Part 2Shotgun Wedding to the Cop

I poked at the two new stress pimples on my chin, a restless heat simmering under my skin.

Maya forwarded me an article titled: The Dangers of a Sexless Marriage.

Her text followed immediately after: [If you don't get some action soon, you're going to turn into a nun.]

Attached was a video of a guy with washboard abs opening a beer bottle with his belt buckle.

[I got a private room and invited all your favorite streamers.]

[Get over here! My treat!]

That was all it took. The words “my treat” obliterated what little marital fidelity I had left.

“Screw it!”

I ripped off my pajamas and threw them on the bed. Out came the short skirt and the spaghetti-strap top.

“Tonight, Mama’s gonna be an outlaw!”

Still, just in case, I sent Nate a quick text.

[Still chasing bad guys tonight?]

This time, he replied almost instantly.

[Yep.]

Perfect. A man busy chasing criminals had no time to chase a cheating wife.

[Okay, have fun! I'm heading to bed then~]

It was Maya’s birthday party. She was beautiful, well-connected, and wild. She’d assembled a small army of male models and influencers. The moment I walked into the private club room, I was surrounded by a sea of shirtless, sculpted young men.

“Wow, you’re so beautiful.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Can I dance for you?”

“You can touch my abs if you want.”

By the time the tenth chiseled boy-toy leaned in and called me “ma’am,” I finally understood what it must have felt like to be a Roman empress.

“Wanna feel?” a silver-haired kid with wolfish eyes asked, lifting the hem of his shirt. Eight perfect abdominal muscles glistened under the dim lights. “Just started working on my V-line…”

I swallowed hard and tried to lean back, but my fingers had a mind of their own, inching forward.

Damn it, a woman works hard. She deserves a night like this.

The sight of his muscles, half-hidden beneath his shirt, made my head spin.

“Ma’am? Are your hands shaking?”

Of course they were shaking. At this very moment, my husband’s hands—the very hands that catch criminals—were probably wrapped around the grip of his service weapon. Meanwhile, my hands were about to grope another man’s waist.

Just as the endless chorus of “ma’am” had me floating on cloud nine, the door to our private room was kicked open with a deafening crash.

“Vice raid! Hands on your head, get down!”