Some first meetings go better than others. Cynthia Marshall is new to the society page beat at one of the local papers. She’s been ordered to go to interview Ian Yarrow at his home. She doesn’t know a lot about him, except that he’s very rich, and has, apparently, asked to be interviewed. Arriving a little late, she rings the doorbell at the door of his mansion. No one answers, so she tries again. Finally, someone arrives – it could have gone better.
The door slammed open and a very angry man, dressed in nothing but a glower and a pair of black silk boxers, frowned up at her from a streamlined wheelchair. Taken aback, Cynthia retreated and nearly fell off the porch. He grabbed her with a powerful hand, tugging her back on the porch.
“What?” he demanded.
“I-I’m Cyn-thia M-Marshall from the C-Clarion P-Post,” she grimaced at her own verbal errors. She’d hammered that stutter into oblivion years ago, but it came back in moments of high stress. Like now, when a gorgeous hunk of muscular, bronzed, hard bodied male in boxers yanked her nearly into his lap.
“The reporter, huh? Might have known you’d be early.”
“N-Not early, Mr. Yarrow. Actually, I’m—I’m a tad late. I had trouble finding the house. My GPS sent me in the opposite direction.”
He glared up at her, mouth a tight line, firm, well chiseled jaw working against his irritation.
“It’s cold out here, Miss Marshall, and I’m very nearly naked.”
He rolled back inside, holding the door partially closed so she had to squeeze past it. Full chested, she had to wriggle around the door frame without catching her breasts or snagging Fiona’s sweater. He slammed the door behind her, the frown still present as he rolled toward an elevator at the end of the vaulted foyer.
Cynthia followed, unsure of where she was going or what she was supposed to be doing. The glower deepened as she stepped onto the lift with him, but he said nothing. The door of the cage slid shut behind her, tapping her on the rear.
“Why’s the paper so hot to do an article on me?”
His question, like everything else about him, caught her by surprise.
“I-I’m not certain, Mr. Yarrow. I was t-told to come here and interview you.”
“You gonna stutter like that the entire time?”
“S-Sorry. It comes on when I’m n-nervous.”
He leaned back, folding his hands in his lap. She caught the glimmer of a platinum ring on his pinky and another, more ornate one, on his thumb. There was no wedding band, though both rings were on his left hand. Since his hands lay just below the line of his boxers, she caught a good glimpse of the superb musculature of his chest and abs. A dusting of dusky, soft hair emphasized the well chiseled ridges.
A knowing smile twitched his full lips, his dark gray eyes taking in details of her physique. She was about 5’6″, full breasted, slender hipped and well toned. She worked hard at maintaining her figure and every inch of her bust line was real. Dressed in sleek black leggings and dark red turtle neck sweater with a black cashmere wrap, Stuart Weitzman boots and chunky jewelry of her own design, she thought she looked pretty good. Apparently Mr. Yarrow agreed with her. The smile grew—as did something a tad lower down—blatantly obvious given his lack of clothing.
Cynthia blushed, turning away. Mr. Yarrow laughed rather loudly. It was frightening in the confined space and Cynthia suddenly wished she’d brought the photographer with her after all. Since she was slated to have several sessions with Ian Yarrow, she’d opted to doing the first interview on her own to get a feel for him. She wasn’t sure she liked what she felt.
He rolled down the hallway toward an open bedroom door. She could see the unmade bed from the stairs only a few feet away. She hadn’t woken him—oh no, he’d had company. Thus the irritation and anger. Concealing a smile, she followed him.
“Gonna come in while I dress?”
“Oh, sorry. Of course not.”
“I mean, I don’t care. But unless you want to see more of me than is generally considered polite, you might want to wait there.”
“I apologize, Mr. Yarrow.” She stepped back from the door.
The tight lips returned. “Just Yarrow is fine. I don’t use my first name much, except with the women I take to bed. Having them scream Yarrow when they cum hasn’t got the same impact as Oh, Ian! You can quote that.” He winked up at her and rolled into the room, shutting the door in her face.
“Don’t we think a lot of ourselves?” she said more loudly than she’d meant to.
The door slammed open a few minutes later. He was dressed in faded, loose fitting jeans and a dark red Under Armour shirt that fit him like a glove. It did absolutely nothing to conceal his physique and everything to enhance it. He was still barefoot. His toes were tan, more dark hairs scattered across them and the instep. Dammit, the man even had sexy feet!
© 2019 Dellani Oakes