Secluded--Exclusive Taryll Jackson Erotica

Do you ever find yourself caught in a routine of life? Same old same old, going through the motions when you want to break free and dance down the path far less traveled? That was the idea that inspired this erotica: a young woman dying to get away...with a thick-bodied, exotic stranger. 

"Secluded"

A Taryll Jackson Erotic Short Story By:

MJsLoveSlave

Routine.

Whether one wants to admit it or not, everyone's life in some varying form is nothing more than a well-orchestrated routine.

Wake up, shower (if there's enough time) eat breakfast, go to work, come home, have dinner, go to bed.

Wash, rinse and repeat.

Routine is what makes the world go around, for without it, humankind would be nothing more than a rambling, roving, wriggling mass of utter and total chaos.

Indeed there are some, a select few who try to deviate from their routine, take a different path to work, order tea instead of coffee, eat sausage links instead of bacon strips, but even with the blessing of leeway, there is still a set pace within the box of life.

And while some had the gumption to staunchly battle against the four walls of that box, others were resigned to languish within said walls, looking out and hoping desperately for a change.

Willow Lenoir was one of those trapped in a constantly, unyielding, repetitive cycle with seemingly no means of escape...and had been for the last three years of her very brief, young life.

Each day the cycle began promptly at five a.m., and depending upon the season all was still inky black outside or bearing the first few strains of sunlight.

That particular Saturday, early in June of 2015, Willow was greeted by faint, vaguely yellow strains of light to guide her as she rushed—every day for her started in a rush as she had so very much to accomplish in so little a span of time—from her room, in the far east corner of the second floor, scurrying through back halls and down hidden staircases, destined for the kitchen in the opposite corner of the first floor.

In the darkness, a layperson would have gotten turned around, lost and perhaps even stranded in the man-made labyrinth of halls twisting, turning and circling through the sprawling estate, surpassing over fifty lavish rooms.

But as it were the house Willow had grown up in and navigated since she could walk upright as a toddler, she knew the ins and outs of every nook, cranny and crevice as well as the back of her little white hands.

Yes, such a grand, massive home did require the use of servants for its running and upkeep, but with the staff of five not due to arrive for another three hours or so, Willow was tasked with doing everything for herself.

Electric lights blazed to life with the flip of a switch, flooding the antiquated kitchen, its sallow beige and brown tiles running the floor and halfway up the walls, its heavy, dark wood tables,cabinets and furniture and the black stove, only recently converted to gas, but until then had been wood-burning.

The refrigerator, modern, but constructed to resemble an icebox from yesteryear.

In the center of the table nearest the stove, a silver domed tray sat, gleaming opulently and proudly in contrast to the dim surroundings.

Willow, something of a pale ghost in a Ceylon blue robe and matching slippers, her long dark tresses held back by a length of silk ribbon, moved here and yonder about the kitchen, in a race against time.

Coffee set to brew, two eggs to crack and fry to the perfect sunnyside-up, two slices of bread to toast to the perfect crispness and spread with the thinnest of layers of strawberry jam.

As the food cooked and the coffee streamed out into a glass pot, Willow was occupied at the table, rifling through a small drawer.

Three cigarettes, of a rare Turkish brand which Willow could not pronounce but did rather fancy the strong, heady scent of vanilla they gave off when lit, were placed on the tray, beside a long holder of milky mother of pearl, culminating in a tip of royal blue lapis, glittering with a crawling diamond-studded dragon.

A matching lighter, also fancy, and gem-laden, completed the set.

In quick order, the coffee was poured into a large, floral, hand-painted china cup atop a saucer, the food going onto coordinating platters.

She didn't want the phone to ring....she didn't want the cursed phone to ring, she was almost done--

BRIIIIIIIIIING!

The silver lid went down with a dejected clatter, the dark head lowered in defeat.

BRIIIIIIIIIING!

Her entire, petite form seemed to sag as behind her, next to the stove, the little brown phone, rotary, perhaps the last of its kind in the state, commenced jangling.

BRIIIIIIIIIING!

Gathering herself with a touch of courage, the littlest, finite spark of it she could muster anyway, Willow turned the device, and gulping, lifted the receiver to her ear.

She wasn't even allowed the cursory 'hello'.

"Willow, où êtes-vous? Il est cinq heures et demie et j'ai besoin de mon petit-déjeuner et de mes cigarettes! Dépêchez-vous, hâte-toi!"

Through the earpiece, came the familiar, dusky, heavy voice of her grandmother, sacking her out, as she so often did when Willow was even a minute behind schedule, demanding her breakfast and cigarettes, toute suite.

Though Willow's lineage was English, Welsh with a touch of Dutch far, far off on her father's side, her mother's mother, born and reared in London, immigrating to America in her late teens had come to like the French language and would often switch between her native and adopted tongues at will.

And through sheer exposure, Willow had become fluent, apologizing, her voice as light, mild and sweet as her grandmother's was deep, harsh and unforgiving,

“Je suis desole...”

“Bring the food, child!” Was the sole reply, followed by the slamming of the phone on her grandmother's end.

Gathering up the tray, Willow started through the swinging door, destined for the grand staircase that led upstairs.

At the first landing, Willow paused, as she did every morning, staring through the leaded-glass panes out over the lush, rolling green hills of the property, the tall, wrought fences in the distance marking the perimeter of the property.

Fences that held her in and kept her captive.

All that was missing was a guard tower, with a surveyor armed to the teeth with a rifle to shoot at the slightest inclination of a jailbreak.

How desperately she wanted to get away.

How she yearned for it, lusted for it, nay lived for it.

And how she didn't know a crack in the monotony of the life she'd grown accustomed to was already on its way to her, unbeknownst to him.

* * *

“Come, Samson...Samson, come!”

Some fifty miles away, up the coast on the outskirts of San Jose, Taryll Jackson's Saturday was in full swing.

Hovering just inside the open French doors leading to his back lawn, where the early morning sun danced off the still waters of his liver-shaped pool, Taryll called absently for his pet, more concerned with the lit screen of his phone, encased in brilliant blue and emblazoned with the logo of the Los Angeles Dodgers , his favorite baseball team.

While it may have been the weekend, with his standard nine-to-five job of finding and procuring vintage vehicles for remodeling and reselling for his father's classic automobile restoration business, behind him for the time being, his Saturday was nonetheless packed to the gills with activity.

He had so very much to accomplish: swing by the barber to get his hair and beard trimmed, go to the bank to make a deposit before noon—why didn't Pops believe in direct deposit for his checks—do follow-ups with Mr. Gregan and Mr. Zimmern to see how they liked their new sedans, peek around the mall to see about a gift for his little brother's birthday the next month...

“Samson, now!”

He declared sharply, thumbs caressing the touch screen of his phone as he updated a 'to-do' list, lest he forget something.

“Samson!”

He shouted once more, before grumbling at a lower volume to himself,

“Goddamn it! I swear that dog has a sixth sense about when I have to take him to see the vet!”

Placing his phone on the granite counter top running the rim of the kitchen, Taryll paused to take the last swallow of a mug of now lukewarm coffee, squaring broad shoulders, hazel eyes, flecked with green, gold and amber squinting across the glare of the pool, at the structure running against the back of his white picket fence.

At the doghouse made to exactly resemble his one-story Craftsman bungalow.

And the 'designer mutt', a Siberian Husky/German Shepherd mix, that had been giving him a tail-ache for over a year.

Though Taryll had shouted himself near hoarseness at the beast, Samson remained unbothered, laying still, head resting atop his front paws, staring back as boldly.

Taryll had to stay froggy, and not let his guard down one bit.

He knew that dog too well, as it knew him.

Continuing to eye the canine, Taryll, out of sight, put a hand up, aiming for the bright purple, rope leash, which he'd bought specifically, as it was soundless...

Except for the metal latch that attached to the collar, which did bang against the mosaic tile back splash.

Clink.

“No! No! No! Damn it, no!” Taryll screamed but it was too late.

Pointed ears attuned to the slight noise, Samson was immediately up on all fours, darting from the doghouse.

Samson, standing three feet tall and weighting over a hundred pounds was bounding directly towards Taryll, a blur of black, white and red-brown fur.

“No—shit!” Taryll spun as the dog whizzed past him, causing chaos underneath the breakfast nook table, scattering chairs and overturning the sugar bowl on top, going around the four corners of the room and before Taryll was done pirouetting, had ran back outside.

“Come here!” Taryll staggered after Samson, dizzy, leash in hand. “This is the third time I've had to reschedule with Dr. Aarons, because you keep clowning! Damn it! Be a man! Come on! Let me put this leash on you so I can go dress my ass! Damn near seven and I still got my pajamas—NO!”

The dog was on a beeline to him again.

“Samson!”

As Taryll spun clockwise, Samson went counter.

“HEEL—what the?”

Taryll froze, feeling a tugging on the back of plaid pajama bottoms, with them falling to his ankles, leaving him standing in his pajama top and bright green briefs.

“He pansted me! The little shit pansted me--” Taryll gasped, glowing red all over with embarrassment, the dog continuing to taunt and race around him.

“Samson, heel!” He growled and made the mistake of stooping to pull his pants up.

Plump, rounded backside in the air, it was all over.

“Motherfuc--” All Taryll could do was yell a partial swear as he felt a strong bump to the backs of his knees, buckling his legs and pitching him forward.

Face first into the deep end of the pool.

He surfaced seconds later soaked through, going from scarlet to almost plum-black, Samson pacing the pool's edge, tongue out, panting happily at his master.

Bobbing at the edge, Taryll threw his soggy head back, and hollered shrilly.

Thinking it a game, Samson joined in the inhuman howling.

Shortly before seven-thirty, Willow idled, nervously shifting from one foot to the next, eyes trained on the shut doors leading into her grandmother's master suite.

As was with all the furnishings decorating the secluded domicile, even the doors themselves were ostentatious, gaudy and overly fancy to Willow's young, simple-tasted eyes, but she'd have rather been struck dead by a lightning bolt than challenge her grandmother's worldly, overblown and courtly aesthetic.

It was her grandmother's way..and everything had to go her grandmother's way, or there would be hell to pay.

A truth Willow knew all to well and had couple of well placed scars as testaments of the fact.

That was why Willow was so hesitant that particular morning, as she was every morning, lingering beyond those cherry wood doors, staring at the frosted glass, fingertip absently tracing one of the winding, swirling spirals overlaying the glass.

Her grandmother was so critical, so very critical, able to seek out and magnify the most finite discrepancies of anything...everything.

Right down to her only granddaughter's appearance.

Willow had been raised and forcibly influenced by a woman's sensibilities whose laid decades before Willow's own birth, a woman who staunchly believed females be the utmost in femininity.

Outmoded ideas and sentiments from a period Willow knew nothing of, but had heard more than her fair share about, whether she had been a willing listener or not.

Women were supposed to be soft, beautiful, quiet and doe-eyed creatures.

Made up perfectly with perfumed little bodies that never perspired.

Willow couldn't recall a time she'd ever worn pants, shorts, capris...always dresses, always skirts.

To her grandmother only men and the very gauchest of women wore trousers.

Dresses were de riguer for women...especially a Lenoir woman.

Modest, becoming, often frilly, usually doused in pastels.

All selected by her grandmother's iron fist.

And each morning, before the staff arrived, Willow was subject to her grandmother's keen eye, and sought her approval.

Willow had been giving a once over each morning, since she had been in Pampers, unable to even sit up on her own.

“A Lenoir must look like a Lenoir...”

That was the motto, the golden rule to which there was no exception.

The grandfather clock, a few yards away showed the time as exactly seven-thirty and not wanting to be scolded in French again for tardiness, Willow sighed softly, whispered a prayer and crossed herself,small fist curling and tapping the glass.

“Entrez, Cherie...”

Every hair on her stood, Willow turning the brass knob, and slipping into the boudoir.

The odor of tuberoses, her grandmother's scent of choice, a scent Willow loathed, attacked her upturned nose blatantly.

It was a scent which preceded her grandmother's entrance into any room and lingered long after her departure.

Engulfing everything in its path.

The room was dim, the velvet curtains drawn against the sun, lit only by a smattering of bronze Tiffany lamps, shades of multicolored glass, marked by Art Nouveau dragonflies on the bedside tables, flanking the huge, green silk canopied and dressed bed.

The empty breakfast tray cast aside haphazardly by the form that scarcely tickled the scales past one hundred pounds.

