it.
When I pushed open the door and stepped into the apartment, it was dark except for a sliver of light peeking out from under the bedroom door. I could hear the stereo on in the bedroom and knew instantly that Tom had fallen asleep again. I resisted the urge to laugh. This was bordering on ridiculous. He seemed to sleep eighteen hours a day. No wonder he didn’t appear to be making much progress on his novel.
It would work to my advantage this time, though. I laid my bag, the wine bottle, and my notes softly down on the kitchen table and smiled, thinking about what I would do. I was always so rushed and hassled after work. Maybe if I crept in and woke him up gently myself, snuggling up against him, we could make love before we went to dinner, before we opened the merlot. I felt like a sex addict myself as I thought about it. Tonight would be the night that everything would change.
I took out a corkscrew and two wineglasses and put them on the table beside the wine bottle, careful not to make any noise. I took a deep breath and readjusted my Wonderbra to push up my small bosom. In this bra and shirt I actually looked like I had a bit of cleavage. Hooray for the Wonderbra! Tonight it would be my secret weapon in the seduction of Tom.
Cole Brannon was suddenly as far from my mind as he had been before I’d met him. I mean, who needed some A-list movie star when you had a great live-in boyfriend you loved?
I crossed the room and stood by the closed bedroom door for a moment, smiling. The music was so loud. I never understood how men seemed to be able to sleep through nearly deafening sounds. I put my hand on the knob and envisioned for a moment how it would feel to curl up next to Tom. The music selection would have to change, though. Who could make love to “Born in the USA”? I took a deep breath and turned the knob.
“Hey baby, I’m home,” I said quietly as I pushed the door open. I started to say, “Did you miss me?” but I’m not sure how many words I got out before I choked on the end of the sentence.
Tom was in bed, all right, just where I’d expected him to be.
What I hadn’t expected was the naked brunette, her hair flying as she moved rhythmically up and down on top of him.
“What the hell?” I yelled over the din of the music. Evidently, Tom hadn’t missed me much at all. He looked suddenly up at me, red in the face and mouth agape. The brunette turned and looked at me with flickering eyes.
“What is
she
doing here?” she squealed, her heavily made-up face flushed. She stopped moving and stared at me. For a moment none of us spoke or moved. Through my utter shock, with Bruce Springsteen pumping at full volume through the stereo—
my
stereo—I was acutely aware that the brunette’s big breasts (which surely had to have been surgically enhanced) were still moving slightly up and down, an aftershock from their halted lovemaking.
My mouth was trying to shape something to say, but my brain wasn’t cooperating. I was vaguely aware that my mouth was hanging wide open, but there was nothing I could do about it.
“You promised she wouldn’t be home until later,” the brunette finally whined. She gestured angrily at me, turning back around to face Tom. I reached over wordlessly and turned off the stereo, plunging us into complete silence. I noticed the brunette hadn’t pulled away. Tom was still inside her. I felt like vomiting. “Well?” the brunette demanded, turning back to glare at me.
“Um, well, er—” Tom stammered, his eyes darting nervously back and forth between us. He paused for what seemed like an eternity, growing redder and redder by the moment.
It suddenly struck me, like a slow-motion revelation, that the brunette looked vaguely familiar. I stared hard at her face for a moment and had a sudden flashback to the
Mod
Christmas party in Margaret Weatherbourne’s enormous Upper East Side penthouse. I’d dragged Tom along against his protests. I remembered feeling
When I pushed open the door and stepped into the apartment, it was dark except for a sliver of light peeking out from under the bedroom door. I could hear the stereo on in the bedroom and knew instantly that Tom had fallen asleep again. I resisted the urge to laugh. This was bordering on ridiculous. He seemed to sleep eighteen hours a day. No wonder he didn’t appear to be making much progress on his novel.
It would work to my advantage this time, though. I laid my bag, the wine bottle, and my notes softly down on the kitchen table and smiled, thinking about what I would do. I was always so rushed and hassled after work. Maybe if I crept in and woke him up gently myself, snuggling up against him, we could make love before we went to dinner, before we opened the merlot. I felt like a sex addict myself as I thought about it. Tonight would be the night that everything would change.
I took out a corkscrew and two wineglasses and put them on the table beside the wine bottle, careful not to make any noise. I took a deep breath and readjusted my Wonderbra to push up my small bosom. In this bra and shirt I actually looked like I had a bit of cleavage. Hooray for the Wonderbra! Tonight it would be my secret weapon in the seduction of Tom.
Cole Brannon was suddenly as far from my mind as he had been before I’d met him. I mean, who needed some A-list movie star when you had a great live-in boyfriend you loved?
I crossed the room and stood by the closed bedroom door for a moment, smiling. The music was so loud. I never understood how men seemed to be able to sleep through nearly deafening sounds. I put my hand on the knob and envisioned for a moment how it would feel to curl up next to Tom. The music selection would have to change, though. Who could make love to “Born in the USA”? I took a deep breath and turned the knob.
“Hey baby, I’m home,” I said quietly as I pushed the door open. I started to say, “Did you miss me?” but I’m not sure how many words I got out before I choked on the end of the sentence.
Tom was in bed, all right, just where I’d expected him to be.
What I hadn’t expected was the naked brunette, her hair flying as she moved rhythmically up and down on top of him.
“What the hell?” I yelled over the din of the music. Evidently, Tom hadn’t missed me much at all. He looked suddenly up at me, red in the face and mouth agape. The brunette turned and looked at me with flickering eyes.
“What is
she
doing here?” she squealed, her heavily made-up face flushed. She stopped moving and stared at me. For a moment none of us spoke or moved. Through my utter shock, with Bruce Springsteen pumping at full volume through the stereo—
my
stereo—I was acutely aware that the brunette’s big breasts (which surely had to have been surgically enhanced) were still moving slightly up and down, an aftershock from their halted lovemaking.
My mouth was trying to shape something to say, but my brain wasn’t cooperating. I was vaguely aware that my mouth was hanging wide open, but there was nothing I could do about it.
“You promised she wouldn’t be home until later,” the brunette finally whined. She gestured angrily at me, turning back around to face Tom. I reached over wordlessly and turned off the stereo, plunging us into complete silence. I noticed the brunette hadn’t pulled away. Tom was still inside her. I felt like vomiting. “Well?” the brunette demanded, turning back to glare at me.
“Um, well, er—” Tom stammered, his eyes darting nervously back and forth between us. He paused for what seemed like an eternity, growing redder and redder by the moment.
It suddenly struck me, like a slow-motion revelation, that the brunette looked vaguely familiar. I stared hard at her face for a moment and had a sudden flashback to the
Mod
Christmas party in Margaret Weatherbourne’s enormous Upper East Side penthouse. I’d dragged Tom along against his protests. I remembered feeling
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