My wife, her friend and I, playing with fire.

And it all started with a little black dress that was too short.

IA

The night in the small Gang City apartment was warm, the air thick with the late February heat that seeped in through the half-open windows. Susan stood in front of the bedroom mirror, the dim lights from the hallway reflecting off her silhouette. She was wearing a tight black dress, the kind Boris always said made him lose his mind. The fabric clung to her curves, highlighting that round little ass he never stopped praising, and ended just above her knees, revealing dark legs that looked sculpted by the Neoboltosian sun. Her brown hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, and although she looked lovely, there was something about her posture — hands crossed, lips pressed together — that screamed that shyness that characterized her so much.

Boris entered the room with a beer in his hand, his imposing figure filling the doorway. His shaved white hair gleamed in the light, and his trimmed beard gave him a rugged air that contrasted with the mischievous spark in his eyes. He leaned against the door frame, looking her up and down as if he were assessing a work of art.

“Fuck, Susan, that dress…” he said, letting his husky voice slide through the air. “You know what it does to me to see you like that, don’t you?”…