chatted with the anchors, and read all the hottest stories. It was actually a pretty quiet night, and she could hardly wait to get home to Steven. She knew he was having dinner out with friends, but she was pretty sure he'd be home when she finished work. He seldom stayed out very late, unless there was something to be gained from it, like some important business with a client.
The late show went fine, predictably, and at eleven thirty-five she was on her way home on the Santa Monica Freeway. She walked in her front door at five minutes to midnight, and the bedroom lights were still on, and her heart leapt with glee as she took the stairs to their bedroom two at a time, and then she laughed when she saw him. Steven was sound asleep on his side of the bed, arms spread out like a boy, exhausted and relaxed after a hard day at the office followed by a lively game of squash and an early dinner. He was out for the count and no amount of rustling around the room would rouse him.
“Well, Prince Charming,” Adrian whispered with a grin as she sat down next to him in her nightgown, “looks like it's a wrap, as they say in my business.” She kissed him gently on the cheek and he never stirred as she turned off the light and curled up on her own side of the bed. And as she lay there, she thought about being late again, but she knew it was probably nothing.
W HEN A DRIAN WOKE UP AT NINE-FIFTEEN, SHE could smell bacon cooking downstairs, and she could hear Steven clattering around in the kitchen. She smiled to herself as she rolled over in bed. She loved Saturdays, loved having him around, loved it when he brought her breakfast in bed and they made love afterward.
She could hear him coming up the stairs as she thought of it, he was humming to himself, banging the tray against the door as he came through, and she could hear the stereo downstairs playing Bruce Springsteen.
“Wake up, sleepyhead.” He grinned down at her in their bed, and set the tray down beside her as she stretched and smiled in answer. He was a vision of handsome young manhood. His hair was still wet from the shower he'd taken before she woke up and he was wearing fresh white tennis clothes, his long, shapely legs were tanned, and from where she lay, Steven's shoulders looked enormous.
“You know, you're pretty cute, for a guy who can cook.” She smiled up at him and propped herself up on one elbow.
“So are you, lazybones.” He sat down next to her on the bed, and she laughed at him.
“You should have seen yourself passed out here last night.”
“I had a tough day, and I was beat after we played squash.” He looked faintly embarrassed and made it up to her by kissing her promisingly just as she took a bite of bacon.
“Are you playing tennis today?” she inquired. She knew him well. He loved competitive sports, especially squash and tennis.
“Yeah. But not until eleven-thirty.” He glanced at his watch and smiled at her, and she laughed again, but before she could say anything, he had peeled off his tennis clothes and slipped into bed beside her.
“Now what's this all about, Mr. Townsend? Won't this weaken your tennis game?” She loved to tease him about his intense seriousness about his tennis.
“It might.” He looked pensive and she laughed again. And then he turned to her with a sexy smile. “But it could just be that you're worth it.”
“Could be? Could be? …You've got some nerve!” But he silenced her with a kiss, and a few minutes later they had both forgotten his tennis game, and half an hour later she was dozing contentedly in his arms, and he was gently stroking her shining black hair as it fell over her cheek and she purred at him. “Personally …I'd rather do that than play tennis anyday. …” She opened one eye and reached up to kiss him.
“So would I.” He stretched lazily, and an hour later he hated to get out of bed to go and shower again before he went to play with a man who lived in the complex and Steven
The late show went fine, predictably, and at eleven thirty-five she was on her way home on the Santa Monica Freeway. She walked in her front door at five minutes to midnight, and the bedroom lights were still on, and her heart leapt with glee as she took the stairs to their bedroom two at a time, and then she laughed when she saw him. Steven was sound asleep on his side of the bed, arms spread out like a boy, exhausted and relaxed after a hard day at the office followed by a lively game of squash and an early dinner. He was out for the count and no amount of rustling around the room would rouse him.
“Well, Prince Charming,” Adrian whispered with a grin as she sat down next to him in her nightgown, “looks like it's a wrap, as they say in my business.” She kissed him gently on the cheek and he never stirred as she turned off the light and curled up on her own side of the bed. And as she lay there, she thought about being late again, but she knew it was probably nothing.
W HEN A DRIAN WOKE UP AT NINE-FIFTEEN, SHE could smell bacon cooking downstairs, and she could hear Steven clattering around in the kitchen. She smiled to herself as she rolled over in bed. She loved Saturdays, loved having him around, loved it when he brought her breakfast in bed and they made love afterward.
She could hear him coming up the stairs as she thought of it, he was humming to himself, banging the tray against the door as he came through, and she could hear the stereo downstairs playing Bruce Springsteen.
“Wake up, sleepyhead.” He grinned down at her in their bed, and set the tray down beside her as she stretched and smiled in answer. He was a vision of handsome young manhood. His hair was still wet from the shower he'd taken before she woke up and he was wearing fresh white tennis clothes, his long, shapely legs were tanned, and from where she lay, Steven's shoulders looked enormous.
“You know, you're pretty cute, for a guy who can cook.” She smiled up at him and propped herself up on one elbow.
“So are you, lazybones.” He sat down next to her on the bed, and she laughed at him.
“You should have seen yourself passed out here last night.”
“I had a tough day, and I was beat after we played squash.” He looked faintly embarrassed and made it up to her by kissing her promisingly just as she took a bite of bacon.
“Are you playing tennis today?” she inquired. She knew him well. He loved competitive sports, especially squash and tennis.
“Yeah. But not until eleven-thirty.” He glanced at his watch and smiled at her, and she laughed again, but before she could say anything, he had peeled off his tennis clothes and slipped into bed beside her.
“Now what's this all about, Mr. Townsend? Won't this weaken your tennis game?” She loved to tease him about his intense seriousness about his tennis.
“It might.” He looked pensive and she laughed again. And then he turned to her with a sexy smile. “But it could just be that you're worth it.”
“Could be? Could be? …You've got some nerve!” But he silenced her with a kiss, and a few minutes later they had both forgotten his tennis game, and half an hour later she was dozing contentedly in his arms, and he was gently stroking her shining black hair as it fell over her cheek and she purred at him. “Personally …I'd rather do that than play tennis anyday. …” She opened one eye and reached up to kiss him.
“So would I.” He stretched lazily, and an hour later he hated to get out of bed to go and shower again before he went to play with a man who lived in the complex and Steven
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