Ian Yarrow is rich and reclusive, hiding himself away from the rest of the world. At least that's what Cynthia Marshall is told when her boss at the newspaper sends her to do an in depth article on him for the society section of the paper. What she finds surprises her, a handsome young man in a wheelchair. His self-confidence gone, he withdraws from those around him, erecting walls and roadblocks in order to protect himself. Cynthia has some hard questions for him, a few he doesn't really want to answer, but getting to the truth is the only thing that will set him free.
“Something about you girls with the fiery locks that makes a man weak,” he sighed.
“All me.” She tossed her short hair. “Well, some highlights, but the red is all me.”
He wasn't staring at her hair. She was wearing a flimsy T-shirt and no bra. He could tell by the way her breasts jiggled when she moved. He was mesmerized.
“Hello? The face is up here,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.
Instead of covering her breasts up, the crossed arms popped them up and outward. Her nipples seemed to chastise him for looking at them. He couldn't help it, he was fascinated. She was beautiful, intelligent, confident and very much her own woman. She'd put up with him when he was acting like a spoiled child, then turned around and gave him one of the best nights of his life.
She snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Excuse me! When I need you to stare at my tits, I'll tell you. I think you'll do a bang-up job. You seem to be talented in that area already.”
“Sorry,” he grinned apologetically. “They're very nice tits, Cynthia. Extraordinary, in fact.”
“One pair is tits is like another.”
“You say that because you have them. See, when you're on the receiving end of tits, not sporting a pair, you notice the differences. Some are perky and pert, round and firm—the compact model. Others are saggy and well worn, the sedan model. Then there are those that are extra round, excessively pert, ultra soft, and firmly delicious—the sporty model. And those are what you have.”
“I've got sporty tits?” She didn't know whether to be flattered or horrified.
“Oh, yeah.”
“Thank you. I think? Is that a compliment?”
“It sure is from my perspective.”
“Which is what?”
“The perspective of a man who's strongly attracted to you.”
“Why do you date married women?”
“Why would you ask me a question like that? I just told you I'm attracted to you.”
“Why?”
“Why what? Why am I attracted or why do I date married women?”
“Both.”
He sighed heavily, rolling his eyes. “They don't expect a commitment. They don't want anything but the sex and to feel desirable for a little while.”
“And me? You told me Thursday, you'd do anything with the right equipment.”
“An exaggeration. Once in awhile, I indulge in some naughty, meaningless sex with a willing female—married or not. It's not every night, not even every week. We have a mutually satisfying encounter. Is that a crime?”
“But why me? I mean, you've done super models and trophy wives. I'm not like any of those women. For one thing, my parts are all original.”
“I don't know, Cynthia. There's something about you....”
“What? What is there about me?”
Frustrated, he leaned back on the chaise, arms crossed. “I don't know. You excite me like no other woman I've met. I don't understand it. There's just something about you....”
He was angry that he couldn't put his feelings into words. That had never happened to him before. He could always say what he thought.
“What is there about me? What? I need to know, Yarrow, before this can go any further.”
“You look past the chair and you see me—me! You don't pretend to like me because I'm rich. You argue with me and make me angrier than anyone else I've ever met, then you show me that somewhere under this worthless set of legs, there's still a whole man.”
Frustrated beyond words, he levered himself upward and got into his chair. It took him a lot longer than he liked. It was hard making a strategic retreat when he had to move his legs with his hands, but he did it with all the dignity he could muster. He was headed toward the door when her voice stopped him.
“At least now you're being honest with yourself.”
He bridled at her remark. “You think I'm dishonest?”
She walked over to him, gazing into his remarkably expressive eyes. “I think you lie to yourself about a lot of things. It's easier to lie than see the truth.”
“What do I lie about?” His tone and demeanor were defiant.
“About not wanting commitment. About the fact that sex is meaningless to you. But when you talk about how irritated I make you, you're honest. And you're honest about your attraction. When you finally put the thoughts into words, you were honest about that too.”
“So, what's your opinion of all this honesty?”
“I haven't decided yet,” she said with a secretive smile. “I'll be sure to tell you when I do.”
She strutted out, swinging perfect hips and a heart shaped ass at eye level. Sometimes being short paid off. Admiring the view, he watched her until she reached the stairs. He couldn't follow her up, but he could stare at her as she climbed the stairs. Was it his imagination, or was she purposely adding an extra swing to those fabulous hips? He laughed softly, his lopsided grin pulling at his lips as his eyes devoured her, his imagination running wild.
Dear God, she's amazing! Maybe soon I can do more than just....
“If you like my ass so much,” Cynthia called down the stairs. “Maybe you need to ask yourself what you can do to earn it. Goodnight.”
For more of Dellani's books, check out
Indian Summer, Lone Wolf and The Ninja Tattoo on
Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Smashwords.
©
Dellani Oakes