A bed that completely dwarfed the petite figure atop the covers taking a drag from the mother-of-pearl butt of the cigarette holder.

The petite figure in a black satin dressing gown, trimmed in zebra print, a matching turban on her head.

The softly lined, gently weathered face...a face that was an exact duplicate, albeit quite aged, that mirrored Willow's.

She was her grandmother all over again, bearing the same, fine, cool, porcelain complexion—the 'English' complexion her grandmother called it—thin arched brows, over the large, haunting, piercing, crystal turquoise eyes, in the slender oval face.

The same pointed jaw, frankly thin lips.

Even the beauty mark to the left of the chin.

Silently, Willow crossed the floor, hardwood, with Persian rugs strewn about, standing at the end of the bed, staring at the tiny feet in animal print slippers.

It was such an effort to face the scrutinizing, calculating glare the old woman cast on her constantly.

Nails, low and oval, caught the soft yellow lights, fingers wiggling, beckoning her closer.

“Come here child...”

Slowly she advanced, hands folded in front of her, disappearing into the folds of her voluminous, tea-length skirt. Goosebumps rose on bare arms as revealed by the dress, black crepe de chine, printed all over with the white outlines of felines, a patent belt cinching her tiny waist.

Blue eyes took in her face, painted minimally, save for a deep rose pout.

Dark tresses had been trained back into a low bun, not a strand out of place, revealing the white Bakelite discs in her ears, and she hastened to silence the clacking the three white bangles on her wrist made as she moved.

She teetered back and forth, the eyes looking over her shoes, a high-heeled interpretation of saddle shoes.

A plume of vanilla-scented smoke came from her nostrils as she informed her sole heir, left hand patting at the turban, the twenty-carat, marquis-cut diamond ring in her wedding band of platinum glittering.

“Oh, I do so hate you in black, Dearie...” She lamented curtly, her English speaking voice tinged by a crisp British accent and Willow bristled.

Did her grandmother have to always find something to whine about? Couldn't she ever be satisfied?

“When I was your age, I wore color—blues, pinks, scarlets, greens! I still do! Black is for funerals...it's sad, downtrodden, unbefitting a girl so young.”

A perfect ring of smoke sailed overhead,

“I suppose this shall do, Willow. See to it Cookie prepares the chicken salad for lunch and begins roasting the duck for supper--”

“Yes, Granny Louise.” Willow replied automatically.

“--and have Julio trim the back hedges near the pool--”

“Yes, Granny Louise.”

“--and don't forget to start the Pierce--”

“Yes Gran--”

“Do stop interrupting me, Willow Elizabeth Victoria!” The old woman snapped and those pink lips pressed shut, eyes huge above them, at her dire mistake, having gotten carried away with the routine of her grandmother giving her duties over which to delegate.

“It's rude and impertinent! Men don't like young women whom constantly interrupt! It's poor etiquette! Surely I've taught you better than that!”

“I'm...I'm sorry, Gran--” Willow began lips quivering and was herself interrupted.

“You're dismissed.”

Reluctantly, Willow backed away, head lowered with a mix of dejection and anguish and outright rage lit her.

The door shut in front of her, Willow grumbled so quietly it was but a whisper,

“...men don't like young women who interrupt...as if I can even find a man to interrupt here in 'Sing-Sing: North'!”

Hands on her tiny waist, Willow ponder her last thought in depth.

A man...a man, when was the last time she'd seen a man?

Other than the ancient gents employed by her grandmother? Wrinkled, pot-bellied old men who regarded her out the corner of their eyes, addressed her as “Miss Lenoir”, and clustered together talking of the 'good old days'.

Days when televisions still shown in black and white, phones had a rotary dial, and the war being fought wasn't in the Middle East, but in the middle of Europe.

How long? How many years?

How many more years?

In the distance, a buzzer rang dully.

There they were, the ragtag group of servants.

Corpses that didn't want to lie peacefully in holes, yet.

Shaking her head, Willow, Miss Lenoir, slowly started towards the back stair, to let them in the rear entrance.

Servants didn't come in the front...

And neither did Willow.

She was as much worker as them...behind the mask of a high-falooting nae.

Lighter, though still pressing matters bounced through Taryll Jackson's swift, never-ceasing mind, as he slipped from the plush, African-print cushions of the barber's chair, leaning towards the uncut sheet mirror, rimmed with golden renditions of Sphinxes, giving himself a closer inspection.

Tribal drums thudded mutedly from hidden speakers overhead.

Taryll was his own worst critic and a perfectionist about his hair to the point of nauseating those around him with his finickiness.

Yes, everything appeared in order, his hair, black brown, with loose curls was tapered on the sides, a deep part cut in on the left, allowing a cascade of tendrils to fall over his high forehead—an illusion he was convinced made it look smaller.

His beard, thick and full concealed the dimple on his chin, and blended seamlessly with stylized sideburns and the teeny tuft of hair underneath his bottom lip, making it appear plumper.

It was a new look to Taryll, one he enjoyed and reveled in. A look he'd been denied by a girlfriend who had preferred him clean-shaven.

A girlfriend he'd tossed out part and parcel when he found her in bed with the, also, clean-shaven pool boy.

Dipping fingers into the open jar of creamy pomade, Taryll separated a single lock of hair, coating it and flipping it so it curled opposite the rest of his strands.

Nodding with satisfaction, he grinned, rounded cheeks prominent as he addressed the bald man behind him, huge handlebar mustache wagging as he matched the smile, glinting straight razor in hand.

“You did it again, DeAndre.” Taryll chuckled, hand out, with it being shaken firmly.

“Edged me up even better than I imagined. Got that magic touch!”

“Hey, what can I say?” DeAndre grinned brighter, his mouth full of diamond and gold 'fronts' sparkling. “I do my best.”

“I'll say...” A leather wallet appeared and while Taryll counted out ten, twenty-dollar bills, DeAndre asked,

“Now when is TJ's surprise party, again? Me and Bianca wanna slide through.”

“July the eleventh.” Taryll passed the money to him. “At the Beverly Hilton. We've all got that fool hoodwinked thinking we're going to an auto show with Pops to buy more cars to work on. It's gonna be a blast!”

“Count me in.” DeAndre chuckled, slapping Taryll on the back, with him snorting,

“I knew your ass was gonna come the second you heard 'open bar'!”

“Aw shut up, Man!”

“But you know I'm right—I'll see you there!”

Taryll snickered as he sauntered out of the shop, headed for the escalator to carry him from the second to the fourth floor, pausing to try a cheddar-stuffed pretzel bite from a vendor in a costume of the twisted bread treat.

He was a bit hungry...maybe he'd grab a bite in the Food Court, once he finished the last few errands he had to run...yeah a double chili cheeseburger with extra onions would hit the spot--

“Agrrrr! Agrrrr! Agrrrr!”

Out of the pocket on his heathered-grey, wool jacket , what sounded very much like throaty, deep growling of famous Science-Fiction creature Chewbacca began emitting.

Lingering at the base of the escalator, and helping an elderly man on a cane get his grip to avoid falling off, Taryll produced his phone, with it still growling obnoxiously.

“Agrrrr! Agrrrr! Agrrrr!”

A picture of his elder brother Taj, beaming with a Star Wars shirt on his beefy upper half, topped by a distressed leather bomber, a boxed figure of the furry Wookie in his hands flashing.

(The growling ringtone was a recording of Taj imitating the sound...rather well!)

Climbing on the moving staircase himself and beginning his ascent, Taryll answered, mashing the device to his ear,

“Yo Bro--”

“Did you get the jacket for TJ?” Came the cracking, panicked voice.

“Hello to you, too...” Hazel eyes rolled at the snap inquiry.

Taj was the type of person to worry incessantly over the most minute of details until all the proverbial ducks were in a line, while Taryll was much more of the easy-going sort.

The Lord only knew it kept his blood pressure in check to be that way.

As for Taj, well...

“Yeah, yeah: hello, hi, what it do, bon jour, hola—did you get the jacket, Taryll?” Taj ran through the cursory greetings hastily, repeating himself.

Scratching at his head, it always itched like he was besieged by fire ants, after a fresh cut, Taryll nodded,

“I'm on my way up to Nordstrom, now. We settled on that brown, Italian leather number—the one by Bucose, right?”

“Right! Took me half the night to get a reply from Graciela about his size--”

“What do you expect?” Taryll snapped back grimacing. “They've got a set of six-month-old twins who holler nonstop--”

“Those noisemakers have to sleep sometime--”

“Right after TJ and Graciela pass out, wherever and they realize Mommy and Daddy have gone night-night...” Taryll slipped off onto the fourth floor, stooping to right a child who'd fallen on her face while toddling after a mother more concerned with her phone than her little girl's welfare.

“You've seen TJ lately! He even dozed off in the movies during our last date night on Friday. He spent fifteen dollars to see a 3D film and all he got was a power nap and popcorn grease on his jeans. Kids wearing him OUT! Now did you get the size?”

“Thirty-four in the waist--”

“Did you send your half of the money to my account?”

“All six-fifty. He better show OFF when our birthdays come in August! Over a thousand dollars for a hunk of cowhide!” Taj snorted and Taryll guffawed out loud.

“I don't know why you're griping, you've got a closet full of that 'cowhide' yourself.”

This remark drew a conceited snort from Taj, whom was infamous for always wearing a leather jacket, no matter the weather. It was his staple and he rarely deviated from it.

“Hey, I like my leather...it's what drew my lady to me. She said I looked so suave in it. Gotta keep the love of my life, happy--”

“Tell it! Alright, Bro, I'll get the jacket...is dinner still on with you and Tania?”

“Hell yeah, Sugar's been cooking since dawn. Threw me out the kitchen cause I kept dipping in the pots. But she's making tamales, flautas, and fajitas, with rice, refried beans, the whole nine! Ha! You better be here for seven or you'll be eating air--”

“Greedy ass!”

Humming peacefully to himself, Taryll hung up, the glowing letters of the luxury department store flashing ahead of him, and the thought of spicy Mexican delicacies as expertly prepared by Taj's girlfriend's hand on his uncluttered mind.

“...and what will you have to accompany the duck tonight, Mrs. Lenoir?”

“Wild mushroom risotto—not so much garlic this time Cookie and...um...”

On one of the plump robin's-egg blue divans arranged just so in the brilliant white, elegantly-appointed formal living room, Willow was seated, only pretending to read from the book she'd pulled up on her Kindle, nails clicking as she gripped it's case, graduating from white crystals to bloody red gems, eyes peeking over the top, across at her grandmother.

It was amazing how someone barely standing over five feet tall could command such a eerie, bloodcurdling presence.

The tiny, scant, slip of a figure, now fully dressed in a smart white blouse and black pencil skirt, strands of genuine oil-slick colored Tahitian pearls looping her slender throat and bony wrists.

Hair, in a shoulder sweeping pageboy bob, of the rarest shade of pale grey, bounced as she tapped her chin in thought, peering up at the obese man in a clinging white uniform, sweating not from heat, as the grand hall was much chilled, but under the glare of his charge.

Those translucent eyes could shake anyone to their very core.

Though he easily made a half dozen Mrs. Lenoirs, Cookie was as traumatized by the fiery little battleaxe, as was her granddaughter.

“...and roasted brussels sprouts with cranberries and pancetta.”

“Yes ma'am.” A pen and pad were produced, the chef scribbling. “And for dessert?”

“Oh...” Mrs. Lenoir turned from him, pumps clicking as she crossed to the lacquered white piano seating herself. “Angel cake, with raspberry compote, and make sure there are no seeds!”

“Yes ma'am—”

“And do send Sylvia this way...”

A spindly finger indicated the huge, sparkling, gilt chandelier dangling precariously overhead, polished orbs swaying gently as pushed by the air conditioning from hidden vents.

“One of the bulbs went out. I want it changed right away!”

“Yes, Mrs. Lenoir!”

Cookie waddled away with more speed than expected of a man of his girth, but Louise Lenoir could likely clear the stiffened, rigor-riddled bodies from a cemetery with one sweep of those blistering blue eyes.

In the cook's absence, silence permeated the cavernous room.

A silence that was soon filled by the mild, dulcet tones, as produced by the fine piano, Willow's grandmother launching into her very favorite classical piece, Debussy's 'Clair de Lune'.

Most days were filled by this composition, or some other work by a long-dead music maker, as Granny Louise prided herself on her aptitude as a pianist, a skill she flaunted at will, and could play until her fingertips were bruised and bloodied.

