Wishes in Her Eyes

by D. L. Uhlrich

  For Harper, forty is not so fabulous. Sure, she’s got a great friend and a good life in a big city, but being single and slightly plus-sized are downers to her day. At least she gets to spend her working hours staring at gorgeous Stone Masterson, the man of her dreams. Will a chance encounter make them more than co-workers? (F/M)

  Wishes in Her Eyes

  D.L. Uhlrich

  ForbiddenFiction

  www.forbiddenfiction.com

  an imprint of

  Fantastic Fiction Publishing

  www.fantasticfictionpublishing.com

  WISHES IN HER EYES

  A ForbiddenFiction book

  Fantastic Fiction Publishing

  Hayward, California

  © D.L. Uhlrich, 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission from the publisher, except as allowed by fair use. For information contact publisher@forbiddenfiction.com.

  CREDITS

  Editor: Kel Draves

  Cover Design: Siolnatine

  Cover Art: Mocker at Dreamstime

  Production Editor: Erika L Firanc

  Proofreading: JhP323

  SKU: DLU-000141-01 ARE

  ISBN: 978-1-62234-115-3

  Published in the United States of America

  Disclaimer

  This book is a work of fiction which contains explicit erotic content; it is intended for mature readers. Do not read this if it's not legal for you.

  All the characters, locations and events herein are fictional. While elements of existing locations or historical characters or events may be used fictitiously, any resemblance to actual people, places or events is coincidental.

  This story is not intended to be used as an instruction manual. It may contain descriptions of erotic acts that are immoral, illegal, or unsafe. Do not take the events in this story as proof of the plausibility or safety of any particular practice.

  Contents

  1. What I Desire

  2. Is This Real?

  3. Dreams Come True

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  What I Desire

  While at the spa with my best bud, suffering through the pain of eyebrow threading, I start thinking of the things we women put ourselves through to find, attract and keep a man. Things such as wearing uncomfortable undergarments that floss your ass or hold your tits captive and enduring painful shoes to enhance your legs, but make your feet look like some unexplained deformity. Getting things lifted, tucked, pulled removed and/or added just for the sake of vanity. Personally, I object to all these acts of torture, but here I sit having my feet grated, my nails hot glued and eyebrows ripped out. Oh, I say it’s to make me feel better about myself, but if I were really honest, I knew I was going through all this to look more appealing to a potential mate.

  “Sweetheart, he wants you.”

  “Huh? What?” I say as my best friend brings me out of my musings. He had been bitching at me for the last thirty minutes to approach our co-worker and the guy who happened to be my workplace crush.

  “Harper, are you listening to me?”

  “Uh, I’m sorry. What were you babbling about?” I say, just to piss him off.

  “I’m not now, nor have I ever babbled. Pearls of wisdom fall from these lips.”

  “Alright, alright, Darry. What pearl were you spewing forth?”

  “I was saying that he looks at you like he’s on death row and you’re the last piece of ass he’ll ever have.”

  “No he doesn’t. That’s the way I look at him, not the way he looks at me.”

  “Why do we have this same argument every time we talk about him?”

  “No. This is the same argument you have every time you talk about him. I try not to bring the subject up because we’re never gonna go any further than office acquaintances. He’s the kind of man that would like music-video-model-type women. I can hold my own, but I’m not by anybody’s definition, a music-video-type woman.”

  “Ugh! You’re exasperating! I could have a better conversation with my $1200 Kenneth Cole shoes.”

  “Then talk away.”

  The workplace isn’t exactly the ideal location to meet a perspective bed partner, but where else could I meet my dream man? I’m a Christian who’d fallen off the highway to heaven wagon long ago so I don’t go to church. Grocery stores aren’t safe and bars are out of the question, so that leaves me with work.

  Flirting at work is dangerous, what with people who aren’t even in the conversation able to claim sexual harassment. It’s especially perilous in corporate America, but somehow, I knew Darry was going to find a way for me to get around this teeny, tiny little problem.

