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A blast of artificially arctic air hit my face as I stepped into the house. It was a typically hot summer Saturday, and I'd spent it, as had become increasingly common, at work. Not only had I spent the last several weekends at the office, but I'd spent the entire past two weeks on the road taking depositions in a big case. It seemed like summer was slipping away, and I'd started to seriously wonder if all the perks - the big house, the pool, the luxury car - were worth the sacrifices.

One sacrifice in particular.

My wife Traci and I had always had a passionate relationship. She was perfect in nearly every way. Gorgeous. Confident. Sexy. Funny. And all mine. As in literally all mine. We'd met her freshman year of college, my senior year. She grew up in a tiny town and couldn't get out fast enough. She'd dated, but nothing serious, and surprisingly for a small midwestern town, nothing sexual. She once admitted she'd let her prom date touch the outside of her panties, but that was it, and it sure as hell wasn't for lack of interested partners.

To say we fell head-over-heals would be to put it mildly. She was intoxicating, like no woman I'd ever known before. It just felt right, and within weeks it was clear to everyone we were going to be together forever. I graduated that next spring, but stayed on campus to go to law school, and we both graduated at the same time. She stuck with me through the grueling first years as an associate, and now the ...

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