Hello, thanks for peeking. I'm crafting a story about a husband and wife who have long known about each other's longings, but due to their lifestyle never fully pursued them. Enter a young research assistant who is the catalyst for their opening their eyes and their hearts to a different way of life...
I've rewritten the story beginning about three times now, and below is the beginning I like best, but would like some feedback before I go much farther.
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On the morning of the fifth Rita Morgan forgot that her husband would be interviewing research assistants at their home and came down stairs in a silk robe and not much else. The robe was black silk and her creamy skin and dark red hair showed up brilliantly against it, the sash cinced in her waist and her bare legs were shapely as she came down the stairs, playing a game of peekaboo with the opening of the robe. At 42 she looked younger and was thankful for good genes and the money to keep herself looking her best. Her husband said she looked better now than when they met, but he had to say such things, the dear.
At the foot of the stairs she found a nervous young man sitting on the bench in the foyer. He was on the young side, in his early twenties, with a swimmers build packed into a V neck sweater and new jeans. He wore his dark hair clipped short, and his hazel eyes were framed by the thin black wire of his glasses. On his knees lay a brown leather satchel that had seen better days, and one of his feet kept tapping.
“Who the hell are you?” Rita demanded her brows down and her mouth set in a hard line, one hand on the banister and the other on her hip, clearly not amused.
“Theo Jones, ma’am?” He seemed startled, his attention had been on the door to her husband’s study and not on her coming down the stairs. That won him no favors in her book; she liked to be admired, even if it was by someone she wasn’t expecting to be there.
“Because?” The one word was weighted. Charles knew that the weekends were for her, not students. As a lawyer she charged by the hour and knew what every minute of her day was worth down to the penny, and this Theo James was stealing the time Charles was supposed to be making her breakfast to …what?
“It’s the interview, ma’am, for his book? To help research it?” Theo offered. At this time of day him answering every question with a question was grating. “He’s with another candidate right now, I’m waiting my turn.”
“Aren’t we all.” She replied bitterly. She’d forgotten about the stupid book. Well, she shouldn’t say stupid, in academia it was publish or perish. He did a few papers a year, well received as too, but the book would be something that would go towards really sealing him as a man to be watched in the field of sociology. “Come with me,” she said, rounding the banister to swish her way down the hall. She looked over her shoulder. “Don’t dawdle, boy.”
“No ma’am, sorry ma’am.” Theo set down his satchel and hurried after her. He clearly didn’t know what was exactly going on, but he was obedient enough to do what he was told.
I've rewritten the story beginning about three times now, and below is the beginning I like best, but would like some feedback before I go much farther.
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On the morning of the fifth Rita Morgan forgot that her husband would be interviewing research assistants at their home and came down stairs in a silk robe and not much else. The robe was black silk and her creamy skin and dark red hair showed up brilliantly against it, the sash cinced in her waist and her bare legs were shapely as she came down the stairs, playing a game of peekaboo with the opening of the robe. At 42 she looked younger and was thankful for good genes and the money to keep herself looking her best. Her husband said she looked better now than when they met, but he had to say such things, the dear.
At the foot of the stairs she found a nervous young man sitting on the bench in the foyer. He was on the young side, in his early twenties, with a swimmers build packed into a V neck sweater and new jeans. He wore his dark hair clipped short, and his hazel eyes were framed by the thin black wire of his glasses. On his knees lay a brown leather satchel that had seen better days, and one of his feet kept tapping.
“Who the hell are you?” Rita demanded her brows down and her mouth set in a hard line, one hand on the banister and the other on her hip, clearly not amused.
“Theo Jones, ma’am?” He seemed startled, his attention had been on the door to her husband’s study and not on her coming down the stairs. That won him no favors in her book; she liked to be admired, even if it was by someone she wasn’t expecting to be there.
“Because?” The one word was weighted. Charles knew that the weekends were for her, not students. As a lawyer she charged by the hour and knew what every minute of her day was worth down to the penny, and this Theo James was stealing the time Charles was supposed to be making her breakfast to …what?
“It’s the interview, ma’am, for his book? To help research it?” Theo offered. At this time of day him answering every question with a question was grating. “He’s with another candidate right now, I’m waiting my turn.”
“Aren’t we all.” She replied bitterly. She’d forgotten about the stupid book. Well, she shouldn’t say stupid, in academia it was publish or perish. He did a few papers a year, well received as too, but the book would be something that would go towards really sealing him as a man to be watched in the field of sociology. “Come with me,” she said, rounding the banister to swish her way down the hall. She looked over her shoulder. “Don’t dawdle, boy.”
“No ma’am, sorry ma’am.” Theo set down his satchel and hurried after her. He clearly didn’t know what was exactly going on, but he was obedient enough to do what he was told.