  Darius. Darry, to all his friends, is a six-foot, two-inch-tall man with cocoa—colored skin and impeccable taste in clothes. He’s built like a linebacker and is gorgeous by any standard. He has razor sharp wit and an acid tongue. He is also the gayest man to hit the streets since RuPaul tugged on panty hose.

  He’s as outspoken as he is beautiful. He doesn’t suffer fools gladly. Men love him because he’s ravenous and women hate him because he can turn even the straightest man out. He’s also the subject of most women’s hate because he doesn’t discriminate against married men. In Darry’s opinion, a man, is a man, is a man. If they don’t have sense enough not to stray, that isn’t Darry’s problem.

  Darry has champagne tastes because he has a champagne budget. His family comes from old money so he’s accustomed to a certain way of living and he definitely lives a life befitting the queen that he is.

  Darry and I work in one of Kansas City’s biggest banks where he’s a risk management executive and I’m a fraud investigator. Our departments are fairly close in proximity so we pop in and out of each other’s offices at least once a day. We have been BFFs and joined at the hip since he moved to Kansas City ten years ago. I love him dearly, but he’s determined to play matchmaker. I told him one time that he was not Topol and this was not Fiddler on the Roof. That just went in one ear and out the other. Darry did what Darry wanted to do and nothing short of Fleet Week in New York City would stop him. Unfortunately for me, he knows my weakness for the aforementioned “he.”

  The “he” in question is Stonewall Jackson Masterson. His name is courtesy of a father who’s a history buff and a body courtesy of good genes, the Marines and a merciful God. That body has been the subject of more than a couple of my fevered dreams and restless nights. At six foot, he’s seven inches taller than me and at forty-three, three years older. He’s white. I share the same cocoa complexion as Darry. Stone has slightly graying light brown hair, olive green eyes and lightly golden sun kissed skin over rippling muscles that make the women (and some men) in the office giggle and fawn like puerile teenage girls. He has the same effect on me, but I try to keep my leering under control. He has a wonderful personality and a comedic sense of humor that rivals any Saturday Night Live cast member. He’s the embodiment of a Vitruvian man with a Mensa Society mind all in one salacious and beautifully wrapped package. All he needs to do now is find a cure for cancer and he’ll be perfect.

  Stone is a retired Marine who’d served his country and came back home to a wife who didn’t feel like waiting for him. I’d heard this by way of Darry’s keen detective skills. He knows I lust for Stone so he keeps his ears open for any news on the object of my desire. Five years after the divorce, Stone has licked his wounds and is primed for a hot affair. So say all the twitterpated females who swarm around him; but me, I choose to stay out of shark infested waters and worship him from afar.

  During my once a day allowed daydreams, I imagine him to have strong arms that would lift me without regar
d to my size. A chest sprinkled with hair that I could run my fingers through. Tight, muscled thighs that he gets from hours of exercise and a dick that would make me scream like a banshee. Not that I’d ever get the chance to see or sample any of those things. Even though I’ve caught him glancing at me from time to time, I know he’ll only be mine in my fantasies.

  Stone isn’t overtly handsome. Not a pretty man like Brad Pitt, but a man who exudes confidence. Every once in a while, shadows cross his face and show a man who’s seen terrible things, but lines around his eyes and mouth tell of someone who laughs a lot. To me, he’s simply beautiful. I dream of using a Sam’s Club-sized box of Trojans on him. Just seeing him makes me salivate, but since I don’t know if he has the same Pavlovian response to me as I have to him, I keep my mouth shut. He works in a different department and we unfortunately (or fortunately) aren’t direct co-workers, but his office is across from mine. Right in my line of vision. Yea for me! I have no idea what his job is, but he does something with something that has something to do with numbers. Hey, when you look that good, it really doesn’t matter if you crunch numbers or gravel.

  Darry and I spent an entire Saturday night discussing Stone’s anatomy. “I wonder if he has that group of muscles I like?” I said wistfully while nursing a glass of Moscato.

  “Which group is that honey? There are so many to like.”

  “You know. The ones that starts at the waist and Vs down to....”

