How can he sleep, and so peacefully? I could understand if he were up on the bed, cuddling with me. But I had a long flight and oral sex, too, and I'm wide awake.

I shake my head and go take a shower. It's a nice bathroom, the nicest one Anthony and Ingrid have had so far, not that that's saying much. There's even a tub. Definite possibilities.

I wrap towels around myself, one around my body, one around my hair in my usual turban. I don't know if I should get dressed again. Are we going out on the town or staying in? Or is Tony's nap going to last awhile?

I go out to check on him and he still looks exhausted but contented. Well, I'll let him rest. I go to my overnight bag to fish out a fresh bra and panties, but my hand first touches underwear that is both more and less than the sum of those parts.

I haven't always packed sexy underwear for these reunions. The very first one, well, how could I know that I'd spend the night in a motel with Anthony after twenty-two years? The next one, well, I didn't want to assume we'd have sex. (How little I knew Ingrid & Anthony then!) The year after that, I packed that blue negligee, which wasn't too revealing, except as a gown for the dancefloor. And then for the twenty-fifth anniversary, well, we were roughing it and it's just as well I didn't bring anything fancy, because I got grass stains on my panties. (At least they were green panties, and Tony was very sweet about cleaning them when we got home.)

This time though, well, after having to delay our anniversary by eight months (so it's more like 26 and 2/3 years since the first kiss), and all that tension in the interval, not to mention that we would be staying in a nice motel, not a creepy one, not a nice but small cabin, not the great outdoors or a backpackers' hostel, well, I thought it might be time for some serious lingerie.

I finger the lace and imagine it against my skin again. (I haven't worn it since I bought it in a hurry on my lunch break one winter day.) I imagine Tony stroking it, stroking me.

I can hear in my head the way Tony's voice stroked my ears as he told me, "Stroke, stroke, stroke." One hand was on my shoulder, while the other overlapped mine on the tennis racket. I leaned back against him, copying his movements. I grinned and said, "Good housekeeper, good, good housekeeper."

We haven't exactly been keeping Ingrid & Anthony as separate as we used to. The frustration of Jamaica just made that I & A energy spill over into everyday life. Or I guess it's that the energy of those two intense days each year has instead been distributed over eight months. So that's, what, 1% of I & A each day? Not that it's an equal amount each day of course.

Had Anthony tried to teach Ingrid tennis, they probably would've ended up having sex! Since it was me and Tony, it was just flirtation. But yes, it all added up over time, which is why we had to, well, consume each other almost as soon as we got into the motel room.

Sometimes this longing is wonderful. I feel so happy, even giddy. Tony and I have flirted for years, but there's so much more to it these days. So much more anticipation. And after our talk in Jamaica, I sometimes feel confident that we will be together, truly together, all the time, someday.

Sometimes I feel that way. And other times, I feel so insecure. Why does Tony still feel the need to not just flirt with other women but to date them? It was a relief to hear that he hasn't been with any woman since Frankie. Because of Ingrid? Because of me?

I still don't know if he loves me like I know I love him. I know he loves me. He's told me, he's shown me. But it's not in-love love, is it? He's thought about marrying me, and he told me once that he wouldn't marry without love. But if he's not ready to marry me, does that mean he's not yet in love? After all, he didn't have to think about it with Marie. He just knew and jumped into it.

Yes, I still occasionally go out with other men, or at least think about it. But I'd rather wait for Tony. And, yes, having him in the form of Anthony eases the waiting. I think that may be why, even though he does go out with other women, it fizzles out almost before it starts.

How long will this go on? Till he graduates? But what then? Will we marry or drift apart? Or neither? He won't be my good housekeeper forever. So what will he be then?

He has chosen a major at least. He wants to be a teacher. I hope he goes through with it. He's so patient and wise, and wonderful with children. But he's still got over two years of college left, and so much can happen in the meantime. For him, for us.

I told Sam, when I found out that she and Jonathan saw us necking in Jamaica, "Your father and I have this very complicated, open-ended relationship that's kind of in flux." Obviously, the I & A dimension has added its own complications.

I realize that none of this explains why I bought and packed a black teddy. Well, I hope we'll have many more anniversaries, until we find a way to truly, fully bring Ingrid & Anthony into our lives. But whether or not we do, I want to be as sexy as I can on this not-quite-anniversary. And when I go back into the bathroom and put on the teddy, I try to see it as Tony will. He'll ogle my legs, from my warm toes to my smooth thighs. He'll try to spot my nipples through the peekaboo lace. He'll like the way my tush (as he calls it, seldom butt or ass, or derriere for that matter) is hugged so that the outer edges of the cheeks are just visible. And he'll want to remember the crotch that's being covered up by the solid black.

