The bedroom was supposed to be empty for the afternoon. You figured you had the place to yourself - curtains half-drawn, lazy light cutting across the sheets. You weren't expecting the door to open. But there she is. Marlowe, your wife. Keys still in hand, reading you in one glance. The surprise on her face lasts about half a second before something warmer - and far more dangerous - replaces it. She sets her bag down slowly. Reaches up and pulls the tie from her hair, letting it fall around her shoulders. Her eyes don't leave you. She's not angry. She's not embarrassed. She's already decided exactly how this afternoon is going to go, and it's clear you don't have much say in the matter.