“Business,” I said.
“All right.” She sighed.
She sauntered over, thick wool socks on her feet, covering the bottom portion of her jeans. Her breasts rose above the cut of the top like two fat teardrops about to spill over. The cross she inherited from my grandmother hung around her neck, resting deep in the concavity of her breastbone. She fiddled with the necklace for a second, then tapped her fingers on the desk, nails painted as white as snow.
One of my arms was around Mia, the other I kept underneath the desk, holding the drawer closed with my hand. Anticipating her move, I applied even more pressure, making sure it was secure.
“Move your hand, Brando.”
“No.”
“Oooooh!” Mia mimicked, then continued to babble to her marble friend.
“I’ll use force if necessary.” Scarlett planted her hands on her hips and gave me the meanest look she could come up with.
I covered Mia’s ear and whispered, “If it’s sex you’ll try to wield over me, no dice, baby. I’ll get it later no matter what.”
“Wrong,” she said. “That’s not even what I was thinking. I’d never punish myself that way.”
“I can’t imagine what else you could do.”
“Put the baby down and you’ll find out.”
Fuck me, I was intrigued.
“On second thought.” She came in even closer, and before I could even blink, was down on the floor, lifting my shirt and blowing air against my stomach. Blowing effing raspberries against me like I was Mia’s age and needed a laugh.
Mia caught the giggles, mimicking her mother and me—alternately making the noise and screaming,OP!For stop.
Ruby hopped up, ears pointed, ready to intervene if things should go bad.
Mia was in a fit, laughing so hard that she was losing her breath. So was Scarlett, but not enough that her main objective was thwarted.
By reflex, I held Mia tighter, but I let the drawer go.
She went for the drawer like a fiend after a hit. It was a wonder no one had ever abducted her when she was a kid. Present her a mystery, and she’d be inside the kidnapper’s van without so much as an ice cream or puppy as enticement.
Pulling out the notebook and picture, she held both, falling on her ass to the floor. Her laughter ceased when she noticed the picture before the notebook.
“Brando,” she said, her voice strained. “What were you doing…?” Her cheeks flushed hot red.
“Curiosity killed the cat, baby,” I said.
The picture was erotic to me. It was of her.
I had rented a yacht a few years back, after Scarlett had wondered out loud what it would feel like to swim in the sea naked and then lay out in the hot sun to dry, bare skin exposed to the warmth. She sunbathed in our room when the weather allowed it, but with so many men around, she never got the chance to at our pool, or to do it in the ocean.
Occasionally, when the mood struck me, I’d take pictures of her naked. I kept them in a safe, locked up tight.
I’d taken some in Fiji, surrounded by a waterfall streaming over a cave; in our room, while she lounged in front of the window on her side, all her curves illuminatedby the sun shining through the terrace; in our bed, white sheets placed just right to highlight all her gorgeous shapes.
The picture she stared at was taken in the Mediterranean Sea.
The day had scorched, the water just the right temperature to combat it, though cool enough to make her nipples as hard as pebbles. I’d gotten in first, making sure no predators were lurking, because she had a fear of water, and then she had entered behind me, naked as the day she was born.
She’d hung a camera on the ladder in case she wanted to sit and take a picture. I grabbed it right as she went under.
A second later, she broke the surface to find air. Her head was tilted up to the azure sky. Her arms were as listless as a jellyfish. Her breasts floated above the water, half submerged, but her back was arched high enough to catch both shape and nipples in the picture, and the outline of a few ribs. Her face was the picture of freedom.
