Here I Am (Arabesque) - By Rochelle Alers Page 0,64
a complete revolution before Brandt silently acknowledged Ciara with a nod. She was right. But to Brandt she was so much more: beautiful, intelligent, spirited, charming and the most sensual woman he’d ever known. Ciara had accused him of confusing lust for love. She was wrong. He wasn’t in lust with Ciara. He was in love with her.
He successfully hid his disappointment behind a bright smile. “I came in here with the intent of shaving your legs, but somehow I got distracted. Do you still want my help?”
Resting her head on his shoulder, Ciara pressed a kiss below Brandt’s ear. “You can shave my legs and share my shower. But you cannot get my hair wet.”
“What’s going to happen if I do wet it?”
“I will tie you to the bed and give you a Brazilian wax.”
Brandt threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Do you know what you are?”
“What am I, sport?”
“You’re a very naughty girl with just a hint of mean.” It was Ciara’s turn to laugh, the low, sensual sound reminding Brandt of a muted horn.
“Do you like naughty?”
“I love naughty.”
Ciara scrunched up her nose. “Have you ever been waxed?”
Brandt sobered, remembering when he and Alexander had visited an upscale West Side salon offering services to men and women; the aesthetician convinced his teammate to have his eyebrows waxed. Brandt had recorded the action on his camera phone, complete with audio, as a reminder never to go through the ordeal of having someone slather hot wax on his body and then rip off hair and flesh in an attempt to become metrosexual.
“No.”
“Would you consider it?”
“Hell! No!”
“What are you afraid of? You don’t want to ruin your macho image?” Ciara teased.
“I’m quite comfortable with my sexuality. It’s just that I’m not willing to endure that type of pain because I have a few stray eyebrows.”
She gave him a look of incredulity. Brandt had chosen to play a sport where pain was evident with every play. “Don’t tell me you’d prefer some three-hundred-pound guy knocking the wind out of you than to go through even two minutes of a little discomfort.”
“It’s a different type of pain.”
“How would you know, Brandt, if you’ve never been waxed?” He stared at a spot over her shoulder. “How would you know?” she asked again.
“I know because I’ve seen dudes—big-ass dudes—scream like little girls when getting their eyebrows waxed.”
Eyes narrowing, her mouth opening and closing, Ciara glared at Brandt. “Oh, we’re back to being sexist? FYI, the male patients I’ve taken care of moan, groan, scream and complain more about pain than their female counterparts.”
“It was just a figure of speech,” Brandt said in apology.
“It’s a figure of speech that could possibly get you into trouble if a reporter decides to quote you, or someone out to discredit your reputation hears.”
He smiled, attractive lines fanning out from his eyes. “Wow. I didn’t know you cared.”
“I do care, Brandt. I care a lot. Now please let me go so I can take my legs off the arms of this chair. My feet feel like someone is sticking them with straight pins.” Sitting on Brandt’s lap, her legs dangling over the arms of the wheelchair while they’d made love, had impeded blood flow to her extremities.
Looping his arms under Ciara’s shoulders, Brandt lifted her effortlessly, sliding first one leg, then the other off the chair. He couldn’t pull his gaze away from her naked body. There wasn’t one straight line on her curvy frame. She was all natural: no breast augmentation, lip enhancement or rhinoplasty. Ciara Dennison was natural and real—in-your-face real—without compromising her femininity.
He hadn’t planned to make love to her without protection—it had just happened, spontaneously. What Brandt found ironic was that spontaneity wasn’t a factor in his personality—at least not consciously or overtly. Even his decision to become a professional athlete had been something he’d thought about for more than a year. When he’d enrolled at Stanford, Brandt’s plans had included graduating and joining Wainwright Developers, not playing football.
Ciara mentioned that they’d dodged a bullet, because they’d picked the right time to have unprotected sex. But for him it was the wrong time. If getting her pregnant to hold on to her was the key, then he would become a more-than-willing accomplice and participant. However, trickery wasn’t what he wanted to base their relationship on. For him if it wasn’t straight up, he wanted no part of it.
There had been women who’d said they were on birth control so he didn’t have to