My Hot Wife's Double Life

I sold my car to cover payroll—my last act as CEO before joining the gig economy. These days, I deliver takeout.

By the time I stumbled through the front door that evening, every muscle ached. Then I saw her.

Emily.

My wife was mid-downward dog, those pink yoga leggings clinging to curves that still stole my breath after five years of marriage. Sunlight caught the sweat glistening on her toned legs, that tiny waist I could circle with my hands, that perfect yoga-sculpted backside—my personal kryptonite.

"Ethan!" She sprang up, towel already in hand. "You idiot—riding in the rain?" Her fingers brushed wet hair from my forehead. "You'll get sick!"

"Surge pricing, babe." I caught her wrist, pulling her against me. Her citrus shampoo mixed with the scent of rain on my jacket. "Double pay after dark."

She swatted my chest but melted into the kiss—until her stomach growled. "Dinner first—"

"Dinner can wait."

The bedroom door barely shut behind us.

Later, cigarette smoke curled toward the ceiling as Emily jabbed my ribs. "Sophia's bringing Mark for hot pot in twenty minutes! What if they—"

"They'll smell the sex?" I grinned. "Tell them we were testing the new mattress."

She rolled her eyes but stood, dressing without shame—black stockings, that skirt that hit mid-thigh, a blouse with one too many buttons undone. Office-lady chic. My hands found her hips again.

"Ethan James Laurent!" She pivoted, suddenly solemn. "Listen. Sophia's firm needs agents. I want to help."

My smile died. Emily hadn't worked since our honeymoon.

"Babe, real estate's cutthroat. You'd—"