“No,” you say. “That’s too much.” “Not for you,” he says. “Nothing is too much for you.” You know what he really means is Nothing is too much for me. “You could really do that?” you say. An hour and a half later, you’re on a plane. You have a few drinks, you sit in his lap, you let his hand wander, and you slap it back. He has to ache for you and believe there is only one way to have you. If he doesn’t want you enough, if he believes he can get you another way, it’s all over. You’ve lost. When the plane lands and he asks if the two of you should book a room at the Sands, you must demur. You must be shocked. You must tell him, in a voice that makes it clear you assumed he already knew, that you don’t have sex outside of marriage. You must seem both steadfast and heartbroken about this. He must think, She wants me. And the only way we can make it happen ts to get married. For a moment, you consider the idea that what you’re doing is unkind. But then you remember that this man is going to bed you and then divorce you once he’s gotten what he wants. So no one is a saint here. You're going to give him what he’s asking for. So it’s a fair trade. You go to the craps table and play a couple of rounds. You keep losing at first, as does he, and you worry that this is sobering both of you. You know the key to impulsivity is believing you are invincible. No one goes around throwing caution to the wind unless the wind is blowing their way. You drink champagne, because it makes everything seem celebratory. It makes tonight seem like an event. When people recognize the two of you, you happily agree to get your picture taken with them. Every time it happens, you hang on to him. You are telling him, in no small way, This is what it could be Itke if I belonged to you. You hit a winning streak at the roulette table. You cheer so ebulliently that you jump up and down. You do this because you know where his eyes are going to go. You let him catch you catching him.