The drive to Vegas had been my idea. We needed it. Between my job at the firm and Sarah managing the house and her part-time work at the library, we had become roommates. We were efficient roommates who paid bills on time and kept the fridge stocked. But we weren’t lovers. Not really.

We checked into the hotel around four in the afternoon. The room was expensive. It had a view of the fountains and a balcony, which was rare for the Strip. We didn’t waste time on the view. We unpacked. We showered. We got ready for the night.

That was when the trouble started. Or maybe that was when the fun started. It depends on how you look at it.

I sat on the edge of the king-sized bed and watched my wife get dressed. We have been married for twenty years. I know every inch of her. I know the scar on her knee from childhood. I know the way her hair curls when it is humid. I thought I knew everything.

Sarah stepped out of the bathroom. She had a towel wrapped around her hair and another around her body. She dropped the body towel.

I stopped looking at my phone.

Sarah is forty-two years old. Most of the wives in our neighborhood have let go. They wear sweatpants. They complain about their weight while eating cake. Sarah is different. She works hard at it. She hits the gym three days a week and does yoga in the living room on the other days.

It shows.

She stood there naked in the hotel room light. She is five foot three and about one hundred and fifteen pounds. She is small, but she is toned. Her legs are tight from the running. Her waist is slim.

She turned to the mirror to dry her hair. I watched her ass. It’s such a perfect handful, high and firm. She caught me looking in the mirror.

“Take a picture,” she teased. “It lasts longer.”

“I might,” I said.

I meant it.

She pulled on her underwear. Tonight she chose a simple black thong. I watched her pull it up her legs. I watched the fabric disappear between her butt cheeks. She turned and hooked a black bra. She is a 34 C. They are real. They are still perky. I felt my cock stir in my pants.

“What are you wearing tonight?” I asked.

“The black dress,” she said.

I knew the one. It was a cocktail dress she bought for a Christmas party last year. It was short. It was tight. It showed off everything she worked so hard in the gym to maintain.

She slipped it on. She needed help with the zipper. I stood up and walked over to her. I ran my hand down her bare back before I pulled the zipper up. Her skin was soft. She smelled like vanilla and expensive soap.

I kissed her neck.

“We could stay in,” I whispered.

She leaned back into me. I could feel her ass press against my groin. She knew I was semi-hard.

“You promised me dinner and gambling,” she said. “Plus you registered for that tournament.”

She was right. I stepped back. I finished buttoning my shirt.

We took the elevator down to the casino floor. The doors opened and the noise hit us. It was the sound of money and desperation. Slot machines rang. People shouted at the craps tables. The air smelled of cigarettes and perfume.

I walked close to Sarah. I noticed the looks immediately.

It is a strange thing to be a husband of a beautiful woman in Vegas. You feel proud. You also feel territorial.

We walked past a group of guys in their twenties. They were drinking beers and being loud. As Sarah walked by, they went quiet. I saw their eyes drop. They looked at her legs. The dress hit her mid-thigh. Her legs looked long in her heels. They looked at her ass.

One of them nudged his buddy. He whispered something. The buddy looked and grinned.

I put my hand on the small of Sarah’s back. It was a claim. She is mine.

But I have to admit something. It turned me on.

I liked that these young guys wanted her. I liked that they looked at my wife and saw a piece of ass. It validated me. It made me feel like I had won something.

“Where do you want to play?” I asked.

“Blackjack,” she said. “I feel lucky.”

We walked toward the table games. The deeper we got into the casino, the thicker the crowd became.

I spotted the poker room in the back. It was walled off with glass. It was quiet inside. Serious.

“My tournament starts in twenty minutes,” I said.

We stopped near a bank of blackjack tables. The minimums were fifty dollars. The crowd here was a bit better dressed.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll find a seat here.”

I looked at her. She looked small standing there surrounded by the noise and the lights. She looked vulnerable. She also looked incredible. The lighting in the casino made her skin glow.

“If I run deep in this tournament,” I said. “It could be a long night. Deep stacks take forever.”

“How long is forever?” she asked.

“Four hours. Maybe five. If I make the final table it could be all night.”

