Little Brats India: Forbidden Taboo Erotica (2 page)

India and Robert were exactly alike.

Sitting up and sliding off the bed, her body inherently graceful with every movement, she walked to where he sat. He looked at her, mystified, conflicted, rubbing his finger over the hair on his chin as she approached. Neither of them spoke as she got down on her knees in front of his chair.

Robert ran his finger along her cheek, their eyes locked. Rising up, still on her knees, she reached out to touch his face as well, her hand trembling along his skin. When she went to pull it away, he cupped hers with his, holding her touch in place.

Looking at the light sparkling in his dark eyes, his chiseled features, full lips, she closed the distance that separated them, bringing her mouth to his. What started out as a light press of flesh against flesh soon became a heated fight to get as close as possible. Feeling the fire of the kiss throughout her body, she longed to be closer to him, to finally have him touch her for real instead of just in his imagination, or hers.

Reaching down as his tongue invaded and swept through her mouth, she grabbed the bottom of her tank top to pull it off. When she pulled back to get it over her head, he opened his eyes, and something happened. His hand clamped down on her arm. Her shirt was mostly off, a rush of cool air reaching the underside of her breasts, and she froze, awaiting his next move.

“India…” He swallowed, an audible click. “No…”

She dropped her arms, the realization of what she’d done and how he’d reacted coming together in a cataclysmic rush of tears to her eyes. Her face flushed, she stood and ran into her bathroom where she stayed, letting the tears flow, but silencing the sobs burning her throat, until she heard him leave her room.

She heard him walk to the bathroom door and pause before he finally walked out. Listening hard, she heard the considerate, quiet opening and closing of the back door. Throwing open the bathroom door and racing to her bedroom window, she threw it open and watched him cross the yard, disappearing into his studio.

Then she heard the first crash from the outbuilding. Followed by another. And another.

Running down the stairs as fast as she could without waking her mother, she made her way to his studio.

She stopped short at the open door, seeing him throw a tin of paint brushes. The metal made a horrible clang, scraping to a halt as the well-used brushes scattered over her bare feet. Shocked, she jumped back to the grass outside the door.

“I’m sorry.” Robert stood, head down, not looking at her. “I thought I was alone.”

“No, I’m sorry.” She stumbled over her words. “I just heard the noise. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“You’re sweet.” He lifted his head to glance at her and her heart broke. His look was tortured, pained. “Always have been. I don’t know where you get it from.”

“Not from her.” India glanced back, almost expecting her mother to appear like an apparition behind them.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” He shook his head, sighing.

“No, I know.” She watched his hands, down by his hips, clenching into fists, relaxing and tightening again. “She’s my mother, I should know. She’s mean, self-absorbed, full of herself. You’re right, I’m not like her.”

“No, you’re not.” He gave her a sad smile. “Sometimes I think you’re the best of her. She wasn’t always like this. I suppose she was always a bit superior, but once you saw her dance… I couldn’t imagine having someone so beautiful in my bed. Guess it blinded me to everything else.”

“I’m sorry she hurt you.” She dared a cautious step back into the studio.

She glanced at the mess of art supplies scattered around his feet like broken toys that had fallen victim to a child’s tantrum. Although, the man before her couldn’t be further from a child. His paint splattered shirt hung loose, the top two buttons undone, giving her a glimpse of his chest. He stood there, looking defeated, in worn jeans and bare feet.

“Hey, careful.” She saw the broken glass beside his right heel when she cautioned him, taking a tentative step forward so she could grab his fisted hand, tugging gently. “Let’s go sit. I think we need to talk.”

His head fell, but he let her walk him to her two favorite, old chairs sitting in a corner. They were old threadbare recliners, cushions sagging, stained with spilled paint.

She loved to come out here when he was working and sit in one to read a book or to study. She curled one leg under her as she sat, slowly, afraid he might bolt. She didn’t want to scare him away, not now.

“I’m sorry about… earlier.” He sighed, rubbing his fingers over his chin. “You probably think I’m an old pervert, coming in to sketch you…”

“No.” She shook her head, denying it. He had it all wrong. “No, Robert, I don’t think that at all.”

“It’s just that you’re so beautiful, India.” He didn’t lift his gaze to meet hers. “I can’t help myself. When you’re dancing, when you’re sleeping. Such innocence. I had to capture it. I had to.”

“I don’t mind,” she reassured him. “I know she won’t model for you anymore. And I know how much you admire the human form. The curves of the feminine…”

“Yes,” he breathed, lifting his gaze, so much hope in his eyes. “You do understand. You always have understood me. I think my heart speaks to yours without words.”

“I think so too.” There was so much unsaid between them, so much they didn’t have to say. “I’m not offended. I mean it. I think it’s a compliment, that you’d want to sketch me. That you find me… beautiful.”

“Oh India.” He gave a deep sigh. “You should be showered with compliments. You are so talented, so incredibly beautiful…”

“You really think so?” she beamed under his praise.

“Yes.” His gaze swept over her. “Too beautiful. So beautiful it hurts.”

“Are you attracted to me?” The words stuck in her throat, but she managed to get them out. “Are you, Robert?”

“A man would have to be dead not to be attracted to you, sweetheart.” A smile played on his lips.

“Then why did you stop me?” She kept her eyes locked on his. “Upstairs. Why did you stop me?”

“Because…” he hesitated. “Because I’m married to your mother. And even if…”

“Even if she doesn’t love you anymore?” India prompted, putting her hand over his on the armrest. “Robert, I’m not a little girl, if you hadn’t noticed. You know that, don’t you?”

