Tuesday, January 16, 2018
I Love Dialogue from Crippled by Love by Dellani
Cynthia Marshal is newly appointed as the head reporter for the social page at one of the city's major papers. She's been assigned to do a series of articles on Ian Yarrow, a reclusive billionaire. She had no idea, when they met, that he was in a wheelchair. Their first meeting doesn't go very well, but they soon warm up to one another.
"When did you lose your virginity?" he asked suddenly, then held up his hands. "Sorry. Not my business. I was just—"
"Thinking like a man. I have brothers." She giggled, blushing slightly.
"More than one?"
"Lonnie's the eldest, but I've got three more, one older, two younger."
"Not a one. Mama used to tease that I was the redheaded step-child."
He laughed, brushing her red hair from her face. "I like redheads."
"Your friends do too. Both Hal and Brodie are married to redheads."
"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.
Cynthia snapped her fingers in front of Ian's 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," Yarrow 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.
"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 what? Why am I attracted to you or why do I date married women?"
Yarrow 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. . . ." 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! 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."
© 2018 Dellani Oakes
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