She shook her head slowly, gazing into his eyes, aroused and unsure. "No, never."

"Why me, then?" he asked, the feeling of that loaded spring on the trap quivering in his gut.

"Because," she started, searching for the right thing to say, "Because it is right with you."

"You barely know me," he pointed out.

"Well, that's true, in a way, but I've always known it would be you, in a way, too," she said, still trying to figure that part out herself.

"What about me?"

"I feel safe with you, and that you need me," she offered with a quickness that was close to blurting.

"Need you?" he said, sitting back. The trap was snapping shut, and he wasn't going any closer. "I don't need anyone. Why would I need you?"

Her eyes went wide. "That didn't come out right," she tried.

"Oh, I think it came out just fine," Oscar said, extracting himself from the d.a.m.nable sofa.

"Oscar?"

"I think we should call it a night," he suggested, picking up his jacket and shrugging it on.

"Oscar, please," she whimpered, "It was a mistake."

"And we shouldn't make any more," he agreed.

"Please," she said, standing to reach for him, and he noticed she came out of that sofa a lot more gracefully than he was able to.

"Look," he said, a little more harshly than he intended, "I'm not a school project, alright? It's been a good night, just leave it." He turned and opened the door, stepping out into the night.

She reached the door, her eyes begging, wanting, welling with tears. "I'm sorry."

Looking at her, and her obviously confused pain, he almost went back to her. "I'll call you." Then he turned and went down the stairs to his bike.

It was Wednesday and he still hadn't called her. Rosie sat at her desk while the children of her cla.s.s worked on their math tests. She had played the evening with Oscar back in her head over and over and still couldn't figure out where she went wrong. He found her attractive. She saw his arousal. The size of his arousal was even a little alarming. They had a good time together at dinner, the ride was great, and she was open to him, offered herself to him, and then... What happened?

He did need her! She saw it all over his face. Why did that alarm him so much? She couldn't figure it out. She offered comfort, caring, healing. Why were those things so suddenly abhorrent to him? He couldn't want to be in torment, could he? That was insane.

She needed to see him again; she knew what to say now. She wouldn't use the need word again. She wouldn't cling. She could do this, but not if she couldn't see him again.

d.a.m.n it! It was so right!

"Miss McCormack?"

Rosie looked up to see Danny presenting his test paper to her, a look of trepidation in his eyes. She gave him a warm smile. He looked so much like his father. "Thank you, Danny," she said as she took his test. "How is your father?" she added without thinking, and then cringed. Danny shouldn't be used to get to his father. That wasn't right.

"He's alright. He's busy getting his show together for Friday."

"Show?" Rosie asked, not able to help herself.

"Yeah, where he puts out all of his sculptures and other stuff so people will buy them," Danny replied, his pride obvious.

"That sounds very exciting," Rosie told him.

"Not really," Danny mused. "It's too late at night for me to go. But a lot of people come."

At lunch she picked up a Reader periodical and scanned through it, searching. She found what she was looking for near the middle where art shows were listed for the week. Oscar Kincade, sculpture and painter. Friday was the opening night for a show that would be held at a gallery downtown for two weeks. "He would be there for the opening though, right?" she murmured as she wrote down the address for the show.

By the time she got back to the cla.s.s she had what she would wear already picked out. "This time I'll get it right," she promised herself.

Standing near the back, his eyes scanning the crowd of his show, he told himself that he simply didn't have time to call her this week. The show preparations, as well as finishing up two pieces he wanted to include, took all of his time and concentration. He had nothing left to give. Nothing to offer.

Truth was, the ache to call her, and be with her, was so powerful it made his work nearly impossible to complete. But so was his steadfast denial against allowing another woman who wanted to change him into his life, or into Danny's. The dichotomy of these two opposing pressures was reaching critical ma.s.s.

The show was going well though. It wasn't even nine yet and the place was packed. Already seven of his pieces were sold. That was enough money to see him through the rest of the year. More money than he expected from the entire show, really. On top of that he had a few cards in his pocket, three of which appeared to be serious offers for commissions. From this point, it was all cake, and he would have been very happy if Rosie wasn't in his head.