“Oh yes, I know.” He looked down at her hand on his. “Believe me, I know. Every time I look at you, my heart swells. You light me on fire. I burn for you, India. It’s wrong, I know it, but I can’t help it. You have such a light in you, such beauty. I can’t get enough of it. Of you…”

“Oh come on.” India gave his hand a playful slap. “I see the models that parade in and out of here…”

“You don’t see it, do you?” He shook his head, frowning. “Your beauty comes from within. You shine with it. It’s not just your long limbs, your graceful body, although those are beyond beautiful… it’s you, India.”

“Me?” she breathed.

“Yes.” He turned his hand over, lacing his fingers with hers. “Your heart, your mind, your soul. All of you.”

“Robert, if you feel that way…” She looked at how his big hand, that talented, amazing hand, swallowed hers. “I still don’t understand why you stopped me.”

“Because I can’t…” He looked at their hands, joined together. “If I ever saw you naked, India… I know I wouldn’t be able to control the feelings I have for you. And those feelings… they have nothing to do with what a father and daughter relationship should be.”

“Is that what we have?” She willed him to look at her. “Is that all?”

“India,” he warned, shaking his head, trying to disengage his hand, but she wouldn’t let him.

“You said you were attracted to me.” She squeezed his fingers. “And after what happened upstairs, you have to know how I feel about you…”

“It doesn’t matter.” He pulled his fingers away, moving to stand.

“Wait!” she cried, standing before he could. “You said you wanted someone to draw.”

“Yes, but…”

“So sketch me.” She looked at him, hands on her hips. “Stop skulking around. Draw me.”

“Please…” He looked up at her with pained, tortured eyes. “Don’t ask this…”

“I’ve never felt more beautiful,” she confessed. “How you see me…”

“India… no.”

“Yes,” she breathed, feeling her skin tingle at just the thought. “Draw me. Nude.”

“I told you,” he croaked. “I can’t do that.”

“Yes, you can!” She grabbed an empty sketch pad, opened to a blank page, and put it on an easel.

Then she walked over to the wooden base of the platform, grabbing a few of the pillows and tossing them around, arranging everything.

“India, stop.” He came forward, but only to the easel. His hand gripped the top board until his knuckles grew white.

“You want to draw me.” She looked at him, eyes blazing. “I know you do. Don’t you understand? I
know
that creative side of you. I know what it feels like to not fulfill that urge, so everything in your life seems unbearable.”

“But…”

“No
buts
. Draw me.” She pulled off her top in one quick motion, tossing it aside.

The look in his eyes set her on fire. She heard him swallow, an audible click.

Her dark hair tumbled down to the small of her back, her pert, round breasts exposed as she pushed down the boxers she wore, stepping out of them and sitting on the pedestal mat.

Never taking her eyes from his, she bent one knee up, chest height, placing her pointed toe on the floor. The other knee, also bent, she let fall to the mat, opening her sex to him. Her hands behind her, supporting her upper body, she threw her head back.

“India,” he choked out, shaking his head, as if to deny it, but he couldn’t take his gaze from her body. He looked at her as if he could devour her—and she wanted him to.

“Draw,” she commanded, giving him a fiery passionate look.

He picked up a pencil from the easel without taking his eyes from her. Again, like a ghost touch, everywhere his eyes roamed felt warm, tingling until her insides shook. Hearing the pencil scratch across the paper at such a frantic pace literally made her wet, her nipples pebbling, and not from cold. Feeling his gaze like hands roaming her body, she held perfectly still, except for the slowly escalating sound of her breath.

“Is this what you wanted?” she whispered, the intent look on his face making her tremble. “Is it, Daddy? Is this what you wanted all along?”

His pencil hesitated over the paper and then he nodded, but he didn’t speak. Instead, he just went back to drawing, tracing the lines of her body, imagining her, re-imagining her, memorizing her with the strokes of graphite on paper.

“I wanted it too,” she confessed softly. She kept her voice low, speaking as if in a trance, to keep from breaking the spell. “I secretly looked at your drawings. I saw your sketches of her. And your sketches of me…”

The slowing of his pencil was the only indication he gave that he was listening.

“All those sketches of me.” She swallowed, remembering how it had made her feel to find them. “You’d been watching me sleeping. Hours and hours, you watched me, didn’t you?”

He nodded, almost imperceptibly, and she smiled.

“And what were you thinking about?” She bit her lip. “Were you picturing me naked? Were you wondering what my breasts looked like? If my pussy was smooth or furry?”

India glanced down, knowing she should keep still for him, but she wanted to see what he was seeing. Her sex was swollen, wet, her bare folds glistening. All because of him.

“I shave it for dancing, of course.” She raised her eyes to meet his. His pencil was barely moving now. “Mother taught me. She said it was cleaner, better for dancing. But she did it for you, didn’t she?”

He groaned, and she smiled, knowing it was true.

“You like it shaved, don’t you?” India’s hand moved over her own thigh, kneading her flesh. “You like how soft and smooth it is. You like to
see
it. All the pink folds…”

Her fingers moved to part her pussy lips and she saw his eyes light up.

“Would you like to draw that?” she whispered, circling her clit with her finger. It made her whole body come to life and she moaned. She couldn’t help it. “Would you like to draw my pussy, Daddy? Every wet bit of my flesh?”

“Stop.” His voice rose, a father commanding a disobedient child.

But she didn’t. Her fingers slipped lower, into her flesh, into the deep recesses of her body where she could almost feel him entering her.

“Stop,” he croaked, pleading now. “I’m begging you, India… stop…”

“Come over here and make me,” she teased.

“India,” he warned.

“Please, Daddy,” she pouted. “Don’t just draw me…”

She held a hand out to him and before she could even register that he’d moved, he was on top of her. His mouth took hers in a fierce play for domination and she instantly surrendered. With his chest, he pushed her down onto her back, grabbing her wrists in his hands, holding them so tightly that a throb of pain coursed through her, erotic, alluring as she moved against him.