I unwrap my turban. Hair up or down? I look more wanton with it down, but I know he likes it best up. OK. I put it in a French twist.

I return to the bedroom. He's still sleeping! That's quite a nap, Mr. Micelli. Well, Mrs. Micelli is going to put on the finishing touch. I take out the matching black lace peignoir and return to the bathroom mirror. Perfect! Sexy but elegant.

Of course, I don't know if I can maintain this till morning. Well, if he's not up by the time I'm sleepy, I'll go change.

I get out Anne Brontë again, since I didn't get much reading done on the plane back from Jamaica. Obviously, it's hard to concentrate, knowing that Tony is so close, with his boxers and jeans still down. But I'll let the poor man sleep.

I snuggle under the covers, wishing I were snuggling with Tony instead of a book, much as I love to read. But I'll try to be patient.

Luckily, it's a short wait. I get only a couple pages in before I hear, "Whoa, how long was I out for?"

"Maybe half an hour."
"Sorry about that. Hope you weren't bored."

"No, I can amuse myself."

"Yeah?" He sounds turned on, so I know what he's imagining. He sits up and puts his head over the edge of the bed. "Oh. You're reading a book." He sounds disappointed.

"Mm hm. Well, I am a Literature professor."

"Oh, right." He sounds like he forgot for a little while that we are not supposed to be ourselves this weekend, but I've forgotten that a bit myself.

He stands up and then crawls into bed. He snuggles up against me, on top of the covers, and asks, "Whatcha readin'?" in a cute/annoying way. I show him. "Yeah? I read Wuthering Heights." I remember. When Sam read it to impress her grad-student crush. And since Tony, from the days he memorized her drill team's cheers to the present, likes to be a part of Sam's life, he read it, too.

"Did you like it?" I ask, remembering Tony's verdict that it was crazy but passionate.

"It was OK. I liked Jane Eyre better."

"Oh?" I didn't know he'd read it. "Why?"

"Well, the main character, Jane, she was a quiet, mousy girl on the surface but she was a volcano underneath."

I laugh. "I never looked at it that way before."

"See? Even you Literature professors can learn something."

"I suppose so."

"So how's their sister as a writer?"

"I don't know. I haven't finished the book yet."

"Do you have to read it right now?"

"Well, let me finish this chapter first."

He looks disappointed, but as if he can afford to be patient now that the edge has been taken off our overflowing lust. "OK, maybe I'll nap a little more while I wait." He slides under the covers to snuggle me more closely, and then he gasps as he feels the lace and silk of the teddy. He throws back the covers entirely. "INGRID!"

"Hm?" I say, pretending I'm concentrating on the book. I wish I had my reading glasses on, to add to the pretense, although these days I more often wear my contacts than those huge glasses I got when I first knew Tony. After all, it's the '90s now.

"Why didn't you tell me what you were wearing?"

"Well, you were asleep."

"You could've woken me up!"

"Well, you're awake now. What do you plan to do about it?" I don't look away from my book, but there's a challenge in my voice. I know he will rise to that challenge.

He hesitates and then he strokes strokes strokes the teddy and the skin at its edges. "So soft," he murmurs.

"Thank you," I murmur, still not putting my book away.

"Why are you teasing me like this, Ingrid?"

"Because you like to be teased, Anthony."

"Yeah, but there's such a thing as reciprocation."

"Oh?" I turn the page, although I'm not actually reading by this point.

"Yeah." His touches get more teasing, especially on the fabric over my nipples.

I let out little happy sounds, but I do my best to continue to pretend to read. So then he starts using his mouth. Light kisses at first and then nibbles, which he's never done before. Not hard bites, just teeth-teases. I'm ready to throw the book to the floor and jump him, but I do my best to maintain my pose.

He pleasures my breasts through the fabric and I have to force myself not to reach orgasm. He scoots back up to the bed and asks, "How's that chapter comin'?"

"Closer to finishing but still not there."

"I hope you reach it soon," he says and then tries to pull the top of the teddy down. But he rips it! "Oh, geez, I'm sorry Ang—I mean Ingrid."

"You're going to have to buy me a new one, Anthony," I try to say sternly.

"Yeah? Well, in that case." And he puts one hand on my crotch and starts teasing that until he rips the panty section apart.

I could stop him easily, with a word or a look. But I just say, "Dear me, it's going to be in shreds by the time you're done with it."

"It was in my way," he says, not at all contrite now. And then he touches and kisses me everywhere, till I do toss the book aside and just give myself up to pleasure.