Just after nine Rosie wasn't just in his head, she was in his show. He saw her when she walked through the door. She was spell-binding too. She wore a slinky black dress which came down to the middle of her thighs. Her hair was pushed up in a s.e.xy, controlled mess, leaving her long neck exposed and offering a sensual invitation. The heels she wore were black with silver trims, the straps coming up her calves. Around her neck, above her exposed and exotic cleavage, was a string of pearls. She glided into the room and began perusing his art.

Buddy was there, along with two other Pitch Wheel brothers. "s.h.i.t," Buddy breathed when his eyes came across Rosie, "There's one for you."

Oscar looked at his riding partner. "That's Danny's teacher."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I took her out last week."

"Yeah?"

Oscar smiled at Buddy's amazement. "Yeah."

"So, why aren't you over there kissing that wonderful neck then? You lose a screw or something?"

"No," Oscar told him, "She's looking for a project. Wants to change me."

Buddy thought about this for a moment, and then said, "You know, I've never advised you about anything, or pushed you before, right?"

"Yeah," Oscar agreed. "You've been real good about that."

"Well, that said, have you considered asking her not to?"

Buddy looked like he was dense, even acted like it sometimes, but he really wasn't. So Oscar considered what he'd said. It sounded, on the surface, fairly simple, but it wasn't. Fact was, no, he had never asked her not to treat him like a project, not to try to change him, and just accept him as he was. Furthermore, it never crossed his mind to do so. He just ran. Threw up his walls and gunned his engine. "Think she would do that?"

Buddy looked over at Rosie. "I think she might be worth the effort. There's something about her... I don't know. She's like some of your art here: in motion, powerful, a keeper."

Oscar looked Rosie over too, and Buddy was right. If she would just love him, just be with him, she was definitely a keeper. "Alright. Like you said, it is worth the effort."

Rosie was looking at one of his paintings, a storm-scape with an eagle trying to rise above the winds and failing. He walked up beside her and saw tears in her eyes. She didn't seem to notice and just let them roll down her cheeks. He stood watching her for a long time before she noticed him, and her eyes went wide with realization. She opened her mouth, and then shook her head violently. "I'm sorry," she whimpered. "I can't. I was wrong." The last came out in a suppressed, tearful lament, as she pushed past him, hurrying out of the door.

Oscar watched her go. Then he looked a back at his painting, and wondered at why it seemed to have affected her so deeply.

It was after midnight when Rosie heard a light knock on her door. She was still awake in her living room, drinking a beer from the bottle. At least the sobbing had stopped. Her shoes were off, her hair was down, and her stockings rolled off her legs.

She looked out of the peep hole and saw Oscar, still in his black suit, standing there, waiting. Biting her lip, she opened the door.

"You left without your painting," he told her.

"My... painting?" Looking down she saw the painting of the failing eagle at his feet. Tears threatened to spring in her eyes again upon seeing it again.

Oscar lifted it up. "I couldn't let someone else buy it, not after seeing the way it affected you. Can I come in?"

"Umm- yes, sure," she said and stepped away, allowing him to pa.s.s.

"Doesn't really go with the rest of the decor, does it?" he mused, looking around.

She didn't look around. She was watching him, wondering why he was here. Wasn't it obvious she couldn't help him? She told him that before she left his show.

"Maybe the bedroom?" he asked. "Have another one of those?" nodding his head to the beer she had in her hand.

"Yes," she nodded.

"I'll get it," he told her, and leaned the painting against a standing wall table.

"I was wrong, Oscar," she told him as he walked away, her voice a strong whimper.

"Been there," he nodded, "what were you wrong about?"

"I... I had this dream, this belief," she started. "I thought I knew what I wanted, and how things would be, but- but now it's all messed up."

"You telling me I'm not your dream man anymore?" he asked, coming back to her with a beer in his hand.

She grinned and blushed, then bashfully shook her head. "No, no, actually that part still seems to be strong." She took a long drink, letting the beer sooth her throat. "It's all the rest that is messed up."

"The part where you change me?" he asked.