(Which she often did, leaving her granddaughter to tend and bandage the lesions incurred for the sake of art.)

Willow could play as well as her grandmother, as she had been given lessons with a virtuoso since she was in grade school, but had been banned from the instrument with a slap to the jaw after being heard playing a jazz piece one afternoon.

“No 'devil' music in this house!” The old woman had snarled, looking very much like the Devil Incarnate herself, knocking the girl, only twelve at the time, to the cold marble.

She had lain there stunned and in tears, her grandmother stepping over her as thogh she were trash and leaving her in a daze.

Now, Willow filled her spare time reading, and wishing to escape.

On her worst days she contemplated murdering that ancient sow in Chanel.

Without a break to her sweeping, flying hands, the mouth, a dark red, resembling a gash wound at the base of her face declared,

“Willow, viens ici maintenant.”

Come here, now.

Always now, fifteen minutes ago, yesterday.

It was always hurry, hurry in Mrs. Lenoir's world when she beckoned any breathing soul.

Before the sentence was out her mouth, Willow was at her side, choking on the odorous tuberoses.

“Oui, Grand-Mere?” She replied timidly, hoping her response, en Francais, would garner some sympathy.

'Clair de Lune' segued into Beethoven's 'Piano Sonata No.7' in D Major.

“Did you go start the Pierce-Arrow like I told you to, Child?”

Wispy eyelashes fanned in horror and Willow's knees nearly buckled beneath her.

She grew an ashy shade as the color vacated her face and her throat tightened.

The car! She'd forgotten to start the car!

“I'll...I'll do it right away, Ma'am--”

Kowtowing and moving backwards as fast as she could muster, Willow managed to only catch the look of pure hatred for a second.

How her grandmother hated having her orders go unheeded.

Thankfully she was already out the door before she could be reprimanded, again.

Scampering down the hall for the back stair, Willow desperately tried to recall where she had laid the ring of keys that contained the one that started the car.

“...I bet you feel like new money, don't you?”

Taryll commented cheerfully, glancing into the rearview mirror of his cherry-red, Rolls-Royce Phantom, at Samson, draped across the backseat.

Much as he had that morning in his doghouse, the mighty beast laid, massive head perched on his paws, breathing softly and evenly.

“...Saw Dr. Arrons ….you took your shots like a champ, then I got you groomed...flea dip, all the girl dogs were eyeing you...”

Shaking his head as he started to ease over to the exit leading out to San Jose, Taryll grumbled to himself, sucking his teeth.

“Damn dog getting more action than me...I need to get laid a few times...!”

It was a thought that had crossed Taryll's mind more than once. He did want to get into a relationship again, but was leery.

After the way his last girl had been unfaithful, he wanted to choose just the right woman and take it nice and slow.

There were some days when he just didn't want anyone, but seeing his brothers happily engaged with their ladies did plant that tiny, teensy seed of hope within Taryll's psyche. Maybe...just maybe she was out there for him.

Shaking his head, to clear the thought from his mind, he added at a louder tone,

“Spent damn near a grand you, you could at least woof a 'thank you' at me--”

“Huuuuuuuum!”

“...the hell?”

Arched brows went up at the low, forlorn whine from behind him.

“Huuuuuuuum!”

Peeking over his shoulder, he saw the dog casting hopeless, dark eyes up at his master, continuing to whine.

“Huuuuuuuum!”

It was a noise Samson had been trained to make for a very specific action.

“Please don't tell me you gotta take a piss right now!” Taryll groaned. “We're thirty minutes from home! And I gotta change before I go to Taj's. YOU BETTER HOLD IT!”

Voice dropping a second time, he whispered, knuckles cracking as he gripped the steering wheel harder, picking up speed,

“...wouldn't have to change,but has to be extra and turn everything into an event to show off for that woman....but he is in love....”

His ex was happy to eat in sweats and a messy bun—

“Huuuuuuuum!”

“Shut up you old soup hound!...wish I had someone to get me to stuttering. I almost thought I was that way with Chelsea, but she had to go and 'screw' around—aw shit!”

Glancing at the road, Taryll's eyes noted the mirror.

That mutt was trying to lift its leg and slipping around losing its footing as the car continued up the rural road, on something of an incline, Taryll swerving in distraction.

“SAMSON—NO! Not on my goddamn, red leather!”

“Huuuuuuuum!”

“Don't do it! I had this leather imported! Custom dyed—DON'T YOU DARE!”

“Huuuuuuuum!”

In strict order, the car darted to the side of a lonely, wood-lined stretch, brakes being pumped so hard in the fright of ruined upholstery, Samson went airborne, hitting the windshield and landing on the passenger seat with a howl.

The pooch garnered no sympathy.

He howled a second time, his purple collar being grasped and was hastily yanked from the vehicle.

“Not today, Satan!” Taryll declared getting the dog on all fours beside the car. “There's five thousand redwoods here!”

He indicated the trees, with a frantic sweep of his arm.

“Pick one, 'water' it and try not to get hauled off by a bear!”

Obediently, Samson started to trot away.

To occupy himself, Taryll dug for his phone.

“Let me text Taj and let him know I might be a little late thanks to the sprinkler system--”

“Huuuuuuuum!”

Light eyes started to roll as nearby, his dog whined once more.

The eyes swelled in aggravation, as instead of a trickle of liquid, there was very distinct, wet plop...on the pavement... inches from his foot.

“You've gotta be kidding me—DAMN!”

There, steaming, was a neat little curled 'present'.

And as the dog stayed in a squatted position, a second 'present' was on its way out.

Hands to his head, the shocking realization came to Taryll: he'd left his pooper-scooper behind at home in the chaos that morning, and could only yell,

“SAMSON! Goddamn it! You just LOVE working my last good nerve! How am I supposed to clean this up? Son of a bitch!”

The Husky/Shepherd mix barked brightly, ignorant to his master's woes.

Following an endeavor that took the greater part of half an hour and leaving her to practically turn her entire bedroom topsy-turvy in the pursuit, Willow successfully located the huge ring of keys that had once belonged to her grandfather, and was now her responsibility as appointed by her grandmother.

The large ring, sterling silver and packed with well over one hundred keys unlocking everything from the doors of unused guest bedchambers to the inlaid liquor cabinet in the drawing room, Willow could open any and every lock on the property, save for her grandmother's suite, but that was a room Willow hardly wanted to explore.

Jumping down the last three steps, Willow pushed the swinging door of the kitchen and was immediately inundated by the scents of the slowly roasting duck surrounded by aromatics in the oven.

At the table where she had prepared her grandmother's breakfast so many hours ago, Cookie now labored, deboning a strewed hen for the chicken salad to be taken at lunch, and Sylvia, the hunched, colorless and wrinkled old woman was dutifully polishing the silver, her black eyes trained on the small laptop, displaying the melodramatics of a soap opera on its screen.

Willow smiled weakly at them.

How she envied them....they were able to leave at the end of the evening.

Return to their own lives and families...out side of this fancy prison.

She was given preemtive nods from each, and passed them by, headed for the pocket door that led into the four-car garage.

The dim, cold garage was a simple, utilitarian space, each of its bays occupied by a luxury vehicle:

The first, a shining, black 1955 Cadillac Fleetwood limousine, that had rolled off the assembly line the same year her grandmother had been born, was reserved for rides back and forth to Mass each week.

The second was a more contemporary, rose gold Bentley, her grandmother's “driving-around” car that she used on the rare occasion she decided to run errands herself, rather than delegate them.

Next to that was Willow's own Bentley, white with red racing stripes—a paint job her grandmother had deemed made the vehicle look like 'rubbish'--a car that hadn't seen the open road in years. Would she ever drive it again?

Would she ever get away?

How could she? Where would she go? How would she get there?

And at the far end of the garage, was the vehicle that had been her grandfather's pride and joy.

A car he had taken over five years to restore to pristine working order in his free time.

A 1933 Piece-Arrow convertible sedan, buttercreme yellow trimmed in russet brown with glimmering, spoked whitewall tires.

It was a car Mr. Lenoir, himself had been two years younger, but had always greatly admired as the car of his childhood, his father, Willow's great-grandfather, having driven.

A car that had sat for a decade, since the death of Mr. Lenoir from a sudden heart attack at the age of seventy.

Only to be started and backed a few paces each day to keep its motor in tip-top shape.

Reaching the vintage automobile, Willow opened the door and was amazed, that even after ten years she could still faintly smell the sweet scent of the pipe tobacco her grandfather always smoked.

It was in that moment, every time, if Willow tried hard enough she could see him.

The tall, kindly, elderly gentleman, he'd been wrinkled and white-haired as far back as she could remember, though younger photographs had revealed him as being a strawberry blonde. So different and opposite from his stark, dark haired wife.

Always with the pipe in his mouth or hand, dressed casually in tweeds and flannels, a little newsboy cap perched jauntily on his head.

His silky white mustache dancing above his short top lip, lips always curling in a smile and with fondness at his only grandchild. Large, somewhat bugged green eyes that always showed so much happiness and joy and pride in her.

How terribly Willow missed him.

Missed their rides together through the countryside and stops for ice cream...he'd treated her the way a grandchild deserved to be treated.

Not as an extra servant, like her grandmother seemed only capable of...

Sometimes....sometimes she was jealous of her dead grandfather.

Jealous that he'd gotten away and no longer had to live with Granny Louise.

It was a horrible, morbid thought to have, but a thought that had crossed Willow's mind more times than she could count.

But Willow knew she'd never doing anything hasty to herself; she was too much of a coward.

And head lowering in defeat, she pulled herself up onto the seat, behind the wide steering wheel, slipping the key into the ignition.

Willow's forehead bumped the cool plastic several times with a whimper.

She was too much of a coward for anything beyond “Yes, Granny Louise.”

Sweat trickled down Taryll's back and dotted his forehead as he stood off the main road, in a thicket of trees, shrugging out of his grey jacket.

Unable to just leave the little 'presents' Samson had dropped near his car out in the open, Taryll had stepped off, a few feet into the forest, to gather leaves and twigs to try to hide the mess.

But out in the wilderness, away from the blasting a/c of his Phantom, Taryll was left to the mercy of triple-digit temperatures. And with no respite from the heat, it seemed every pore on his body had opened and was flowing freely.

And with his sweat glands going into overdrive, the generous spritzing of Bvlgari Man cologne was failing him, and the smell of Taryll Man was becoming plain to his nose, causing the bridge of it to crinkle in distaste.

“...if this ain't some shit...” Taryll grumbled to himself, bending for more fallen flora around his feet and struggling to keep a hold on the wad already held to his chest.

“...now I'm going to be extra late to Taj's since I have to go go wash and scrub my yellow ass now...”

Groaning to himself, back beginning to ache dully, Taryll straightened up, and started for the road, where he found Samson sitting on his haunches, tongue out beside his vehicle, and a few feet from the little 'bundles' he'd pushed out onto the pavement.

“The things I do for you...” He simpered, spreading his feet to steady himself, and stooped, starting to arrange the leaves and sticks to conceal the pooples.

“...got me walking around in this heat, dizzy as fuck, sweating like a whore in church...stink to high hell—what the—SAMSON!”

That quickly, for no apparently reason, with no provocation whatsoever, the mixed breed was up and trotting off into the thicket.

Dropping all the bits of forest refuse, Taryll struck out into a full on sprint, Samson but a tri-colored dot in front of him.

“Motherfucker! Come back here! Where are you going? Do you hear me, you miserable mutt! HEEL! Goddamn! Come back! Stop Samson!”

Deeper into the woods, Taryll gave chase, weaving in and out of trees over hills and dales, even through a small shallow creek, which luckily for Taryll he was able to hurdle over without ruining his expensive Zanotti sneakers.

If he'd ruined those shoes, black and silver snakeskin print, which he had only worn three times before, he'd have probably left Samson in the wilderness and cut his losses.

But with four hundred dollar investment still intact, Taryll continued trailing the canine, the gap betwixt the two widening, the human becoming winded and breathless.

“Samson! I command you to—NO! Don't do it! Samson! This is your master speaking! Stop it!”

Staggering out onto a gravel path that cut through the woods, rather strangely as he had spent the last twenty minutes stumbling and falling in overgrowth, Taryll had no chance to gain his bearings.

“HEEL! I paid all that money for training and this damn creature ain't listening to me—HEEL DAMN IT!”

A few hundred yards away, a set of blackened, wrought iron gates stood shut, Samson racing full speed ahead towards them.