  “Whew girl, stop!” Darry said, fanning himself. “You’re talking about the Adonis belt. The muscles that lead to the Promised Land. I’d bet my Oris watch that he does.”

  Sighing I said, “I bet he does too.”

  “But unfortunately for him he’s straight. He’ll never know the joy of having freaky, thank you Lawd for twelve inches, sex with me.”

  I laughed and with exaggerated shock, I said, “My goodness Darry. Why would any man in his right mind not glue himself to your side? You should have men stacked like cord wood around you.”

  “Oh sweetheart, I get tired of them after a while. Plus they wear out so fast. They just don’t make men like they used to.”

  Darry was right. They didn’t make them like they used too. And they certainly don’t make them like Stone. I saw him in his uniform once and got the vapors. I’m a sucker for a man in uniform, but he looks even better in a suit. Athletic cut suits that fit like a second skin. Along with being tall, he has broad shoulders that seem to span the width of a doorway and a smile that turns my knees to jelly. That smile. Sigh. His smile alone is worth the price of admission, even if he never spoke a word, but luckily for me he does speak, even if it’s just to exchange pleasantries.

  I had a quasi-conversation with him once. I was in my office working diligently when Darry came flying in like his ass was on fire. After he closed the door, I asked, “What the hell is wrong with you? Are you pregnant?”

  “Shut up hussy. I just had a confab with Stone! He asked about you!”

  “Come on Darry. I’m not in the mood for your theatrics. I’m tired and sick of looking at this computer. What are you talking about?”

  “I’ll ignore your pissy mood for right now. Anywho, I was in the break room and he came in looking fabulous as always. We made small talk and then he asked me if you were seeing anyone.”

  I felt my eyes getting big. No way did Stone ask about me. Then I realized he was asking Darry. I was almost too scared to find out what he had told him.

  “What did you say?” I held my breath, bracing for one of Darry’s flamboyant answers.

  “I told him you weren’t seeing anyone....” I let out my breath. “Except,” he continued, “your shrink for your nymphomania issue.”

  “Oh my God! Please, please tell me you didn’t say that,” I implored. I never knew what would come out of Darry’s mouth. I desperately hoped that this hadn’t.

  “Of course I didn’t. You have to have sex to be a nympho and since you haven’t had sex since Christ was a child I—”

  “Okay I get it! What did you tell him?”

  “I told him you weren’t seeing anyone and that you were as free as a bird. He said that he’s been wanting to ask you out, but didn’t know if you dated white guys. I told him that you were an equal opportunity lover.”

  Ugh, I felt flustered. I wanted this, now I didn’t know how to behave. What should I do? Let him come to me? That sounded good. I’d go with that. Unfortunately I didn’t get a chance to ponder this decision.

  “What’s wrong? You look a little green around the gills,” Darry stated as he came around my desk. “Harper, there’s no time for that! Stone might still be in the break room.”

  And with that he yanked me off my chair, out of my office and to the break room. Oh, look. Stone was still in there. Great.

  “Hello Stone. I’m so glad you’re still here!” Darry said, his words were sugary sweet and dripped from his tongue. “I wanted you and Harper to continue the wonderful conversation we were having.”

  Darry pushed me in front of Stone so hard that if I had had wheels on my feet, I would have squealed to a stop. Humiliation washed over me as I looked up at Stone. I was gonna kick Darry’s ass for this.

  Looking so proud of himself, Darry said, “I’ll just let you two kids talk,” as he scurried out of the room.

  Stone looked as uncomfortable as I felt, but at least he was gracious about it. “Uh, Darry didn’t waste any time.”

  “Time is something Darry never wastes when it comes to men.”

  He laughed. Was I funny? He thought I was funny. I wasn’t trying to be, but I’m glad I was.

  “I guess Darry told you that I wanted to ask you out.”

  “He mentioned something about that,” I said as I waved my hand in the air and tried to appear nonchalant. I didn’t want him to think I’d give my right pinky toe to go out with him, which I would have. But maybe I was playing it too cool. Damn! Luckily he didn’t seem to notice my stupid attempt at being blasé.

