All Grown Up by Janice Maynard

sleepwear.
    In lieu of counting sheep, he began picturing her in various sexy outfits. Teddies. Football jerseys and knit shorts. Elegant negligees. Camis and thongs.
    His imagination was regrettably thorough. Cursing roughly, he cupped his hand around his aching shaft. He didn’t want to find relief in that way. He didn’t want to be alone.
    Another half hour passed. He was more awake than ever. Surely a warm room was preferable to this misery, even if he did have to sleep with his legs hanging off the end of the couch.
    Climbing out of bed, he winced when his bare feet met the cold wooden floor. He dressed rapidly in a pair of old, soft jeans and a flannel shirt that he wore when he did chores in the barn. Dragging two pairs of socks over his feet, he grabbed his flashlight and crept downstairs.
    Sadly, Annalise’s door was firmly closed.
    He walked quietly into the living room and shut himself in, away from temptation. His nose detected the faint scent of burnt marshmallow in the air. He had to smile, despite his discomfort. Annalise was never boring.
    Crouching on the hearth, he shoved twisted newspaper into the midst of the glowing coals. When a tiny flame erupted, he fed it, using an old-fashioned bellows to encourage the sparks. He thought ruefully of the high-tech gas fireplace in his condo overlooking Charlottesville and the mountains beyond. His home was exactly that—a home. He entertained there, relaxed there, and sometimes when the mood struck him, even worked from home.
    He had bought an industrial loft five years ago, torn out almost every wall and redesigned the space exactly the way he wanted it. The resultant living areas were open and roomy, but comfortable and welcoming at the end of a long day.
    Like his father, he had a hard time turning down new clients. He loved what he did, and it was both challenging and personally satisfying to give families and small businesses a manifestation of the dreams they carried in their hearts and minds.
    Seeing a new structure come to life on paper was a creative and artistic endeavor. Making the reality happen involved hard work and occasionally a dose of informal mediation when a husband wanted a man-cave and his wife a mini-gym.
    Sam prided himself on being able to give them both. He was a problem solver. Unfortunately, one of his biggest problems at the moment lay only a few feet away, fast asleep. It was anyone’s guess as to whether or not he and Annalise would reach an understanding…or perhaps even something far more interesting.
    Adding a final log to the fire, he rose to his feet, stretched and turned to survey the sofa. It sat farther back in the room at right angles to the fireplace. It wasn’t much of a decision to choose the leather chair and ottoman he had occupied earlier. Pulling them even closer to the fire, he grabbed an afghan and prepared to stretch out for what remained of the night.
    Before he could sit down, he realized he hadn’t replaced the fire screen. He picked up the unwieldy antique and moved it into position, but in doing so, knocked over the bellows, which in turn tumbled into a large brass urn, crashing it to the floor.
    He froze, hearing the sound echo through the house. Was Annalise a light sleeper? Ten seconds passed…fifteen…the silence told him he was home free.
    With a groan of exhaustion, he settled into the chair, pulled the cover to his chin and crossed his ankles. The position was semicomfortable. His eyelids grew heavy, and he watched the wildly dancing flames through his lashes, remembering bonfires from when he was a kid.
    He was almost asleep when a female voice, laden with irritation, spoke not two feet behind him. “Good Lord. What are you doing down here? You scared me to death. I thought an animal had gotten into the house.”
    Closing his eyes and counting to ten, he tried to assess the situation rationally. But even the sound of her voice turned him on, despite the fact that the tone was more angry than