Taryll was feebly running after, fearing Samson would crash into the metal, and injure, or worse, kill himself.

“SAMSON—what?”

Taryll skidded to a halt, kicking up rocks, almost slamming into the gate himself, watching in disbelief as his dog, quite easily, wiggled between the gates and ran off inside the gated property.

“I'll be rightly damned!”

Putter...putter...putter...

With the classic auto running sufficiently, Willow jumped from the driver's seat, crossing the garage to line of switches, near the door leading back into the kitchen, that lifted and lowered the doors, so that she could back the car out a few feet.

With a quick flick, bearings and chains overhead creaked noisily into action, the door slowly rising and the bright sunlight and fresh air came flooding in, lightening the dreariness of the drab interior.

Within seconds the car had been backed out and left running—Willow usually let it run anywhere between thirty and sixty minutes.

Enough to warm it up, but not use up all the gas in the tank.

Again, the door was opened, and Willow on her feet, hopping from one foot to the next, but unable to remove the high heels, not when, from any window, Willow's grandmother could see and scold her.

Hands on her hips, Willow rounded the back of the car, staring up at her grandmother's house.

The huge, imposing mansion, dating back to the 1920s and firstly belonging to some now dead, long forgotten silent picture star.

A huge, rambling manse in the Mediterranean style with pink adobe walls and a rich, rust-colored stucco roof.

A grand stair case of matching adobe led up to the courtyard facing the front of the of the house, where an elaborate fountain, featuring a bare-chested mermaid spat water around the clock.

That mermaid always did manage to annoy Willow.

She never understood why she had to dress so modestly, couldn't even wear shorts or a two piece bathing suit to go swimming in the pool in the rear of the domicile but the mermaid could stand there with her breasts out for God and everyone to see.

And surely...Willow tossed her head with the utmost in conceit...she was certain her breasts looked better than those pitiful renditions carved in pink marble.

Wouldn't that old dictator in a girdle just drop dead if Willow had the nerve to walk around with bosom out for all to see--

Willow was drawn from her thoughts of nudity-infused spite, when some warm, heavy, alive laid itself on her food.

Startled, her chin met her chest, Willow staring down, eyes growing in awe.

At her feet, head resting atop her saddle shoe was a dog, it's breed she couldn't determine, but it was a beautiful, large, animal, it's fur, a mix of black, white, and red-tinged brown shining in the sun.

It appeared to be a very well tended pet, a wide band of pebbled purple leather around its neck as a collar, a silver disc dangling from it and overlapping her shoe.

This wasn't a stray, that was obvious.

Timidly, she put her hand under the dog's pointed muzzle, and slowly, delicate,y got the dog to stand.

The disc was engraved:

Samson

If Found Please Return Me to My Master

Taryll Jackson

9155 Martes Avenue

San Jose, CA, 57519

He'll Miss Me If You Don't

“San Jose?” Willow echoed, scratching the top of his head, Samson's fur smooth and feeling very much like silk to her fingertips.

“My, but you are a long way from home, aren't you?”

Taryll Jackson laid on his back, just inside the iron gate, staring up at the canopy of treetops with splice of clear blue sky peeking through.

It wasn't a casual, idle repose; no...while he'd manage to climb up and over the fence, constructed in a widow pane grid manner, he'd lost his footing once on the other side.

And rather than climbing down, he'd plummeted the last ten or so feet to the gravel.

As bruises began to stare their clam along his back, arms and even his buttocks, Taryll knew he had to find that hundred pound nuisance and try to find his way back to the car.

He only prayed he wouldn't be chased by some disgruntled homeowner for trespassing.

Gates were for keeping unwanted, unknown, unfamiliar folks out.

He certainly had no idea of whom lived beyond this purposefully placed fence and he was certain they did not know him.

Most of his social crowd dotted the larger cities of Southern California: Los Angeles, Laguna Beach, San Diego and San Jose.

(His grandparents had retired and moved to a ranch in Oregon but that was beside the point.)

It took much effort, and much more swearing, but Taryll managed to right himself, his decorative sneakers meant more to look at than to hike pinching his feet painfully, and started his trek, convinced the neat, winding gravel path had to lead somewhere.

He just hoped that somewhere also led to Samson.

If only he had a rolled up newspaper to spank that dog's hide, all the trouble he'd caused that day!

It was a good ten minute walk, which may have been shorter, but Taryll's plump body was incredibly fatigued and rather stiff from meeting the Earth as he had with an unprecedented THUD.

He was in dire need of a shower, an aspirin, and perhaps a shot of vodka.

Damn a shot, he'd suck the entire bottle down through a straw if he could.

And that's when it came into view before his watery, drooping eyes.

The mansion.

The huge, pinkish structure with the clashing red roof, the many gables and open walkway.

The ostentatious fountain with a realistic-looking, topless mermaid, spouting water in an arc.

The well-tended lawns, low-cut shrubbery.

In the distance, albeit faintly, a classical piano piece was tinkling.

Taryll was amazed beyond compare that such a structure could, and would just leap from the wilderness, be nestled amongst the trees, almost as though it were natural to the environment.

An oasis of sorts.

Awestruck, Taryll paced closer only a few steps, before he was stopped, rooted to the gravel beneath him.

“...I'll be damned!” He hissed, bridge of his nose crinkling, a bead of sweat dripping off it, scowl distorting his androgynous features.

On the ornate staircase, visible through the carved banister, sitting on his haunches, panting happily as though he belonged, was Samson.

Automatically, he went to shout the beast's name to get him off the steps lest the homeowner—there had to be one, the grounds were too well kept, not to mention the music playing, for the place to be a ghost town—and lost his voice in an instant.

It choked off hoarsely, dryly, sounding something like a deranged kazoo as he caught sight of someone...

His eyes widened, and the sweaty, wet nostrils flared, him drawing in a deep breath that expanded his chest but he scarcely noticed it.

He was too...distracted.

From around the far corner of the house, a young woman came strolling nonchalantly, a pale green, china bowl grasped in her hands.

A tiny, petite thing in a black dress, covered with white cats, and two-toned shoes; dark tresses ,pulled back into a bun, making her fair skin appear all the more alabaster, snowy, creamy.

Taryll was silent, watching, as the woman approached Samson, seemingly with no fear, despite his large size, and stooped, placing the bowl on the steps, near his paws, the dog eagerly drinking.

Positioning himself opposite the banister, wafting forward, Taryll heard the end of the statement the woman was making, speaking to the dog.

“...I'm not quite sure what to do with you. I wish I could keep you, but I'm not allowed to have a pet here. I'm sure your Master must be very worried and missing you terribly...your collar said so...”

Her voice.

Taryll's ears perked up at her voice.

So mild, so light, a touch on the high side, but not to the point of irritating him.

It was a frankly, justly feminine voice, sounding worldly and sophisticated, without being a put-on...a voice well suited to a woman who looked like her.

A gentle breeze blew and the nostrils opened further, being tickled by a warm, sophisticated scent that was a combination of iris, jasmine, and violet, with a barely perceptible trace of vanilla.

In a way, it seemed a scent almost too old for one whom appeared so young.

“I suppose you can stay the night and I'll have Alfred...”

Willow trailed off abruptly, as overhead, the sun shifted and a shadow, not hers or the dog's stretched along the steps, and glanced over to find the owner.

At first, she assumed it was Julio the gardener, but she knew Julio all too well.

Julio was bald as a cue ball, and Willow was quite certain she could see coarse, waved, black hair, very tousled and with a small leaf jutting from it over the top of the handrail.

Unless Rogaine could suddenly turn results overnight, this was not the elderly Hispanic groundskeeper.

(Also, wasn't Julio out back, tending to the hedges around the swimming pool at that very moment?)

Tentatively she stepped past the still lapping dog, to the other side of the stairs, where a man was starting to back away.

Willow should have been frightened, leery, apprehensive.

Just below her stood a man, rumbled, streaked with dirt, sweating and very lightly smelling of funk.

He possessed the aura of a drifter, a vagabond.

But there was something about him...something that told Willow not to fear him, though she'd been taught to fear all those who she did not know.

And there were so very many that she indeed lacked knowledge of.

He was such a tall, strapping man in a black tee and jeans, a grey jacket tied over his wide hips.

His shoes...silvery black, and looked to be snakeskin were far too fine to be on a basic bum...this man...he had to have money. No poor man would have such luxury on his feet.

Through years of only wearing the best and being surrounded by the best money could buy, Willow had a keen eye for it.

Eyes traveling back up, Willow inspected his swarthy, flushing face.

He bore a deep, clear, olive complexion, offset, by a full, trimmed beard, and under arched brows, which was profusely pouring sweat from the extreme heat of the summer day, what looked to be green eyes stared back at her.

It was plain to see he was exotic, the product of what had to be intermingled bloodlines.

At the same time, Taryll was regarding the woman.

Such a striking, beautiful face, it quite literally snatched his breath from him.

The oblong face, with its delicate features, fine cheek bones, pointed of chin, small ears with the white discs in the lobes.

The long, graceful nose over a smallish mouth.

And her eyes, he'd never seen such eyes in all his life!

The clear, true blue orbs under pencil-whittled brows.

Eyes, that seemed inquisitive, yet...troubled.

Yes, there was a touch of worry to her eyes, Taryll noticed that right away and figuring it was in his best interest to announce just whom he was...

But as he opened his mouth to speak, he found he couldn't.

Jesus, he was dumbstruck, the woman was so breathtaking!

It was a rare event Taryll Jackson to be so outdone as to lose the art of speech when addressing a woman.

Willow, so seldom meeting anyone not on her grandmother's payroll and so starved for companionship, particularly that of the opposite sex, yearned to speak to him, even if this fellow looked as though he'd been dragged to her house all over the floor of woods, hitting every stone and tree stump along the way, he was a man, and if she squinted past the perspiration and grime, he appeared to be quite a good-looking man.

Handsome.

Yes, he was handsome. Very handsome.

One of the most handsome men she had seen in a good, long, hearty stretch of time.

Hands wringing in front of her Willow gathered the courage to move her lips, her voice a squeak and sounding foreign to herself,

“I'm... My...my name's Willow...Willow Lenoir...what's yours?”

Long lashes fluttered as the man, wincing a bit, shuffled around to the base of the steps and up towards her, stopping three steps down.

He stood rather awkwardly, his feet set apart, wider than his shoulders, hands clasped together in front of him, exactly as hers were.

It was a strange stance.

Oddly, it made a man of such heft and girth appear shrunken and timid, the complete opposite of how Willow perceived him to be.

He was such a big, hulking fellow.

And then he spoke, in a low, yet high-pitched tenor that sounded more like he was singing than speaking, simply,

“I'm...Taryll...Jackson.”

The eyes swept rapidly down to his feet, regarding those name-brand kicks a second time, and gradually, they sailed over his body settling on his face, the brows coming together in question, silence hanging over them.

“You're Taryll Jackson?” She repeated, her voice going up a skosh in octave, registering her skepticism. “The...Taryll Jackson that...”

Her nails, short, round and a mauvey-pink that matched her lips, absently scratched at the top of the dog's head, as he had returned to a seated position, the water bowl emptied.

How fine the dog looked beside her, Taryll thought, face remaining its placidity. How they seemed to go together, so perfectly.

“...Samson belongs to.” She finished her statement, a note of the forlorn to it, as she was unable to hide her displeasure of having to part with an animal she'd started to attach herself to.

She'd been forced to part with so many things she'd bonded with over the years.

Too many things to even begin to count.

“Yes...” The tousled head bobbed in affirmation and Taryll ventured a step up, closer to her.

“...he's my dog, you see...”

Another step.

“He got away from me...when I let him out on the main road...to...um...relieve himself...”

Those eyes seemed to be boring holes directly through him. She was meeting his eyes without a waver, staring at him, hardly blinking.

Mesmerized.

She was mesmerized by him.

But how could she not be?

Staring was rude, but she could afford to be rude when a man looked the way he did...and it had been so very long...since she had seen a man like him.

“I'm...a mess...” He motioned to himself, noting the gaze washing over him again, “...but I had to hop your fence to try to...get him back. I'm not an expert fence climber, so I didn't really...land on my feet.”

(No, he'd landed on his ass!)

He scoffed derisively, shaking his head, adding,

“I...I know I'm trespassing, and I apologize--”

Her hand, small and warm was on his damp wrist.

She did look up at him so sweetly.

Like a friend, like they'd know one another for years.

