I didn’t open my mouth. I didn’t grab his shoulders, bury my fingers in his thick dark hair. I didn’t do anything that I longed to do. Instead, I fisted my hands at my sides, and ever so slowly, I kissed him back.

He gave me gentleness, so I returned his sweetness, my breath whispering across his closed lips. He gave me compassion, so I showered it upon the corner of his mouth, the full expanse of his bottom lip. He gave me respect, so I never once pushed the boundaries he had set. But I daresay I gave him the best damn kiss two closed-mouth people had ever shared.

When the minute was up, he drew back. But he was breathing harder now, and I could see something lurking in his eyes. Something dark, intense. It made me want to leap onto his lap, flatten him into the sofa, and fuck his brains out.

Instead, I whispered, “Truth or dare. Your turn. Ask me. Truth or dare.”

I could see the conflict. He wanted to say dare. He wanted me to touch him again. Or maybe take off my nice silky shirt. Or trail my hands across his hard chest.

“Truth,” he said huskily.

“Ask.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I can’t help myself.”

“Sandy.” He closed his eyes, and for a moment, I could feel his pain.

“Truth or dare,” I demanded.

“Truth,” he nearly groaned.

“What is the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

“What do you mean?”

“What is the worst thing you’ve ever done? Come on. Have you lied? Stolen? Seduced your best friend’s baby sister? Killed anyone? Tell me, Jason. I want to know who you are. We’re married, for God’s sake. Surely you owe me that much.”

He looked at me funny. “Sandra …”

“No. No whining, no negotiating. Just answer the question. Have you ever killed anyone?”

“Yes.”

“What?” I asked, genuinely surprised.

“Yes, I’ve killed someone,” Jason said. “But that’s not the worst thing I’ve ever done.”

Then my husband got off the sofa, took his paperback, and left me alone in the room.

Jason didn’t think he’d fallen asleep, but he must have, because shortly after one A.M., a sound roused him from the love seat. He jerked upright, registering a distant banging. The noise seemed to be coming from outside the house. He stood, crossing to the front windows, where he parted the curtains one inch and peered out.

Two uniformed officers had taken the lids off his trash cans. They were now in the process of moving the white kitchen bags from the refuse containers to the trunk of their police cruiser.

Shit, he thought, and nearly opened the front door to yell at them to stop. Then caught himself.