She smiled. “I’ll be fine. I have a budget. If I lose it, I’ll go up to the room and read.”

“Text me if you win big,” I said.

I kissed her. I didn’t give her a peck on the cheek. I kissed her on the lips. I used a little tongue. I wanted to taste her before I sat with a bunch of sweaty men for five hours.

She kissed back. She tasted like white wine.

“Go,” she said. “Win some money.”

I walked away. I turned back once when I reached the poker room entrance.

Sarah had found a seat at a table. She was climbing onto the high stool. The dress rode up her thighs as she sat. I saw a man at the next table look over. He stared at her legs. He stared for a long time.

I felt that twinge again. Jealousy mixed with lust. I forced myself to turn around and walk into the poker room.

I registered and found my seat. The tournament was a standard Texas Hold’em deep stack. I had plenty of chips. I settled in.

I tried to concentrate on the cards. I folded the first few hands. I watched the other players. To my left was a guy in sunglasses and a hoodie. To my right was an older tourist who didn’t know what he was doing.

It should have been easy money.

But I couldn’t focus.

I kept thinking about Sarah. I kept thinking about the black thong. I kept thinking about the look on that kid’s face when we walked by.

I checked my phone. It had been forty-five minutes. No texts.

I won a small pot with a pair of tens. I lost a small pot with Ace Jack. I was treading water.

The boredom set in quickly. This is the thing about poker they don’t show on TV. It is hours of boredom punctuated by moments of terror. Today, the boredom was worse because I knew my hot wife was sitting fifty yards away in a dress that showed off her body.

I wondered who was sitting next to her. I wondered if she was winning.

An hour and a half in, I picked up pocket Kings.

It was the first real hand I had seen all night. I was in the big blind. The guy in the hoodie raised. I looked at my cards again. Two Kings. Cowboy spades and Cowboy hearts.

I re-raised.

The hoodie thought for a moment. He shoved all his chips in the middle.

I should have thought about it. I should have considered that he had been playing tight all night. I should have been careful.

But I was bored. I was horny. I wanted to double up or go home.

“Call,” I said.

I flipped my Kings over. He flipped his cards.

Pocket Aces.

My stomach dropped. It was the classic cooler. Kings into Aces. I stood up. I waited for the board.

The flop came Jack, Four, Nine. No help.

The turn was a Two.

The river was a Queen.

“Good hand,” I said.

I was out. I had lasted less than two hours.

I gathered my things. I felt the sting of losing, but underneath it I felt a strange sense of relief. I was free. I didn’t have to sit here anymore.

I walked out of the poker room. The noise of the casino assaulted me again. It was louder now. It was Friday night proper. The drinks were flowing.

I checked my phone. No texts from Sarah.

I decided not to text her. I would surprise her. We could go get a nice steak dinner. Maybe we could go back to the room first. I had a sudden urge to pull that black dress off her.

I navigated the crowds. I headed back toward the blackjack pit where I left her.

I scanned the tables, looking for the black dress.

I didn’t see her at first. I walked down the row of tables.

Then I saw her.

She was still at the same table. She had a stack of chips in front of her. She was winning.

But that wasn’t what stopped me.

She wasn’t alone.

There was a man sitting next to her. He wasn’t one of the fat tourists I had seen earlier. He was young. Maybe late twenties. He had dark hair and was wearing a fitted dress shirt. He looked like he belonged in a magazine ad for expensive watches.

He was leaning in close to her. He whispered something.

Sarah threw her head back and laughed.

It wasn’t her polite library laugh. It was her real laugh. It was the laugh she used when she’d had two glasses of wine and I was being charming.

I stood behind a bank of slot machines. I watched.

I told myself I was just observing. I didn’t want to interrupt her winning streak.

But I knew the truth. I wanted to see what was happening.

The dealer dealt the cards. Sarah had a twelve. The dealer had a ten showing.

Sarah hesitated. She looked at the man next to her. He smiled. He had perfect teeth. He pointed at the table.

“Hit it,” I saw him mouth the words.

Sarah tapped the table. The dealer snapped a card down. It was a nine. Twenty-one.

