>

"No. Don't you dare leave! Get over here," Aaron snapped, grabbing my arm and throwing me back on the bed. He stopped joking and roared, "Okay, you stupid b*tch, now you're going to get it." He sounded enraged. I didn't know if he was genuinely pissed off or simply playing the role. But when he ripped off my jeans and slapped me, something happened. I felt nervous. Tingly. Excited. Transported. Rubbing against him, I had a major orgasm before he was even inside me. It was more intense than any "little death" I remembered with those bad boy idiots I'd gone for in my teens and twenties. Who knew you could be so erotically enraptured by your own spouse?

I was so gratified and grateful afterward that all I wanted to do was please Aaron. So, for our second act, we went all the way, the way I knew he preferred—gentle strokes, sweet nothings whispered in his ear, plenty of "I love you, babys." I wasn't bored this time. I felt so close to my husband, I didn't mind running this half of the show.

Both of us were restless sleepers who usually crashed far apart on our California King bed, but the next morning, I woke with my arms around him, kissing his warm back. Our tryst was so memorable that I made myself come in the middle of the day just thinking about it. Then I sent him an email—"Last night was so hot!"—and when he got home, we did it again! The last time we'd done it twice in twenty-four hours was back when we'd had sex for the first time. Seeing how delighted I was, and how being sexually satisfied changed our whole dynamic, he became more willing and open.

Five years after taking our wedding vows, I was shocked to fall madly, passionately in lust with my husband. I'd thought marriage meant making a choice between adoration and ardor, but it turned out both were possible in one package. Okay, it took therapy with a perceptive shrink, figuring out what rang my bell, and asking for it blatantly—several (dozen) times. But when I stopped expecting my mate to read my mind and body, and clearly verbalized what I wanted—exactly the way I wanted it—I got it.

After celebrating our 12th anniversary, Aaron and I still score several times a week. Nowadays he gets into being the dominating bully and stays in character for as long as I want him to. He was recently annoyed with me for throwing out an old ripped T-shirt. He wanted to rip it to shreds himself, he told me, with me still wearing it (I was happy to offer another with a small hole he could go to town on). A friend who plays out more brazen bedroom games with her lover told me we needed a safe word—in case it ever gets out of hand. So far "Stop it" works just fine and I only used it once—when my leg was getting a cramp. Meanwhile I've come every single time my husband and I have gone for it for the last six years, which seems quite unbelievable and astounding.

"That's way too much pressure. Stop saying it or you'll jinx it" he warns, and I happily disobey.