He's solid as a rock by the time he's done, so he mounts me. "No condoms, Ingrid?"

"No condoms, Anthony. I'm still on the Pill." (And 40 in a couple months, although I don't mention that.)

He grins down at me. "Great!" And he enters me. I can't really tell much difference without a condom, but he definitely can. "OH GOD, INGRID! I'm really inside you now!"

"Yes, Anthony," I whisper, watching his expressive face. We couldn't have done this when we first got together. Not just because we weren't celibate the rest of the year, but also because there is something incredibly intimate about it. I don't just mean below. I mean his eyes, his smile, maybe his heart, definitely his melting mind.

"Stroke, stroke, stroke," I tease, and he grins again.

Then he puts his full weight on me and I hold him close, everywhere, every way, I can.

When he comes, it's quickly, shouting Ingrid's name. Then he lays next to me, snuggly and sweet. "Sorry, Ingrid. It was too much for me."

I kiss his cheek. "I understand."

"But you need more, don't you?"
"Always," I say, and I don't just mean I need more orgasms. I mean more of him, more Anthony, more Tony. Forever and ever. But I can't say that of course.

"Let's go take a shower together."

I grin at him, knowing what he means. I haven't had shower sex since the early days with Michael. (Grant never had time for the extras, beyond some foreplay I mean. And Geoffrey had his bathroom routine, including flossing, and it wasn't terribly erotic.)

I take off my peignoir and then toss the remnants of the teddy on the floor, to see if Anthony will become my good housekeeper and pick it up. But he doesn't even seem to care about the mess we've made of the bed, even messier without a condom. In fact, he drops his shirt next to the teddy.

I take his hand and lead him into the bathroom. "You like it hot, Anthony?" I ask, as I turn on the faucets. "Or cool and refreshing?"

"Let's start with warm and see where we want to go from there. Definitely not cold."

I grin at him. "This is how I like it," I say as I step in. "Let me know what you think."

He follows me in. "Yeah, nice to start." He takes the soap and starts to lather me up everywhere. My breasts aren't particularly filthy, but you'd think they were, considering the amount of attention he pays them. He also bathes my legs thoroughly. And then beyond thoroughly between them.

He nips at my neck as I come, which only adds to the intensity. "No hickeys!" I warn, although I can't say it's because Mother and the kids will notice. But he understands.

I wait till I catch my breath before I start washing him. I realize that I've never actually caressed Tony like this, naked and standing up, definitely not with a shower running. I think of how he had to fake a shower for the Machismo commercial. At that point, he had seen me nude, but not lingeringly.

I had to stand there, in my guise of advertiser, and try to be objective, through all those takes, about how he looked. He wasn't a very good actor (he's improved since then), but he definitely looked good in just a bathing suit. I noticed where he had hair, on his chest and his lower back, as well as of course his armpits. I noticed the shape and the placement of his muscles. But I was honestly so distanced from my attraction to him then, that I told myself that I would view any of the male models this way.

Mother had of course pointed out on the day I met Tony, when she was urging me to hire him, that Tony was a hunk. Well, I didn't go for "hunks." I thought they were all like Mr. March, although I hadn't met Gus yet. You know, vain, brainless. Tony definitely had a streak of vanity (he still does), but he was not brainless. Uneducated and sometimes ungrammatical, but he was sharp, clever. And, as I learned in time, warm, sensitive, caring.

This only makes him sexier. The better I get to know him, the sexier he is. And now, as I move the soap along this gorgeous, near-perfect body (I have mixed feelings about the "Keep on Truckin' " tattoo on his upper arm), some of the time I'm ogling, but the rest of the time I'm watching that face I know almost better than my own. There is no doubt that I'm giving him pleasure.

The water is warm enough that it doesn't stop him from becoming hard in my hands. "That's right, Ingrid, soap me up. I'm gonna give you some deep scrubbing."

I giggle and then moan. We start necking, the shower running down our bodies like rain. And then our bodies join, standing up, almost of their own volition, his thrusting into mine, mine opening for his. We are the perfect height for this.

At the end, I see the expression I love most, Anthony losing himself helplessly in orgasm. It always seems to take him by surprise. Maybe the timing, maybe the intensity. Or maybe he still can't get over that he's coming with Ingrid. And I suppose again coming without a condom makes it all the better for him.

We grab towels and, leaning on each other for support, stumble back into bed. We collapse onto the bed in a tangled sleep, and my last conscious thought is that this is the best Easter weekend ever, and it's still only Friday. A good Good Friday with my good, good housekeeper.