Sarah clapped her hands. She turned to the man. She put her hand on his arm. She squeezed his bicep.

I felt a hot spike in my chest. She was touching him.

It was innocent. I told myself it was innocent. It was just excitement. She was winning money. Comradery at the table is normal.

I took a step forward. I was going to walk up and put my hand on her shoulder and introduce myself. I was going to mark my territory.

Then I saw it.

The man laughed. He leaned back. His hand moved from the felt. It dropped down.

It landed on Sarah’s knee.

I froze.

It wasn’t an accident. He didn’t brush her. He cupped her knee. His hand was tan against her skin.

I waited for Sarah to react. I waited for her to flinch. I waited for her to slap his hand away. I waited for her to give him the look she gives creeps at the mall.

She didn’t move.

She stayed perfectly still. She looked at the dealer. She took her payout.

His hand stayed on her knee. His thumb moved. It stroked the side of her kneecap. It was a small movement. It was intimate.

“Get your hands off her,” I whispered to myself.

I started walking. I was angry. I was going into confrontation mode. I was the husband. She was the wife. This guy was crossing a line.

I got within twenty feet. I was coming up on her left side.

The man must have sensed something. Or maybe it was just luck. He lifted his hand. He picked up his drink. He took a sip.

Sarah turned and looked in my direction. She didn’t see me. I was blocked by a cocktail waitress taking an order.

I stopped.

The hand was gone.

Had I imagined it?

I replayed the scene in my head. No. I saw it. He touched her knee. But now he was just sitting there, looking at his cards. Sarah was stacking her chips.

If I walked up now, I would look like a crazy person. I would look jealous and insecure. If I accused him, he would deny it. Sarah would say I was seeing things.

I stepped back. I moved behind a pillar wrapped in gold casing.

I watched them.

The dealer shuffled the deck. The man said something to Sarah. She smiled. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. It was a flirtatious move. I knew that move. She used it on me when we were dating.

I felt confused. Sarah was a good wife. She was loyal. She didn’t flirt with strangers in casinos.

But she didn’t pull away when he touched her.

I looked at the bar. It was situated on a raised platform in the center of the pit. It offered a clear view of the tables.

I made a decision. I wasn’t going to interrupt. Not yet.

I wanted to know.

I walked to the bar and found a stool that faced her table. I was about forty feet away. I had a direct line of sight to her profile and the man’s left side.

I ordered a scotch rocks. I didn’t drink it immediately. I held the glass. The cold condensation wet my palm.

I watched.

For the next ten minutes, nothing happened. They played cards. They talked. They ordered drinks. The waitress brought Sarah a glass of white wine. She brought the man a whiskey.

I started to feel foolish. I had overreacted. He probably bumped her knee. I was just projecting my own horniness onto the situation. I should finish my drink and go say hello.

Then the man shifted his chair.

He didn’t move his chair away to give her space. He moved it closer. Their legs were almost touching under the table.

He put his cards down. He rested his left hand on his thigh. Then, slowly, casually, his hand bridging the gap.

It landed on Sarah’s thigh.

This wasn’t her knee. This was higher. This was mid-thigh. He was touching the bare skin below the hem of her black dress.

I wasn’t imagining things.

His fingers spread out. He gripped her thigh. The black fabric of her dress bunched slightly under his pinky.

Sarah froze. I saw her back stiffen. She was looking at the dealer, staring straight ahead. She held her wine glass in her right hand. Her knuckles were white.

She wasn’t pushing him away.

I gripped my glass. My anger flared again, hot and sharp. But right next to the anger was something else.

My heart was pounding. My blood was rushing south.

I was just seeing another man touch my wife. I was seeing another man claim the body that was supposed to be mine.

And Sarah was letting him.

She took a sip of wine. She didn’t look at him. She didn’t look at his hand. But she didn’t move her leg. She didn’t cross her legs to dislodge him. She sat there, open, accepting his touch.

The man’s thumb began to move. He was rubbing her thigh. Up and down. A slow, rhythmic caress.

I watched his hand. It was mesmerizing. Dark against her pale leg.

“Do something, Sarah,” I whispered.

I wanted her to stop him. I really did.