“Really...it's quite alright. No harm done. I was glad to look after such a nice--”

“Miss Lenoir!”

The shrill, vocal incarnation of nails-on-a-blackboard cut through the balmy afternoon and as a result Willow's eyes fluttered shut, her grip on Taryll's arm tightening painfully, nails digging into his moist flesh.

Behind them, at the very top of the stairs, an old woman stood.

A spectral figure in a flowing black dress, despite the soaring temperatures, covered by a crisp white apron.

Brown hair, lighter than Willow's, was streaked heavily with shades of silver, white and grey, belying the woman's true age, contrasting her unlined, albeit stern and set face, was gathered into two bypassing braids at the crown of her head.

The eyes snapped open and cast skyward, Willow questioning with authority,

“Yes, Sylvia?”

“It's nearly half past twelve! Your grandmother is expecting her lunch; she'll be taking it in the conservatory...”

Sylvia's beady dark eyes took in Taryll and he stared boldly back.

“I'll be right there Sylvia. I have to go turn Gramps' car off and put it back in the garage. I'll be in shortly--”

“And who is the...gentleman?”

Sylvia called him a gentleman in a way that meant the antithesis of the word.

“Mr. Jackson.”

The bunned head turned and peered back at the woman.

“His dog wandered onto the property. He was retrieving it. Do not tell Granny Louise—comprenez vous?”

The two stared at each other, but the older woman did give a strict nod, and turning gathered up her skirts, moving away quickly.

As Willow bent and retrieved the bowl, Taryll questioned, rubbing at the back of his wet neck,

“Is my being here a problem--”

“No...” Willow was curt, turning, and with a tug, had Taryll following her up the stone steps, Samson obediently bringing up the rear.

“The very least I can do is offer you a nice, cold drink. It is so hot today.”

“T-thank you...I appreciate that...”

Taryll stammered, shuffling along behind her, allowing himself to be led up to the raised courtyard and through a set of grand pillars, with their motley trio coming on the front doors of the home.

Flanked by unlit sconces in the shape of fleur-de-lis, the doors were solid lead glass, held in place by rolling, scrolling frames of dark bronze.

One of the doors was opened and immediately Taryll was overwhelmed by two things—a much-welcomed blast of frigid air—and the prevalent scent of tuberoses.

The front hall was dim, rich, heavy with dark woods, a few yards from them, the curling, end of a spiral staircase met them, meeting the intricate, mosaic floor of browns, creams, camels and tans.

The cottony little hand on his wrist never let go, starting lead Taryll further into the mansion, past marble side boards and statues of nude women, animals and mythical creatures.

This wasn't so much a home, as it was a showplace of wealth.

The kinds of homes he'd read about from the Gilded Age but though he was monied as was his family they didn't flaunt it.

Not on this magnitude.

Sure he dressed well and drove a luxury vehicle, but his home was more of modest means.

Chandeliers, heavy with Austrian crystals and sparkling with gold, lit the way, every few feet, with them passing many shut pocket doors, intricate tapestries depicting hunting scenes, and oddly, defrocked Queen Marie Antoinette's family, in between each.

The hall gave way to a much lighter living room, swathed in shades of peach, and beige, baroque-style furniture scattered about and more of those little naked statuettes.

It was all so extravagant...too extravagant.

Why, the place didn't even look lived in!

Taryll was wholly rubbernecking as he went along, trying to see all to be seen, when a a portrait, perched above the inlaid fireplace, caused him to stop, and pull Willow back, startling her.

“Oh!”

The photograph, in a huge gilded frame, showed Willow, lavishly draped in an off-white gown of crushed velvet, with a raised collar, plunging neckline, hugging all the obvious womanly places, displaying a tremendous pave diamond necklace twinkling around her throat, huge pundanht suspanded near her waist.

Her stance was carefree, one satin gloved hand on her hip the other at her side, staring the camera head on.

In spite of her small stature Taryll was prompted to inquire,

“Are...are you a model?”

The question caught Willow so off guard, she burst into delighted peals of tinny laughter for a good minute. So taken was she with amusement, she doubled over.

“Am I...am I...ahahahaha!” She tittered, hand to her bosom, color flooding her cheeks and turning them pink as chrysanthemums.

Snorting, she dabbed at a laughter tear threatening to smear her eyeliner.

“I don't know what's funnier: that you think I'm a model—which I most certainly am not—or that you think that's actually me?”

“Huh?” It was Taryll's turn for his brows to collide into each other. “But...but--”

He could only sputter, staring at the glowing white face in wonder.

He didn't have to wonder for very long though.

“That's not me in the portrait...” The head shook, eyes dancing and showing sappphire, “That's my Granny Louise...in her younger years, of course.”

Gold-flecked green eyes tripled in size at her, drifting between the woman in black and the one in off-white several times.

Trying to make sense of it.

“Your...grandmother?” He echoed, hand coming to his forehead. “But you--”

“Look exactly like her.” Willow finished for him with a tiny, scornful jerk of the chin.

“Story of my life. I'm my grandmother all over again—physically anyway.”

She had plead with God too often to keep her personality a polar opposite from that obstinate snob as he could.

She'd have killed herself.

“The...resemblance...is remarkable...” Taryll murmured, being pulled along over Persian rugs and marble flooring to the far corner of the room.

“What is--” He started, a sharp click sounding, Willow's fingertips finding a tiny raised latch opening a door.

The pair and canine passes off into it, finding another corridor, unadorned, dark paneled and lit by only bare bulbs.

“This is the quickest way back the kitchen, it's for the servants but I use it too.”

The sounds of her heels clacking on the hardwood, along with the squeaking of the sneakers carried them a few feet, before Taryll, bursting at the brim with curiosity, asked,

“Um...this is a really big place...do...do a lot of your family live here?”

“It used to be three of us: me, Granny Louise and Gramps, but we lost Gramps about ten years ago--”

“I'm sorry.” The words seemed so empty, so futile...

“It's alright, I know he's at peace.” For a split second she looked over her shoulder at him.

Taryll still couldn't quite put his finger on it, single it out, but something was giving her a saddened vibe from a girl whom, by all other accounts looked the epitome of happy.

She should have been.

Smartly dressed, well fed, loaded.

Another question,

“Where are your parents?”

They turned a corner, went a stretch more, turning another.

“Spelunking. It's their hobby. They're in Australia this year. Last year it was South Africa, next year, Madagascar. Seeing the set up here, you can likely tell they have quite a lot of leisure time on their hands. ”

“Do...do you see them often?”

“I'd see Hayley's Comet sooner.”

That shut Taryll up in a hurry.

There was a particularly bitter note to that last statement but Taryll decided to be wise and not push the matter.

Swiftly they came upon an unmarked pocket door and with another click, Taryll Jackson found himself standing in a large, bright old-fashioned kitchen, a chef in a white uniform peeking into an oven, the stony-faced woman, was her name Sylvia, polishing a pile of silver in front of a laptop, syrupy music spilling from it.

The air was thick with the scents of roasting meats and aromatics and fresh herbs, more pots atop the stove bubbling.

The two servants looked up quizzically at first the rumpled man, and then the dog, eyes darting back to Willow, who, straightening her shoulders informed them,

“This is my friend, Mr. Jackson and his pet, Samson. Mr. Jackson took a tumble on the property—Sylvia.”

The tight-lipped woman tensed.

“Please show Mr. Jackson to one of the guest rooms, so he may freshen up—preferably in the south wing, so he'll be out of Granny Louise's way. And see to it his clothes are laundered right away.”

Taryll went to speak, to tell her it wasn't necessary, but Willow Lenoir was a girl with a mission.

“Cookie, please see to it that Mr. Jackson is brought something to eat and drink, while he waits on his clothes.”

“Yes, Miss Lenoir.”

For the first time since they had met, she released his wrist, moving towards the opposite end of the table Sylvia was laboring at.

Towards a silver domed tray.

Taryll lingered, Sylvia taking her time to finish polishing a dessert spoon.

The dome was lifted, revealing a china platter loaded with some type of meat salad, surrounded by melba toast and sliced cucumbers, accompanied by a pack of cigarettes with a name Taryll couldn't pronounce.

“Has the pitcher of lemonade been taken to Granny Louise already?”

“Yes, Miss!”

The dome was replaced, Willow turning to Taryll, as she placed the green bowl aside.

“Are you a very safe driver?”

What an odd inquiry, but Taryll nodded,

“I've only ever had a speeding ticket, once--”

“There's a car idling just out that door there...”

A slim finger indicated another pocket door, sitting ajar.

What she said next about scalped him,

“It's a 1933 Pierce-Arrow. I just need you to drive it in about ten feet and close the garage. The switch for the garage door is on the wall of the door you're about to pass through. Please, leave the keys with Sylvia. Can you do that?”

He stared at her stupidly a moment, his brain desperate to process what he'd been so calmly told.

A Pierce-Arrow?

It was a car Taryll, as his work revolved around antique vehicles, had only heard tell off and seen in photographs, but had never laid eyes or hands on.

Not in the actual steel!

And now he was not only being told he was a few hundred feet from one, but to sit behind the wheel and move it!

A car that was easily worth at least a million dollars, perhaps two or three times that if put on the proper auction block, with the right amount of publicity!

And it was just sitting in a driveway?

Did she have any idea of the gold mine on which she was sitting?

His mouth was watery, his knees weak, as Willow lifted the tray, a tray that appeared much too heavy for so small a woman.

Her face so charming as she mouthed the words “thank you” to him, and scurried away.

He watched her go, smile curling his plump lips.

Passing through a swinging door across from him, Willow paused, dropping against the wall in the main hallway, heart close to thudding out of her chest.

Taryll was going to be there at least a couple of hours, until his clothing was properly laundered...and Willow hoped it was enough time to get to know him.

And utilize him to get away.

When would she ever have the chance again?

While he was a man whom had grown accustomed to globe-trotting, visiting the most upscale, cosmopolitan cities in the world, through his work in acquiring and turning over expensive, obsolete and rare autos to the mega-rich, and had stayed over in some of the best homes and hotels along the way, they did indeed pale in comparison to the room he's been escorted to, in order to “freshen up” as that old, ghost-who-refused-to-lie-down had put it.

The guest room itself was two parts a salon, with couches and more of those French royal family portraits, in heavy frames, the walls papered in tone on tone dark gold offset by the rich mahogany wood and lit both by gilt chandeliers and sconces.

The bedroom boasted a huge sleigh bed dressed in sumptuous goldenrod silk matching the velvet valances on the two windows running adjacent it.

More divans, quilted and tufted were before an unlit hearth, uneeded in the sweltering weather.

Over that mantle, a painting of Marie Antoinette herself had looked out on him.

The ceiling was recessed with relief carvings of cherubs. It was the utmost in French-inspired opulence, and quite at odds with the Mediterranean exterior.

The bathroom was no less incredible.

Wall-to-wall imported marble, the majority of it brown, with a strange cross cut, resembling a geode, in shades of black, white and brown, a center placard on the floor, the double vanity sink and the deep sunken tub.

Recessed lights cast a sleepy glow.

All the fixtures were brass and in the shapes of swans.

Taryll wasn't quite sure what to make of it, but genuinely appreciated Willow's generosity, offering him both a place to clean up and a meal.

Up to his broad shoulders in the hot bubbly water, bar of soap clutched in one hand, Taryll was deep in thought.

Even the soap was overdone, black with flecks of real rose petals in it, the top of it carved in a floral motif.

He'd been troubled, for some reason, by Willow since they'd met.

She'd been nice to him, almost to the point of being felonious, but there had been something in her eyes.

Something so sad, so desolate, so tortured about her, though it went unspoken.

He assumed a lot of things went unspoken in her world.

And she did look so young...almost too young to the point of worrying him, as...

Taryll shut his eyes, lips sucking in with him scrubbing at the back of his neck.

...he was warming up to her.

Liking her. Attracted to her.

He was truly attracted to her...and he'd have been crushed if she were out of his reach.

She had appeared to reciprocate the feeling. The way she looked at him, the way she had held onto his wrist so long.

Her touch had sent waves through him.

Drawing a deep breath, Taryll sank below the surface of the water, giving his hair a rudimentary scrub, to at least sweep the perspiration away.

Between the soap scented of nothing but roses, and the bubble bath, of lavender, he should have smelled like a florist shop by the time he got out the tub.

He wanted to talk to Willow. Get to know her, understand her.

Yanking a small chain underwater, the tub began to drain, and with a light grunt, Taryll got int a standing position, grabbing three of the large fluffy white towels stacked on a swan-shaped stand.

