Bored. She was bored.
Peyton Randall heaved a sigh as she walked through the streets of Norfolk, heading for the condo she’d shared with her boyfriend for the past six months. She ought to be excited about seeing Bentley, after a long day spent apart. She ought to be looking forward to seeing him, because she loved him. Really, she did. But…
Well, things had just gotten so dull lately. So routine.
So boring.
She already knew precisely what would happen when she walked through the wooden front door. Bentley got home an hour earlier than she did, so he’d be almost done cooking dinner—and since it was Thursday, they’d be having pot roast. Then they’d sit down to a quiet night at home and watch TV. They were going through their various DVD sets together. It was her night to pick, so they’d watch Castle.
Then they’d read for an hour or so, go to bed, and have sex.
And unfortunately, the sex would be just as routine and dull as everything else.
By now, she knew exactly what to expect. There would be five to ten minutes of foreplay, including a few too-brief moments of oral sex. Then they’d make love either in the missionary position, or with her on top. Since she’d been on top last night, tonight would be the missionary position.
It wasn’t that she had anything against the missionary position, not really. It was just that she wanted to try something a little different. She wished that once, just once, he’d shove her up against the wall, or make love to her doggy-style, or…
Well, what she really wanted was for him to act like she was so sexy, so exciting, that he couldn’t control himself. But that, she reflected, was a pipe dream. Bentley simply wasn’t the out-of-control type.
Peyton sighed again. She loved him. There wasn’t any question of that. She’d loved him almost since the day she’d found herself by the side of the road with a flat tire, and he’d stopped to help her change it. He was that kind of guy—steady, dependable, and decent.
And she found him attractive, too. Any woman would. He was a gorgeous guy, with dark brown hair, striking green eyes, and a well-muscled six-foot-one frame. When they’d first started sleeping together, she’d been so excited, so thrilled by his touch, that she’d practically come just from kissing him. She wasn’t sure quite when that early excitement had faded into this nagging sensation of ennui.
She’d tried to hide her increasing boredom from him, because she was basically a nice girl, and she felt that nice girls shouldn’t complain about something that really wasn’t all that big a deal. Maybe she should have brought it up, mentioned that she thought things between them were getting a little mundane, but she didn’t want to hurt him. And then, last night…
She’d yawned, right in the middle of sex.
She had the terrible certainty he’d noticed, and she felt bad about it. It had been late, and she’d been tired after a long day at the office, but… well, she was pretty sure he realized that she wouldn’t have yawned if she’d been really into what they were doing. And she felt dreadful about that, because the last thing she’d wanted to do was hurt his feelings.
But she was just so bored.
She heaved another sigh, and walked a little faster. It was summer, and the sun still shone brightly, gilding new and old structures alike with an impartial golden glow. But even if it had been pitch-dark, she wouldn’t have worried too hard about walking through the streets. Walking alone in Norfolk would have once been a very foolhardy thing for a woman to do, but the city had gone through an impressive renaissance, and this area of town was pretty safe. She rode the Tide, the light rail system, to her job as an administrative assistant every morning, and that meant a walk of a few blocks to get to the MacArthur Station. But she enjoyed walking.
She just wished she enjoyed coming home.
Their brick townhouse rose up ahead of her, an end unit on a long, plain rectangle. It was as stolid and conservative as he was. Even his name was conservative—Bentley George Witherstone III. It was a name that sounded like its owner should be spending his spare time riding a polo pony, or sailing a yacht. It was a dignified, respectable, and entirely staid name, not a sexy one.
She became aware her steps were dragging again, and uttered yet another sigh. This wasn’t fair to her, or for that matter, to him. The absolute last thing she wanted was to dread coming home. She loved Bentley. She really did, and she knew she couldn’t blame her boredom entirely on him. This relationship had two sides, after all, and she obviously hadn’t been doing enough on her side. She needed to make more of an effort.
Maybe, she thought, she could shake things up a little between them. Encourage him to try something new. Put a little sparkle back into their love life.
With that in mind, she finger-combed her auburn hair, which had been disheveled by the hot breeze blowing from the Elizabeth River, into a semblance of neatness. Then she went up the stairs, toward the evening’s pot roast, and turned the doorknob. She stepped inside, into unexpected darkness.
Someone grabbed her and shoved her against the wall.
