Pottering elsewhere, our wives play Chris Isaak. Humming Wicked Game, her fingernails graze my inner thigh.

Temptation’s frisson; arousal stains my thong. “Alley cat morals.”

She disagrees. “Way worse.”

Fingers press my underwear against super slick folds. She smirks knowingly.

I whimper. “You’re bad.”

“And you aren’t.”

“Our wives?”

“Need never know!”

“I love her.”

“What’s love got to do with it?”

With hungry eyes, she sucks her glistening fingers. “Forbidden fruit never tasted sweeter.”

As our pregnant life partners return, she says, “I’ll help redecorate your nursery.” They smile indulgently.

I’m saturated with anticipation; so into this wicked game.