Yearning For Her Curves: (A BWWM Interracial Romance) by Nora Stone Page A

She smiled and turned to walk to the nearby arm chair.  I glanced around the counter to see her shoes.  Hot damn, she was wearing stilettos.
     
    “I love your shoes,” I said with a smile.  She turned with a grin.
     
    “Thank you, sweetheart.”  She winked.  Oh yeah, I wanted to be just like her when I hit her age, I thought to myself as I turned and walked into the back.
     

Chapter 12
     
    The evening of the dinner party snuck up on me before I’d really had a chance to think about it.  That evening, I picked up the dress that I’d been eyeing all week, paid for it on my way out of the store for the night and headed home to get ready.
     
    Patrick texted me just as I walked into my apartment that he was on his way home to get ready as well, and that he’d let me know when he left his house to come pick me up.  So, I turned on something peaceful to listen to and wandered into the master bath, shedding clothes in a path until I reached the shower.
     
    I loved my shower.  It was often my escape, my way to wash off the day if it was a particularly stressful one.  Today hadn’t been, but Isobel had wandered in around lunch, looking a bit down and I hadn’t been able to cheer her up.  She was still upset about Ryan, and I was worried that she was about to cross that line over into unhealthy mourning.  I made a mental note to grab Charlotte tonight and talk to her about it.  I needed to know that this wasn’t me being hyper sensitive over worrying about her.  And if it wasn’t, we needed to do something.
     
    Once I felt reasonably sure that I had scrubbed off the day without scrubbing off too much of my skin, I hopped out of the shower, dried off, and started plugging up my curlers.  Tonight’s hair was going to require bouncy curls of various sizes, so the heat turned on and they were placed on my still damp towel on the counter.  Can’t burn up the counter tops, that’s just rude.
     
    While those warmed, I walked into the bedroom and pulled out the dress again.  It was knee length, with a pencil skirt bottom and a halter top.  Dresses never fit me straight off the rack when they were form fitting.  They never had and never would.  I was a figure that was hard to shop for: Wide, round hips, waist at least two sizes smaller than hips and about a handful and a half of boobs.  This dress, however, the owner of the boutique saw me eyeing it and took it to be tailored for me, surprising me with it that day.  She said that she’d heard about the dinner party, and figured that was why I’d been staring at it all week.  Oddly enough, I hadn’t noticed that one was gone, even though I knew that no one had purchased one.  I wasn’t really sure how she’d managed that; I was usually pretty vigilant.
     
    I smiled, thinking to myself that I had to get her something nice as a thank you, and pulled out my thigh high stockings and a pair of shoes that matched almost perfectly.  The curlers were ready to go around the time I got on all of the under garments, and I slid on my slippers and walked back into the bathroom, swept my hair up into the planned ponytail and curled faster than I’d ever curled before.
     
    Next came the makeup.  I never wear anything heavy, like foundation.  My skin was lucky, it had always been pretty even and smooth, and I didn’t suffer through massive acne or issues like that, even in high school.  Foundation just made me break out a few days later.  Instead, I did my eyes, a little blush for contouring and lipstick.  That was all I ever wore.
     
    Last but not least, I slipped the dress on carefully, then contorted myself in inhuman ways to zip up the back of it.  The sling backs were being clasped as the doorbell rang.
     
    “Damn it.  Come in!”  I yelled and prayed that he’d hear me.  The welcome click of the door made me sigh in relief.
     
    “Are you alright, Jacinta?”
     
    “I’m fine, just not fully finished yet.  I’m back in the bedroom,”