One went around his beefy hips to hide his man bits, the other around his damp head like a turban.

Stepping out onto a rug that blended with the floor so seamlessly it was nearly invisible to the eyes, he paused, taking the last towel and starting to dry his upper half, as he moved towards the vanity, noting its top overloaded with a selection of miniature bottles of perfume, colognes and deodorants.

All of which, on closer inspection, were sealed—they were brand new, intended for his use and only his.

All which were quite pricey and all seemed to be French, according to the names at least.

Perhaps Willow was French, he'd heard her speak to that creepy maid in the language.

He selected a roller ball deodorant, that once the wrapper had come off, was relatively bland, and slicked it on fuzzy arm pits, moving to the selection of colognes, hoping one smelled close to his Bvulgari Pour Homme.

Willow couldn't breathe, and feared she'd never be able to fill her lungs to capacity ever again.

For the last ten minutes, since bringing up a tray of refreshments for Taryll, Willow had been perched across from the bed, pressed against the wall, peering through the smallest of cracks in the pocket door leading to the bathroom, watching him, Samson sleeping at her feet.

(His master had taken so long with his toilette he'd simply gotten fed up with waiting on him!)

Taryll was going back and forth between two of the complimentary colognes and couldn't seem to decide upon which one he wanted.

But it wasn't the bottles that held her attention, it was the man himself.

Oh, he was even more wondrous than she could have ever imagined!

His plump, chubby body with just the right amount of firm flesh, not too much, that deep, golden tone all over him—he must have spent a great portion of his time, the complete opposite of Willow—his chest with its loose pectorals, accented by darker nipples.

His shoulders, broad, proud and strong were speckled here and there with freckles.

Yes, he had to have taken in quite a bit of outdoor activity and that intrigued her.

He had a perfect, commanding figure to Willow, with it tapering in at the waist, before flaring again at the hips, with wide powerful thighs, and thin, yet muscular, and hairy legs.

Perhaps he had been an athlete in his schooldays.

The towel concealed his man bits but by carelessness on Taryll's part, as he fussed with the bottles, the towel had wedged its way into the crevice splitting thick, round, globular buttocks, outlining them with such clarity Willow was breaking into a cold sweat just looking at him.

She was getting an eyeful and what she couldn't see, she could imagine to devastating results.

He was too beautiful.

Too sexy.

Too much for words.

Willow, fluent in English, French and Spanish failed to find words for him in any language.

This soft-spoken dream whom had come into her life.

He finally settled on a squat, black glass bottle, its perimeter ringed by Art Deco style horses in silver.

Amber liquid was pored into his hand, and liberally splashed around his throat and across his chest, showing the slight darkness of body hair.

He was so manly.

Strapping, hairy, that beard giving him a careless lumberjack quality.

He was the Paul Bunyan she never knew she needed.

Willow straightened, chewing on her bottom lip, Taryll taking the towel from his head, hair sticking every which way, drying it hastily.

Turning, he crossed to the opposite wall where a robe, of black and white silk, depicting little wheels, gears and cogs, trimmed in quilted black satin was removed from a hook.

His back was to her, but much to Willow's annoyance, he first threw the robe on then removed the towel that had been tied to his waist.

She'd have sold Granny Louise to see his marvelous booty!

Towels cast into the hamper, he gave himself one last look in the mirror, tightening the belt, so his nakedness would be securely hidden; he was starting for the door.

Quickly, Willow completely jumped over Samson, rushing to the low, carved table a few feet over from the end of the bed, where she had placed the tray.

A moment later, Taryll came strolling out, and Willow wanted to cry.

How dapper he looked in that robe, how debonair.

Even with his hair looking as though a cyclone had passed through it.

Hands wringing in front of her, she felt goosebumps on her arms as he smiled fondly at her, striding towards her.

“Hi...”

“I...I brought you some lunch...it's the same as what Granny Louise had—chicken salad, cucumbers and crackers....”

A small hand indicated the elaborate, flute pitcher, clear and pink, atop a smaller silver platter, it's rim covered by more silver, stamped with a cherries motif, a brownish liquid with lemon slices floating in it.

“...I had Cookie prepare some iced tea for you, is that alright?”

How she wanted him to be comforted, how she wanted to appease him in every way.

“Yeah...that's fine...thank you...”

He sank onto the nearest divan, it was rather hard on his bare ass, it probably hadn't been sat upon in ages, but he could deal with it, seeing the generous portion presented him, on a silver tray, but with a clear glass dome.

“No problem—oh, your clothes will be to you shortly. I have Sylvia steaming them.”

“Thank you again” Taryll repeated, picking up a cucumber slice, popping it in his mouth crunching on it, it had been lightly salted. “You've been very kind. I appreciate it.”

“It's no problem....really...”

Both fell quiet, Taryll audibly chewing on another slice, Willow taking nothing.

Being that close to him left her full enough.

Taking in the vaulted ceiling over them, he made noise, finally,

“Do you really run the show here? You've been giving orders since I got here.”

“No...my grandmother runs the show...” Willow admitted, the cruel bitterness returning to those blue eyes, hurting him immensely “I just delegate tasks very well, that's all...”

The eyes dropped.

His hand was on her wrist, pulling her closer.

He wanted her to join him.

Her heart was about to bust through her chest!

Taryll wanted her company!

Timidly, she placed herself on the far end of the divan, one slim leg crossing over the other.

Biting into a piece of melba toast he'd heaped with chicken salad—it was extremely spicy, just how he liked it—he asked,

“And what do you do here? All by yourself...you told me earlier it was just you and Granny Louise.”

Her hands were whirling in her lap.

“I guess...I've always been my grandmother's companion, Taryll. My mother was married young and had me rather young; she was about my age when I was born. Granny Louise thought Mother was too flighty to try to raise a child, so she saw to it that she was granted custody of me. And I've been here ever since, living with her and Gramps, until Gramps...died. And now its just us. ”

“Do you go out...? Do you--”

He faltered, the dark head shaking, eyes down cast, with him letting go of her.

“No...I have...my tasks to do here...and it takes my whole day. If I'm not with her, I'm doing something for her....it takes a lot of attention to keep this place afloat...”

Taryll chewed on his bottom lip, eyeing her.

How strange....how sad a girl so young a full of obvious vivacity be stripped of it in such a way.

“Oh...” Taryll mulled it over, jumping slightly, Willow poking at his knee.

“Tell me about you. I'd rather hear about you, Taryll. What do you do? I'm sure your life is so much more exciting than mine. All I do is give out chores—tell me about you....please?”

Her eyes were so hungry.

Indeed she had yearned for conversation.

“Well...I don't know, um...” He rubbed at his beard thoughtfully. “I'm in the vintage auto business—you don't know how excited I was when I walked in your garage and saw the two antique cars. If you ever want to unload that limo or especially the sedan, let me know and I can get you a pretty penny. Trust me. They are worth heaps. I work with my two brothers for our father's restoration business...”

If only she could get her hands on some money, she'd blow town so fast.

She was inching closer to him, head tilted upwards, staring down her nose at him, giving her undivided attention.

He wanted to squirm. He couldn't recall a woman ever looking to him in such a fashion.

She was eating him up with her eyes!

“You....have brothers?”

“Uh...Yeah...” It was a hard thing to do, break the gaze she was plying him with.

Could she see his soul?

Reaching over, he picked up his phone, beside the tray and poked it at, pulling up a photograph.

In it, Taryll stood between two other men, arms draped around their shoulders, all smiling so happily.

One, was slightly taller and darker, with wild, curly hair, and extreme eyebrows over kind eyes, crinkling at the corners he was grinning so hard. The other was a bit shorter than Taryll, his round-cheeked face half hidden by a sheet of black braids, prominent ears sticking out on either side.

A handsome family.

“That's TJ.” He tapped the man with the hair.

“...and Taj.” The man with the plaits.

“The three Teez.” Willow piped up and Taryll snickered, loading up another piece of toast.

He popped the whole thing in his mouth, chewing sloppily, eyes traveling over her.

The patrician face with those saucer like eyes, long graceful neck, smallish, yet perky bosom, well-shaped, and toned legs.

She was so beautiful to him, plucking a cucumber from the platter.

“Are...” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully.

“Are you very happy here?”

She was going to her mouth with the vegetable, stopping suddenly.

She was so still, so long, it began to frighten him.

Her fair skin whitened further, with her giving an audible gulp.

“Willow?”

“No...” He hardly heard her.

“I'm not...”

Lashes fluttered with her adding,

“It's been hard, since Gramps died. It was easier with him here. He loved me. Cared for me, spent time with me...Granny Louise never liked me. It's...because she never liked my father. He's wealthy, of course since he's traveling all the time with Mother, but he's not French. Granny Louise isn't at all, but Gramps was—hence my name. I don't even have my father's last name. When Granny took custody of me, she saw to it I had the Lenoir name. I'll never know why, but Granny Louise has always been obsessed with all things French.”

Marie Antoinette was pointed out.

“I was going to be named after her, but Mother had me christened as Willow Elizabeth Victoria, after English queens. It makes no sense to anyone but them I assume, but you never can tell.”

She bit the cucumber, chewing slowly.

“I should be thankful. I know I had more than most people. Granny Louise never let me forget that fact. I was sent to exclusive all girls' schools and when that old bat finally does her swan song, I'll inherit all this—she disinherited Mother when I was three. I'm the sole heir...”

“Aren't you...” His hand was on hers, hazel eyes searching, “aren't you lonely?”

The head bobbed.

“Oh yes...I'm by myself most of the time.” She met his eyes.

She was so sad.

He wanted to help her, lighten her load, in some kind of way.

He thought a long moment, Willow consuming another cucumber.

“D...d...do you like parties? On Saturday, there's a surprise party for TJ--”

“Will you take me away from here?”

Taryll trailed off, brows shooting up.

“Take you away? From here? Now?”

She wanted to leave? Go away? Bail?

Make a jailbreak?

“Please!” Her hands were on his. “I....I can't stand it any longer--”

“I can't just take a teenager from her guardian!” Taryll's head spun, practically being asked to kidnap her.

His hand was squeezed so hard, the bones popped.

“I'm not a teenager!” Willow hissed with acidity. “I'm nearly twenty-one! I'm an adult!”

His ears perked up.

Twenties, she was in her twenties!

“I...” Taryll stood, hand going to his head, stroking his wild, unkempt hair.

“I....I can't just take you away. I mean...I'm...I'm ...”

He had no words.

She tugged the hem of his robe like a small child, confiding,

“My grandmother doesn't know you're here. She doesn't need to. That's part of the reason why I made sure Sylvia and Cookie didn't mention your being here. We....we can leave tonight. You can take me to a hotel somewhere. I...I can afford it. Gramps...he saw I was provided for, Taryll. I...I just need to leave...”

She was falling over her words, spurred on by the reality of a break so close.

So with in reach.

“I can't take being here another day. Another hour. Another minute!”

How queerly he stared at her. How strangely.

She sank back against the cushions,

“What?”

“You...you think I'd leave you...alone...at some kind of hotel? A little woman like yourself? When all you've known is this place? No means to protect yourself? I couldn't!”

He declared and Willow was on her feet, hand clasped to her bosom.

“What...” She was heaving, turning pink all over. “What are you saying?”

He loomed over her, eyes brilliant emerald in that swarthy face.

“ I don't know! It's ridiculous!” He announced, fists at his sides, clenching.

“I, I can't take you with me—I'm...”

He gulped, the truth rearing its head.

“I'm twice your age!”

Wanting to scream, he spun from her, bracing against the mantle, head lowered, certain the age gap would destroy whatever it was they might have had.

This was crazy, sudden, abrupt, he felt dizzy.

Had the chicken been spiked with more than a generous sprinkling of cayenne?

Willow stared after him, shoulders trembling, foot tapping, black and white fabric caught between his cheeks.

Taryll Jackson was forty?

He certainly didn't look it, that was for sure.

Indeed he looked thirty at the most.

But she wasn't going to let the mundane matter of numbers bother her.

“I...I don't mind that...” Taryll heard her remark timidly. “Gramps... he was twenty years older than Granny Louise. She's sixty...and if he were alive, he'd be eighty! Me and you...we're just like them. So far apart in age, and yet, here we are...together.”

The mussed head came up in wonder, Taryll begging over his shoulder.

“You telling the truth, or you just saying that so I don't leave without--”

“Do you want to leave me, Taryll?”