She cringed. "I can't change you." She hugged herself. "After I saw your art, and the beauty you create from what is inside of you, I knew I couldn't help you, or heal you." Her confession hurt way down deep. Here he was, her dream man, and she was useless to him.

"I'm liking the way this is going," he told her.

"What?" she asked, confused.

"I like that you can't change me. This is good," he explained. "Maybe it will lead to you not trying."

"But- then- but why would you want me?" she asked. "What good am I to you?"

"Baby, you're all I really want. I don't want to change. I just want someone to be with. Someone who cares about me, who will ride with me, and help raise Danny with me. If I could find that, then that's all I would ever need, ever."

She looked into his eyes for a long time, shivering. "That's all?"

"All? s.h.i.t Rosie, that's golden. Don't you want that? Someone to be there for you, no matter what, and just accept who you are?"

She nodded her head. "Yes, but I thought... I didn't think that- I just didn't believe-"

"That you would be worth it?" he offered.

She let that settle, feeling the resonance in her gut. "Something like that, yes. I guess. I thought I would have to be someone special... in order to be held on to, you know? For the long term." She shook her head and let out a laugh, muttering bitterly, "G.o.d, I'm such a f.u.c.king little girl."

"I like you just fine, just as you are," he told her, setting down his bottle and hugging her wrapped up body into his. "Can you believe that?"

She let him embrace her, relishing his warmth, tears in her eyes. "Yes. I can. It may take a while, but I can."

He kissed her lightly, and then more deeply. She unwrapped her arms from around herself and embraced him cautiously. "I still only want you; is that alright?" she asked tentatively.

"Yes," he nodded, and kissed her even deeper. "That part is just fine, now that we got the other cleared out of the way."

They kissed and she felt his hand unzip her dress. She shrugged it off of her shoulders, letting it slip down her body to the floor, and then started on his tie, then his shirt. She sighed deeply when her hands were on the naked skin of his chest. "Danny?" she asked.

"All night baby-sitter," he replied with a nod. "He'll be fine."

She sighed in relief. "Good. He's a good boy."

"He really likes you," he told her.

She brightened at that and wiped her tears. "Good."

He took her to her bedroom, leading her by the hand, and she went willingly. She took off her bra and panties and then pulled back the covers, letting them hang off the edge of the bed.

Then he was laying her down on the bed sheets, his body completely nude and his c.o.c.k indicating he was very aroused. While he kissed her she tentatively took hold of it and explored its hardness, wondering at its thickness and length. She had nothing to compare it to, but it seemed awfully large to be able to fit inside of her when her own finger seemed too large sometimes. His c.o.c.k made her finger minuscule by comparison.

His mouth on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s was exquisite. None of her fantasies were close to the pleasure that came from his greedy attentions.

When he went lower, she squirmed a little, not understanding what he was doing down there. "Oscar?" she breathed.

"Just relax Rosie, just relax," he told her.

She looked at the ceiling and tried to relax while he parted her thighs and got between them. She glanced at him between her bent thighs, his head there, looking at her. Not up at her, not at her eyes, but at her... her venus. Studying it. Like he might paint it, or maybe paint on it. She looked back at the ceiling and bit her lip. Her nervousness was making her brain reel, unable to grab any sort of comfort or experience to placate herself. What the h.e.l.l was he doing down there?

He started with kisses, which were nerve-wracking as h.e.l.l. If he thought that kissing her down there was soothing or a turn on, he was wrong, very wrong. Then he progressed to licking her, which at first sent a shudder up her body, but before she could protest, the arousing pleasure struck her nervous system and she eased back down, feeling there might be something worth exploring here. Maybe. She wasn't sure it was worth the shudders of unease and embarra.s.sment, but ... perhaps.

After a few minutes of his licking and then sucking at her lower lips, she felt it could be better than the sensations that came from her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, but still remained uneasy.

When he reached and focused on her c.l.i.toris, her body convoluted, lifting her off the bed in shock and dismay at the electric ball of pleasure that blossomed in her abs. "Oh Christ! Oscar!" she wailed, and then Oscar got serious on her and began enticing her c.l.i.toris with unimaginable, live-wire levels of pleasure. "Oh f.u.c.k!"