Malan went home.

The house was quiet and lonely as he expected.

He went into the kitchen. He took ham, turkey, cheese, lettuce, tomato, mayo and sandwich rolls out of the refrigerator and made himself a sandwich.

He licked his fingers. His eyes wondered to his wife's address book lying on the cherry phone stand. He really should call Lathal's mother and tell her about the accident. Andria Harvey would be upset by the news. Especially now. Lathal's father had died almost two years ago.

He sighed and picked up his cell phone. He dialed the number his wife had for her mom in his wife's address book.

"Hello?" Andria Harvey's familiar voice crackled into his ear.

"Mrs. Harvey," he said thinking he should call her mom but he wasn't comfortable with that yet.

"Malan," she said surprised her son-in-law had called. "How are you?"

He dispensed with the pleasantries and got right to the point. "Lathal had an accident yesterday."

"Is she OK?" Andria asked concern apparent in her voice.

He exhaled. "She's in the hospital. She fractured her left shoulder blade and right leg. She had surgery. The doctor put a metal rod in her right leg to help it heal."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"I --," he said leaning against the wall. "-- I don't think so."

"It'll be alright, Malan," Andria assured him. "You're the best thing that happened to my daughter."

He thought his mother-in-law didn't like him. He was astounded to hear her give him her stamp of approval.

"Take care, Malan," Andria said. "Have Lathal call me when she gets home."

"I will," he said hanging up.

He found the pumpkin bars Lathal had made for his birthday in the back of the refrigerator. He grabbed his sandwich, pan of pumpkin bars and a bag of chips and headed into the den.

He flopped on the couch and flipped on the TV. He propped his feet on the coffee table watching one of the movies he starred in and a fond memory rose up within him.

Lathal liked to play with him whenever she saw his commercials, TV sitcoms or movies.

"What does that actress have that I don't?" She mused watching the steamy sex scene between her husband and a Hollywood starlit.

"She has absolutely nothing compared to you," he rumbled, his voice was husky and sexy.

A wry curl perked in the left corner of her cheek. "I suppose you're going to tell me these scenes make you hot and bothered."

"They do."

She laughed, "Don't quit your day job, Babe."

He grinned sloppily. She was teasing him, and he loved every minute of it.

He'd love nothing more than to show her how much he loved her. He leaned in and tenderly kissed her.

"Malan," she whispered drinking in his essence.

"Lathal," he rasped, his tongue tangling with hers.

She inhaled sharply. Her hands stroked his hard chest, then drifted downward to the stiffness between his legs. He groaned, slowly peeling away her clothes; she, his.

He was getting it on just like the character he portrayed. Except this was real; what he did in his professional life wasn't.

Her eyes, glowing with passion, locked on his as she slowly and rhythmically swayed her hips. Her taut breasts, especially her hardened nipples, bobbed temptingly. He cupped her swollen mounds, lifting them to his mouth, suckling on them long and hard.

Waves of ecstacy tingling through her. She wriggled excitedly, making him soar with her.

He shifted slightly. He felt so desperately alone. He wanted his wife home with him.