Read Wishes in Her Eyes Online

Authors: D.L. Uhlrich

Wishes in Her Eyes

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
[email protected]
.

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 regard 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.

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