Free Little Brats India: Forbidden Taboo Erotica by Selena Kitt Page B

knew what was coming. She’d heard it a hundred times. Her stepfather said nothing, but Cecile couldn’t drop it.
    “I just want to remind you—our prenuptial agreement gives me the rights to all of the artwork produced during our marriage in the event of a divorce.” Cecile’s voice shook with anger. She didn’t want the man anymore—but she didn’t want anyone else to have him either. “I can make you a starving artist again in a second. Just say the word. I’ll call a lawyer.”
    “Do you really care so little for me?” he asked, the sadness in his voice breaking India’s heart. But it was a rhetorical question. They all knew the answer.
    India heard the back door to their kitchen open and slam closed hard enough to send vibrations through the floor. He’d go to the studio, work out his frustrations with the fast sweeps of his pencil or paintbrush. She’d seen him do it before, mulling a piece of clay into something beautiful.
    Often when they fought, he’d stay in the studio all night, working, then sleeping on the large model’s platform he’d built with his own two hands in the far corner. She’d found him in there more than once, sad, bleary-eyed, a day’s stubble growing on his chin.
    The air in her room quivered with an eerie silence. She walked over to the drawer where she had stashed the sketchbook. Retrieving the drawing she’d torn out—and planned to keep once she’d snuck the book back into his studio—she got herself ready for bed. Lying under the covers, she held up the sketch Robert had done of his stepdaughter to study the curves he saw, the ones his black pen had brought to life with simple crosshatching. Was she anywhere near as beautiful as he made her seem?
    She thought her mother was a fool. India knew, if she had a man like Robert in her life, someone who worshipped her, saw her as his personal muse, she would welcome it. She would never dismiss such a man, demean him, belittle him, refuse to pose for him, clothed or unclothed. If she had a man in her life who saw her the way he depicted in his drawings…
    But he does see you that way.
    She was holding the proof in her hands. That realization made her feel warm all over. Her muscles tingled, still singing from her performance, and she stretched, closing her eyes, letting that warmth lull her to sleep.
    Hours later, her eyes shot open, startled awake to an odd sensation of being watched.
    A man. There’s a man in my room!
    She nearly screamed before it registered that it was her stepfather sitting on a chair beside her bed. He sat, pencil positioned over the paper, wearing the dreamy smile that overtook his face when his work carried him away.
    She had a thought— he’s sketching! —before remembering, she’d fallen asleep holding one of his sketches. The one she’d torn from the book she snuck into her bag.
    Where’s the sketch?
    She didn’t see it anywhere and relief flooded her when she realized it must have fallen to the floor. As long as he hadn’t seen it, didn’t know she’d been snooping through his sketches. She didn’t want him to find out she’d stolen his drawing of her. He probably wouldn’t have cared, but she didn’t want him asking her about it. She didn’t want to tell him the truth—that she found it erotic, arousing, to know that he watched and drew her while she was sleeping
    The lamp light was soft, low, probably not great to sketch in, but he didn’t seem to mind. She shifted on the mattress, resisting the urge to pull the comforter up. The room was warm and she’d kicked most of her covers off, exposing her body in just boxers and a tank. Still half-asleep, she mumbled something, but even to her, it was intelligible.
    “Go back to sleep, India,” her stepfather whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you. You’re just so beautiful—I had to sketch you.”
    She let her eyes fall closed, not wanting to ever disappoint him, but she couldn’t hide the smile that turned up her mouth as