He turned at that.

She was rubbing her hands together, rolling them over one another, approaching him.

Thin brows flexed,

“Well, do you?” She repeated, eyes falling to the thin sheet of hair on his chest.

“Are you trying to seduce me?”

Taryll was incredulous, her nails being raked across his chest, as revealed by the overlapping neckline of the robe.

“Do you...” Her eyes blazed. “...want to be seduced?”

Pulling free, Taryll shook his head, arms up in the air,

“I'm twice your age, Willow! Old enough to be your father—what about your father? Your parents? Don't you want to be with them? Can't you go to Australia, do that spelunking, whatever the hell that is, with them?”

The pointed chin raised and pink lips sneered over white teeth,

“I just told you: My parents gave me up to my grandmother. They didn't want anything to do with me—I haven't seen them since I was a toddler. They travel all over, send the occasional postcard to prove they're not dead. But they don't come here. They aren't welcome here. Mother and Granny Louise don't talk. They don't see about me. They don't ask about me. They wouldn't know me if we passed one another in the street!”

It was her turn to clench fists.

“Don't you understand, Taryll? I'm dying here! Languishing here! Stifling here! There is nothing for me here. All Granny Louise does is sit and smoke cigarettes by the carton and play the piano...doesn't go out. Doesn't do anything. Just stay in this house....she feels its right since Gramps died. She withdrew from social life. She just wanders around, floats around, remembers times that no longer are! And I was dragged off into the mire with her. I...I need you, Taryll!”

She flung herself against him, that silken-clad body, arms curling his thick midsection, her head pressing his chest, inhaling his woodsy, aquatic scent.

Taryll, reluctant at first, eventually placed his arms around her tiny, quivering body, the dampness of warm tears wetting his bosom.

“Don't....don't do that...” He cooed in a whisper, heart racing. “Please...don't...don't cry Willow....”

“I can't help it!” She wept harder into his chest, his hand falling on her head, stroking after her hair.

How sweet she was, how she was so fragrant of roses...

Her face was in his hands, large thumbs, gently caressing her cheeks, smoothing the tears away.

“What....what all do you want to take with you?”

“Not much....” She sniffled, gasping for air. “...I...I have a scrapbook of my grandfather's pictures. That's all I really want. I...I can buy everything else I need....”

“Go get it. We...can go as soon as my clothes come....”

He was taking her! He was taking her with him!

She was going to leave!

She would finally be free!

Willow tried to pull back, to go retrieve her most prized possession, and found he wasn't letting go of her face.

“Taryll...” She giggled, and trailed off, finding him staring down at her, features stoic and set.

“Yes...”

His lips barely moved as he hissed the single word, brows raising.

Confusion set into the sparkling face.

“Yes, what?”

The eyes went a jovial emerald on her.

“Yes...” He reiterated. “I want you to seduce me.”

Her heart stopped, but she didn't have a chance to fall down dead.

Grip shifting, Taryll held onto her head, yanking her forward, his mouth, full lips, tasting hotly of the chicken salad pressing hers.

Her legs trembled and she grabbed onto his beefy wrists, the room, her very world spinning around her.

She saw fireworks, felt their heat, was mildly burned by them all in that kiss.

Lips working together, overlapping, sucking, biting.

Lips of two people who needed companionship, one another for so long.

Needed love and wanting and kindness and peace in a crazy, hazy mixed up world.

Their lives.

He was behind her, a gentle tugging on her head, as he began to remove the dozen carefully placed bobby pins in her hair, setting her dark, shoulder sweeping tresses loose.

Nails raked her scalp, as Taryll ran his fingers through her hair, sending waves through her, waves of emotion unlike anything she'd ever experienced.

“Go...” He whispered, breath on her earlobe. “Go...get you book, now...”

Willow Lenoir sprinted.

Flew on the wings of love.

Out of the guest room, down the hallway, past all those tapestries, portraits of her vainglorious grandmother, past little figures of naked people, over the marble and hardwood floors, rounding corners, jettisoning through corridors.

Flinging the heavy door to her bedroom open.

The bedroom with all of it's saccharine, sugar pink satin, its frilly lace, the teddy bears stacked on a doll-a-rama in the corner.

The princess' version of prison.

Blindly, Willow crossed the carpeted floor to her vanity stacked with cosmetics, all in neutral-shades, Granny Louise frowned on garish, obvious colors in makeup.

The bottles, in varying sizes and shapes, filled with floral based scents, the only scent Granny Louise said should be on a woman.

The Hell away with Granny Louise!

A low drawer was opened and from it a thick, plain brown leather album was lifted and clutched to the small bosom, breaths coming in erratic bursts.

She caught sight of herself in the mirror; her wide, crazed, eyes, the fresh new color in her cheeks, her hair loose and draping her shoulders.

How pretty she looked. How becoming. She'd never seen herself that way before.

Is this what it looked to be in love?

She wanted to make sure she did every day, from now on.

With Taryll by her side.

If her looking this way was what had won Taryll and enchanted him, she'd look that way....forever.

Again she was on the move, running, hugging that tome to her for dear life.

Life. She'd have life again

She wanted to live.

She wanted to live!

Returning to the room, her heart was in her throat, the magnitude of everything on her.

What she had instigated.

What she had virtually signed up for.

What had she agreed to?

Leaving...with Taryll.

Being with him.

Being whatever they were to be.

She couldn't turn back now, even if she wanted to!

The door swung, and the first thing Willow noticed, were his clothes.

Sylvia had come and gone in the brief interval she'd been away.

Draped on the brocade divan near the door were the articles of clothing Taryll had been wearing, when he'd tumbled onto the property: the grey jacket of light wool, a black tee, black jeans, white socks and a pair of black boxer-briefs, the waistband stamped with 'Polo Ralph Lauren' in red lettering.

All arranged perfectly, all arranged neatly.

Shutting the door after her, Willow ventured to archway separating the seating area from the bedroom.

Taryll stood, his back to her, tilting the pink splotched pitcher over a matching goblet, pouring some of the iced tea into it, a finger keeping the lemon slices from slipping into the glass.

Willow watched him, clutching the photo album tighter as he had a long sip, and burped lightly, replacing the glass on the table.

His hands went to his hips, tentatively, and then, as if he could sense her presence, he first turned his head, in profile.

The strong jaw, the touch of a double chin, with the dimple in the base of it, shell-like ear, turning slightly red, the noble, upturned nose, shock of messy curls.

His eyes was but a green slit, noticing her.

And he turned.

The book fell to the floor, just missing Willow's feet.

The robe...the silk robe...

It hung open.

And unwillingly, unconsciously, before she was even aware of it, Willow's young eyes were traveling.

Over the patch of bronze neck and the few curls that danced across the center of his chest, dove over his abdomen, showing the merest hint of a pooch, and down further...to where....

A hand came to her mouth, pink nails digging into the tender flesh around it, a choked, hoarse gasp flooding from her.

The hair...on his pubis was fuller, wilder, and fanned out of sight onto his thighs, beneath the robe, but with it open, Willow had a complete, uncensored view of Taryll Jackson's groin.

And, protruding proudly from that blackish-brown bush, at fall attention, was his penis.

In spite of herself, Willow gawked at his girth, the wide, veined shaft, the a shade or two darker than the rest of him in this erect state, quite long and standing up near his belly button, it's tip a brighter pink—it would be later that Willow would realize he wasn't circumcised.

At the base of his penis, his scrotum, brimful, apple-shaped, swayed between those hard thighs.

He was exposed....fully exposed to her.

And seemed without a care in the world, all the bits of him bouncing freely as he started for her.

This pale, doe-eyed creature, suddenly clinging to the arch.

Eyes not meeting his, but down below.

To an extent her staring at his crotch amused Taryll.

She had stated she was going to seduce him, and by the way she clung to the door, eyes ever-widening at his man, he couldn't help but wonder if she'd ever seen a naked man at all.

A live one, a breathing one, not those cold, stone renditions all over here and yonder in that mausoleum of a house.

Willow did look so young, so innocent, even more so now with her hair loose and down.

He should have let the age gap betwixt them speak for itself. He'd been with women younger than himself—he did life in California after all, the Mecca of May-December Relationships—but none as young as Willow.

She probably was too young for him.

Yet...

He loomed over her, this dark-haired creature.

He couldn't have been wrong, he felt a connection, a spark between them the second they met.

And it didn't hurt that Samson, now, secured away in the bathroom, had also taken to her.

He couldn't stand the hurt and sadness and pain that seemed to emanate from her.

It was just in him to try to be Superman.

And she would be his Lois Lane.

Gently, he pried her hands, warm and trembling from the archway, pulling her forward and into the bedroom.

He wanted her, he needed her...the way he was sticking straight up was testament enough to that.

She was so small...he did so want to look after her and care for her.

His hands, big and warm and tender were cradling her face again.

Those greenish eyes seeking out the stark blue ones.

“Have...have you ever been with a man before...Willow?”

He wouldn't have minded being her first conquest.

His breath was so heavy on her face.

The ghostly face bobbed.

She was so overwhelmed by him, she couldn't speak.

His hands were suddenly on her back, rubbing the length of her spine and it took a minute to connect to her he was hunting for a zipper to get the dress off of her.

“Just...” She whispered. “Just pull it over my head...”

Simply, easily the dress was removed, revealing her undergarments; an ice blue satin strapless bra and matching panties.

Matching her eyes perfectly.

The tanned, bearded face loomed over hers, the eyes searching the paling visage.

“You're....” The eyes traveled over her body, the small bosom, flat belly, rounded legs.

“You're beautiful.”

She smiled at him. And those pink nails pinched his chin through the even, trimmed facial hair.

“And...you're....you're sexy.” she confided, eyes coming back up to his.

His hand was on her chest, pressing against her sternum.

He was pushing her...back...towards the bed.

It wasn't lost on Taryll that her breaths quickened at his touch.

Willow barely made a dent in the comforter as she sat before Taryll, staring up at him, with him meeting her back just as seriously.

Those same large hands came up and with a flick, flung the robe off his shoulders, with it falling to the Persian rug beneath his bare feet.

Taryll noticed Willow was no longer looking up at him, not at the mass between them.

Instead, her eyes were off to the side, gazing at something behind him.

For a second he was worried, her mouth hung agape, those pools of blue unblinking.

Had...had someone come in?

Turning with trepidation, Taryll saw what all the fuss was about.

Against the far wall was a dresser and in the mirror, Willow was getting a clear view of his buttocks, the yellow mounds of flesh, sitting high on the base of his spine, fully, sumptuous, quivering as he shifted from one leg to the other.

His arched brows went up in amusement, with him snorting,

“You like my ass, don't you?”

The dark head bobbed again, eyes shifting.

“I like everything--”

His hand was gripping her chin with him stooping over her.

“It's all yours.”

Their mouths connected, Taryll knocking her back, the weight of his plump, portly body pressing her deeply down into the mattress, their hands intertwining.

As a pure reaction, Willow went to struggle against him, but the weight difference was obvious, Taryll possessing the upper hand, holding her down, mouth leaving hers with a smack and he gingerly covered her flushing face and throat in kisses.

“Are...are you...” He was grunting between pecks. “....sure... you want...you ...want this?”

“Yes!” Came the stressed reply.

He lifted up, sucking in his bottom lip.

“Okay.”

* * *

“Mmm! Mmm! Mmm!”

Willow stared down over her scant body, over the large hands grasping her small, teardrop shaped breasts, to the face at the base of her torso, half obscured by her nether regions, the glimmering hazel eyes fixed up at her.

“Mmm! Mmm! Mmm!”

The blue eyes shut in ecstasy at what he was doing to her., her slim legs resting on his shoulders, the warm, moist feeling of his tongue plunging into her, over and over, past those tight folds.

“Mmm! Mmm! Mmm!”

“Oh God!” She whimpered through grit teeth, his hands coming down and spreading her legs further.

“Taryll!”

“Mmm! Mmm! Mmm!”

The feelings....she couldn't even describe the feeling.

How wonderful he was. The way he handled her, the way it all felt.

It was all too much.

“Taryll—please!” She whimpered, with feeling his lips, pursed, kissing at her little vulnerable rosebud, his eyes shutting as though he were kissing her mouth.

Kissing her more deeply than she'd been kissed.

Deeper than she knew was capable.

“Oh....oh....oh...”

She moaned, glowing vibrant pink all, his finger tips spreading the folds back, allowing his tongue to swirl inside once more.

