ever, I hope you realize that. Wish I could stay and ravage you.”

“Me, too.”

“But I’ll be happy all through this damn case, knowing maybe you’re right here, writing an e-mail to some guy.”

“You may be the weirdest husband ever, I hope you realize that. But good. Happy to make you happy.”

Another kiss, then Mike had to go out to relieve a colleague on a marathon of a drug bust. The glow of Sam’s computer screen had become her most constant companion of late, but in a way, it fed the fantasy. My husband’s never home, she imagined telling some handsome stranger. He won’t suspect.

So after she locked the door behind Mike, she poured herself a glass of red and got comfy before the screen.

Bern,

Thanks for such a thoughtful reply. And thanks for the offer of lechery, though your pragmatism was actually much appreciated. I’m new to all this, too, and not looking to rush anything.

But my husband and I are both excited at the prospect of maybe meeting up sometime. I know it sounds sort of drawn out, but I’ll tell you how I’d been hoping it might go down…

She paused, and a bold thought overtook her. An impulse born of both curiosity and practicality. Though mainly the former.

Actually, would you be willing to speak to me on the phone? I’m home tonight, and I’ll be up until about eleven. I’d like to hear your voice and your thoughts on how I envision all of this going. If you’re comfortable with that, please feel free to give me a call.

She typed her number with a pounding pulse, and the second she sent the message, she worried it was a dumb move.

She worried he’d call. She worried he wouldn’t. She worried herself through the rest of her glass of wine, and to her horror, her cell phone chimed as she was pouring a refill.

“Please be Mike. Please be Mike.” Please be anybody but Bern.

Oh fuck, private number. She gulped a breath, grabbed the device from the coffee table, and hit TALK. “Hello?”

“Is this S?” Oh, what a voice. A deep, easy rumble of a voice.

“Yes. Is this Bern?”

“It is.” A soft chuckle came through the ether, relaxing her by a small measure. “Wow. Weird.”

She laughed herself, though it was tight and high and nervous. “I know, very weird. Thanks for calling.”

“Was I too eager? I just happened to be checking my e-mail when yours came through.” Fuck, that accent. Sam couldn’t say if he was from Texas or Tennessee or Georgia or any other place, but his voice was steeped in bourbon and honey. Even if it was put-on, she prayed he’d keep it up.

“No, this is fine.” She grabbed her glass and sank into the couch cushions, hugged a pillow to her middle. “I was worried giving you my number was too eager…” Sam bit her lip. “Jeez, now that I have you on the phone, I have no idea what I’d planned to say to you.” His voice was as appealing as his photo – and his punctuation – and suddenly she felt like a stammering junior high schooler.

“Well, for starters, I feel kinda silly calling you S. Is there something else we could use?”

“Sam is fine.”

“Sam. I like that. You a Samantha?”

The truth would be a bold move, given that there was probably only a handful of Samiras in the whole of Pittsburgh, but her intuition sounded no alarms. “I’m a Samira, actually.”

“Oh, right, your ad said you’re, what? Persian?”

“Yeah. My parents both grew up in Iran. What about you? Is Bern short for Bernard?” she asked.

“It is. Kinda geriatric, right?”

“Only a little.”

“It was my great-grandfather’s name. I think I got off easy, though – it was between that and Leslie.”

“Close call.”

“So, you were going to explain how you thought the first meeting might go.” Some motion hitched his voice, like he, too, had dropped onto a couch and gotten comfortable. Though for all Sam knew, Mr. Exhibitionist had just taken out his cock and stationed himself in front of a mirror or a wide-open window or a webcam, but she’d run with the first notion.

“We were thinking that for the first time, I’d meet the man at a bar. We have a lot of scenarios, actually, just from… you know. Dirty talk and that sort of thing.”

“Sure.”

“So the idea was that my husband and I would go to the same place, separately. He’d sit off to one side and I’d sit at the bar, pretending not to know he was there. Then you’d meet me, and we’d act like we were having an affair, or that you were picking me up as a stranger, something like that.”

“Right.”

“And my husband would watch us flirt. Though, if you and I didn’t feel any kind of spark, we could just talk about how awkward we felt and pretend to flirt.”

Another soft, seductive laugh. “Fair enough.”

“Then I’d head out and my husband would probably still be happy, just to have seen me getting hit on by some strange guy.”

An unmistakable smirk warmed his tone. “I’d like to think I’m not so strange.”

“That remains to be seen,” Sam returned, smiling to herself.

“And so what if there was a spark?”

“On the first night, probably just a lot of flirting, and casual touches. As much as two people can get away with in a bar. Making out, maybe.” She blushed, feeling silly. With two years’ practice, Sam could wax filthy with no hesitation for Mike’s ears, but no other person on earth had ever met this side of her before. Until now.