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boiling and rushing away from his brain. If I could get him to beg to take me on Saturday, then I’d get the honeymoon of my dreams and a sexy encounter with my husband. I had a lot of planning to do, but I couldn’t wait for Saturday.

Chapter Eight

    ON THURSDAY, FOR the first time in a long time I had trouble concentrating at work. Usually, I was in lawyer-mode the second I walked through the door, but my attention was split between my cases and my husband.
    Specifically, how I could get my husband so turned on that he couldn’t keep his hands off me. I was really looking forward to that part. Ian sometimes did this thing where it felt like he had ten hands roaming wildly all over my body, touching me everywhere at once. It’d been way too long since I’d experienced that.  
    Further hindering my concentration was the fact that every time I got truly focused on my case, I’d get a text from Ian. Normally, we were too busy to text much at work but we sure did that day. He kept up a steady torment of texts all day, some trash talk, some erotic. And I made sure to respond in kind. He wasn’t going to get me so hot and bothered that I couldn’t come up with a sexy agenda for Saturday—though he was sure trying.  
    After lunch—or, rather, after tearing through a packet of cheese and crackers at my desk—Ian sent a text that was neither bragging or sexy: How are we going to decide which itinerary for Saturday is hottest?  
    Hmm ... good point. Obviously we wouldn’t be impartial judges. Employing one of my favorite lawyer techniques, I stalled with a flippant answer: I know a few sitting judges. Maybe one of them would adjudicate.  
    His response: Sure, but pick a male one. Any hetero male judge is going to be pitching a tent under his robe when he hears what I have in store for you.  
    Okay, now I really wanted to know what he was planning. But I refused to beg for a hint or even hint for a hint. So I steered us back on track: Seriously, how are we going to decide who wins?  
    His response: You’re the legal eagle. How do two parties decide something if they can’t go to court?  
    I replied: They use some kind of alternate dispute resolution, usually in the form of a neutral third-party arbitrator. Damn, why did I have to be in lawyer-mode when all I wanted to do was to pin my husband down and torture Saturday’s details out of him?  
    His response: Then that’s what we’ll do.  
    I replied: But who could be an impartial arbitrator? I can’t think of anyone we know who could do it.  
    His response: If what you’re planning is so tame that you’d tell someone you know about it, you might as well just forfeit now.  
    I replied: Tame, my ass!
    His response: I intend to.  
    Oops, I’d walked right into that one. Still, his message sent a delicious little shiver of anticipation through me. I replied: Funny. If we need to stay anonymous—maybe put something online? We could each summarize our Saturday exploits and somehow let people vote for the sexiest plan? Not sure where we could post it, though. If we had more time we could maybe make a simple website.  
    He replied: If we had more time, we’d be having sex every day and we wouldn’t be doing this. Anyway, I might know a website that would work. I’ll tell you about it tonight.  
    I got back to work after that, but I was curious about what website he might be talking about. And after all the trash talk, I was also weirdly charged up. Too bad we couldn’t text—or talk—more often during the day. It was distracting, but fun.
    * * *
    Ian was already there when I arrived home that evening a little before nine. I found in him den working on his laptop. Naturally.  
    I kicked off my shoes and padded over to his side, giving him a kiss. “What time’d you get home?”  
    “About thirty minutes ago. Wanna see the website I was talking about earlier? I think it might work.” He tapped on his keyboard and a moment later the login page of