She was clutching her own breasts, her head thrown back against the bedding, sinking between the pillows, he'd taken the time to arrange under her head as she was laying length-wise across the bed.

She was pretty to him so sweet, so tight, like a little piece of fruit that had come to dewy ripeness and the longer and harder he licked the more and more Taryll was waiting.

For just the right moment.

And then....

Standing over her, looking at that luscious little body, creamy, pale, the pretty face turned from him, the bosom bouncing as she tried to maintain her breathing.

The amazing little cooing noise she made as she struggled for her wind.

The pinkness between her slender thighs opened to him, that little slit begging....begging for him, though she hadn't said a word.

They didn't need words.

Their bodies spoke for them.

The head turned back to him, questioning in those sky-blue eyes, the mattress squeaking and shifting, Taryll hulking frame adding weight to it and causing them both to sink.

He was on her...on top of her.

Automatically, Willow wrapped her arms around his neck, drawing him down on her, feeling the scruff of his beard against her neck, her cheek on his cheek.

They were breathing each other's breaths.

How hot his body was, how intoxicatingly he smelled of that borrowed cologne.

“OH!”

There was a burst of air n Taryll's ear, Willow gasping off into it, threatening to burst his ear drum, as slowly, yet deliberately he began sliding into her.

Willow tensed against him, feeling both the length and width of him pressing forward.

Spreading her in every direction and for a flash she was frightened he wouldn't fit completely.

With a final pop, he was completely in, Willow feeling the bush of pubic area on her bare one.

There was a squeak of the mattress, Taryll raising just far enough to kiss her little chin and the mole off to the side of it.

The thrusts were slow and tentative at first, as though he were afraid he'd hurt her.

Indeed he was; she was so small, so doll like, it was was hard to realize she was a real person and not belonging on a shelf somewhere for display.

Taryll nestled his furred face against her throat, alternately kissing and sniffing the rosewater fragrance on her.

And barely, just barely, he heard her whisper,

“Harder.”

He stared at her, asking,

“What?”

Her hands found his shoulders and the lids on her eyes squeezed, lashes fanning over over cheeks, Willow repeating,

“Harder...Taryll...”

The pace picked up rapidly after that, and as a direct reaction, the nails commenced to digging off into Taryll's shoulders, both hurting and pleasing him.

She was so very tight...just how he liked his women.

How quiet she was.

The most noise he could get out of her was some labored breathing and the errant grumble here and there.

He stopped after several moments, wondering,

“Don't you like what I'm doing?”

The eyes fluttered open, focusing on him in surprise.

“Oh, yes....” She was breathless, lips pecking his cheek. “...why?”

“You ain't saying much--”

“I never do...” Her hands slid from his shoulders down over his back and latched onto the orbs of meat that were his butt cheeks. “...my grandmother would hear me if I went to screaming the way I wanted. Do you want a little elderly woman to see you in your birthday suit and have a shit fit?”

“Hello no--”

“Well then...” The eyes closed and Taryll kenned, a hand slapping his bountiful backside.

“Shut up and fuck me.”

He smiled, his face going red instantly, throwing not only his hips but his entire back into it.

The slender legs, once dangling on either side of him, were picked up and pull together over that plunging dick, causing her to feel even more tighter around his manhood, with him pressing the legs to the side, using the whole of her lower body for leverage.

Staring down at her, mesmerized by the little pink dotted spheres bouncing wildly with every meeting of their private areas.

Chewing on her bottom lip, Willow was in a torrent.

It had been so long since she'd had a man's touch.

The last man she'd had was the gardener before Julio.

Cristiano was a younger man, compared to Julio anway, who was in his sixties.

But had still been older than Willow, whom at the time was only sixteen, compared to his twenty-five.

While her grandmother had never known that her only granddaughter had fooled with gardener more times than she could count, Cristiano was finally let go because Granny Louise didn't like how much time Willow had been spending alone with him as he worked.

If only she knew....if only she had known!

Taryll was far more superior than Cristiano had ever been.

Everything.

How big he was, the moves he made with her, the way, every so often he bent down and kissed after her breasts.

He was not only trying to get himself off, but her.

Unlike Ciristiano who had only known a rapid-fire, jackhammer way of screwing.

But at that time, Willow had taken what she could get and was thankful for it.

She felt so safe with Taryll.

That was it...she felt SAFE.

It had all been quick and sudden going from meeting to....this...but there was no set plan to life.

You made due with what you got and if you got lucky, you were blessed.

And Willow was definitely getting 'lucky' right then.

“Oooh...” She cooed, Taryll burying his face into her bosom, sucking at the flesh between her breasts.

“Yes....yes...Taryll....Oooh!”

She was halfway laughing his beard tickling her sensitive skin, the flapping of their loins never ended.

“You're so good... feel so good, look so good, taste so good, goddamn!” He confided, falling forward onto her, his hands on her face, he never could let go of her face, lips mashing hers.

Every hair between his head and ass stood up Willow's tongue pushing past his lips and partially down his throat, causing him to suck on it.

Her hands ran through his dark waves, over his ears and across the back of his neck, finally starting to perspire from his exertion.

She was a saucy little thing.

It took effort, but Willow managed to open her eyes.

She had to look at him, had to see him.

And found that he had his eyes shut, bridge of his little nose crinkling, sweat starting to dampen his high-set brow.

Lightly, she ran her hand across his forehead, his cheeks growing redder and redder, removing some of the droplets, licking her fingertips, tasting the saltiness of them.

How sexy and handsome he was, leaning over her like his did, nostrils flaring, lips set in a straight line, his tongue stuck between the.

How good he felt to her. How very good.

She knew she wouldn't be able to hold out much longer but rather than alert him to the fact, Willow decided it would be better to just surprise him in the end.

She looked down over his body, so fleshy and chubby, exactly how she preferred her men, so much larger than her tiny self.

“Uhhhhhhhhh!” A sharp, high pitched cry flew through Taryll's grit teeth, eyes flying open.

“It's almost time!”

Was all he said, hugging her to him, and backing up off the bed, placing her legs on his sinewy hips, His hands firmly on her rib cage, he began moving her up and down, pumping her on his cock.

The shift in position was something which Willow had never experienced and she was at his mercy, throwing her arms around his wet hick feeling his bead on her shoulder and the pillowy cloud of hair against her, his shaft rubbing against her clit directly.

“Oh....oh! Oh! Damn! Damn it! Damn it!” She repeated, each pass sending waves through her, bringing her closer and closer to that perfect peak of passion.

“TARYLL! TARYLL! TARYLL!”

She was calling his name off into his ear. Her voice wasn't raised but there was an urgency in her tone that made his nether regions warm spectacularly.

“TARYLL! TARYLL! Oh shit! Oh fuck me-TARYLL!”

He plunged into her several more times before coming to the realization he'd caused Willow, that little sweet angel of a girl to orgasm all over him, a rich wetness flooding over his groin and down his muscular thighs.

“Mmm-hmm!” She finished as quietly as she had started, clutching to him tighter, his fingers on her buttocks, sinking into the firm flesh propelling her harder, harder, harder....

“Uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, uh!”

He was repeating that one noise, that one sound over and over, with it getting quicker and quicker.

“Uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, uh!”

“Yes! Yes! Yes! Please! Yes! Yes!” Willow began encouraging him, kissing along his jaw and cheeks settling on his throat, sucking at the inflamed, crimson dermis.

“I'm gonna come!” He announced breathlessly and shrilly, much more shrilly than any man's voice should have.

“I'm gonna come—oh—damn! Willow, here it comes! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!”

His chest puffed with a deep breath taken, and immediately pushed out with him remarking, crying out,

“UUUUUUUHHHHHHHH!”

There was one last, final, power thrust and Willow tensed, feeling three definite squirts deep within her.

The pair clung to one another along moment, then, as if it had been planned, both heads, mussed, sweaty, and blushing lifted, lips coming together, arms tightening as though they didn't want to let each other go.

They didn't.

They truly didn't.

* * *

“...I know this is extremely short notice, Taj...but I'm not going to be able to make to your place for dinner tonight, something important came up...”

Seated on the divan nearest the door leading to the hall, Willow, whom had been hunting through the blackened pages of the old scrapbook, glanced up at Taryll, pacing back and forth, the phone to his ear, Samson trotting along merrily behind him.

“Why don't you invite TJ and Graciella and the babies over? I know you have enough to feed all of them. No, I can't tell you exactly what's got me tied up right now, Bro...”

He trailed off green eyes meeting the cool blue ones.

Watching as the little hands tugged and freed a sheet of paper from the book.

A long finger pointed, with Willow nodding.

“...just trust me. Something amazing has happened, both personally for me and for the auto business. Just tell Pops to buy some bubbly—hell yeah, it's huge!”

Willow grinned, Taryll nodding through his elder sibling had no means to see him.

“I'll explain it all in the morning...yeah....yeah, love you too. I'll see you tomorrow. Later.”

Hanging up and nearly tripping over the beast Taryll rushed to her.

“Is that it? The titles to the Pierce-Arrow?”

Bobbed brown hair swayed, Willow holding it out to him.

“Yes, and as you can see, Gramps left the car to ME. It's mine for me to do with as I wish. And if you can get me the price you say--”

“I swear it Baby!” He pecked her cheek.

“--then I will sell it. Because after what I'm about to do, it's probably a sure thing Granny Louise will disinherit me just as she did Mother. But I don't care.”

A strong little hand gripped his and tugged.

“Come along—bring the dog too!”

“You got it!” Taryll chuckled, Willow picking up the book and paper, started tugging him through an endless labyrinth of corridors and halls, starting down the winding grand staircase.

“Where are we going?” Taryll questioned, unsure of where they were headed,

“To the Great Room to give Granny--

“ Willow Elizabeth Victoria Lenoir!”

At the base of the staircase, stood Louise Lenoir, glaring up, and not at her granddaughter, but first at the man accompanying her and then the dog, a cigarette in an frivolous holder in her hands burning, wisps of smoke wafting.

“Were you entertaining a gentleman caller, without my knowledge?” She demanded, taking a step up.

Taryll tried to move back but found Willow throwing her shoulders back to challenge the old woman, informing her plainly as breathing.

“Yes, Granny Louise I was—and it was fantastic!”

“Willow!”

Dramatically the woman grasped her chest and the string of pearls draping it and Taryll feared she was taking with a heart attack right then and there.

French.

For the next ten minutes, there was a hot exchange in rapid fire French on both ends, leaving Taryll utterly clueless, except he figured anger was a factor both voices rising quickly.

His name was sprinkled int eh conversation liberally, but other than that he didn't know what was being said, then Willow switched back to a tongue he understood:

“No, Granny, he is NOT French—I don't know what he is, I don't care—and I'm still leaving with him! I'm twenty and capable of making my own decisions. And I want to be with Taryll, damn it!”

“Willow! You can't possibly--” Granny Louise sputtered, the head tossing with Willow pulling Taryll by the hand.

“Yes I am possibly. I'm tired of being here. Stuck away, locked away from the world. You've made a graveyard of this house! And while you might be content to stay here and ROT , I'm not I want my life and I want my man—come along Taryll!”

He was yanked forward, through a cloud of tuberose perfume and looked away to avoid the piercing eyes in the sallow, wrinkled face.

They continued on, to the front doors, doors Taryll had passed only hours earlier.

Stopping there, Willow looked up over her shoulder preparing to drive the nail in the coffin.

“I've lived my entire life the way you dictated and have been miserable every step of the way. Your critiques your coldness, your unfeelingness! You've had it out for me since I was born. You didn't want me, you wanted to try to turn me into all the things my Mother had never been, and disappointed you in short coming. NO MORE! I'm leaving this place and if never see it again it'll be too soon! And I will be taking Gramps' car tomorrow--”

“After all I've done for you, you ungrateful child! WILLOW, if you leave--”

“Au revoir, Granny Louise. Have a lovely rest of your life.”

And they were running.

Willow her fingers laced through Taryll's, Samson panting after them as they crossed the courtyard, and ran down the stone steps.

Weakly from inside the old showplace, the old woman screamed one last time,

“WILLOW!”

But the plea fell on deaf ears, Willow leading Taryll down the gravel path for the gate and to their eventual freedom.

She didn't know what laid out past those gates, what the world had to offer, but with her thick, handsome lover by her side, she knew she could face and triumph over anything.

Love truly did conquer all.

Even miserable, sniveling artifacts from yesteryear.

And banished routine!