  “Would you like to—” Stone started before being rudely interrupted by a guy running and yelling his name. I’d never seen the man before, but he looked rheumy and contagious. With his ashen face I wasn’t sure if he’d even make it to talk to Stone, but despite his questionable condition and the fact that our break room/lunch room was about seventy-five feet long, he was quite speedy. When he got closer, he looked even worse, and the closer he got also brought his lack of oral hygiene to the forefront. All the huffing and puffing he was doing in his rush to get to Stone had him blowing his rancid breath in my face. What I would have given for a piece of gum or a full-length facemask.

  “Stone... huff, huff... man we are in trouble... huff, huff.”

  “The numbers....” Blah, blah, blah, was all I heard as I watched my chance for a date with Stone go up in stinky smoke.

  “Hey, Harper I—” Stone tried to get in before Funky Breath stomped all over it.

  “Come on!” barked Smelly Man, “We need to have a meeting now!”

  “That’s okay. We’ll talk later,” I said, feeling more than a little disappointed. And that’s the last I heard from Stone.

  Chapter 2

  Is This Real?

  “How late are you going to stay at work on a Friday night?” Darry asks, frustrated. “Har-per, you should be going out with me.” He likes to string out my name when he’s whining, thinking that will annoy me enough to give in. It isn’t working this time.

  “Why? So I can watch you chase every available man within a hundred miles? I’ve seen how talented you are at turning a straight-as-an-arrow hetero man into a simpering puppy by the mere touch of your hand. As much as I enjoy watching you work your magic on your latest conquest, I’m going to work out.”

  “You’re never gonna find a man when all you do is work and go to the health club. Come on sweetie, come out with me. I just bought a new Armani suit and Jean Paul Gaultier shoes. We could accessorize together.”

  “As much fun as that sounds, I’ll pass.
I’ve got to go to the gym. I would think you would be happy that I’m spending time with muscle-bound, sweat-drenched men.”

  “I would be happy if it ever led to anything, but it never does. I’m just trying to speed up the mating process before your eggs refuse to hatch. I want nieces and nephews to spoil and outfit before I’m too old and I have to buy off the rack,” he says, shuddering for effect. Deftly changing subjects, he says, “Have you talked to Stone?”

  “Nope. I heard they’re going through an audit and we’ve been so busy getting ready for court, I haven’t had time to talk to my own mother.”

  “I know! It’s been crazy! That’s why you should come out and play.”

  “Darius. I’m not going.”

  “Oh, alright. Whatever. I’m not wasting the mani-pedi and eyebrow threading I got at lunch. I’m off to the ball.” Darry huffs on his way out the door, “Call me later!”

  As a lifetime member of the Big Girls Club, I live by three rules: Love your body, love yourself, look good and you’ll feel good. The first and second rules have been a bit of a struggle for me. In order to be comfortable in your own skin, in my humble opinion, you have to work what you’ve got. You have to have strong self-esteem. Now that it’s “in” to be curvy due to the oversaturation of celebrities I refuse to mention, it’s gotten a little easier to be Rubenesque. The third rule is why I’m on my way to the gym or the “sweat, grunt and faint” club, as I like to call it.

  I live in Westport, the “hip” part of Kansas City, Missouri. Bars, art galleries, funky shops and restaurants that cater to every imaginable palate pepper the area. The rent here is obscene, but being within walking distance to most things is well worth it. On a Friday after work, Darry is right, I probably should be out with him and all my fellow singles, trolling the warm spring night in search of whoever, but I have to keep my hourglass figure from turning into a circle. So here I am dismounting the treadmill and sweating like a whore at bible study. With my workout finished, all I want to do is go home, take a hot bath, and plop in front of the tube. After walking out of the health club and getting in my car, I realize that all I have to eat at home is a science project that had once been a couple of slices of pizza and half a bottle of wine. Shit! That means I’ll have to go to the store to get something for dinner. I really don’t want to be in public in my less than appealing physical state, which consists of being hot, sweaty and stinky. Along with my non-springtime-fresh feeling, the air smells of rain and the sky is lighting up like a Christmas tree. Great.