Chapter 17: Dell
I’ve seen a lot of sights in my life. Debutantes. Society women. Models.
But right now Arianna tops them all.
That blouse cuts straight across her chest, revealing creamy shoulders and an elegant collarbone.
Her hair falls in little circlets around her face, the rest pinned up, leaving so much skin that it takes a fair amount of willpower not to lean over and press my lips against her neck.
The exposed shoulders leave me wondering about a bra. Did she skip it? Is there something strapless under there? The possibilities are killing me. If her breasts hold that perfect shape despite their blessedly incredible size, it’s going to be a Christmas miracle. In July.
When I drag my gaze back up to her eyes, I see she’s noticed me watching her. I’m not ashamed of this. We hold each other’s gaze a beat longer than just acquaintances, and I see her catching a little breath. Good. I want her to feel it too. Maybe we can make these five days until Monday a little more interesting.
I’m glad we didn’t hire a nanny. She’s here. She’s perfect.
I look at her some more, since it seems it’s arousing her. Her tender ears, back to those shoulders. I take in those luscious breasts another moment. This time I see a clear delineation of a nipple.
Shit, no bra. My body stirs now, my cock pressing into my jeans, thickening, waking up to her presence.
Admiring her body has become a drug. It’s hit my bloodstream, and now every heartbeat is her. The bottom of the blouse is loose over the tops of her jeans. I can picture my hand there, sliding beneath the hem and rising to cup those glorious tits.
I come back to them yet again. I’m a breast man. I know it. And I don’t play favorites. Large, small, soft, firm. I don’t even mind implants. I take them any way they come.
But I can tell Arianna isn’t the sort of woman to augment. She isn’t fussy about those things. She’ll be all natural. And I absolutely will find a way to convince her she wants to reveal her body to me.
The thrill is in convincing her that she wants what I want.
Because that’s the way I play it. Yes, I’ll push her against the wall. Tie her wrists. Strap her down. But the first time, the intense new discovery, will be all about her coming to me. Willingly. Insistent.
Then I’ll learn every inch of her. Take her beyond anywhere she’s ever gone.
My eyes slip down to her belly, but the sleeping child reminds me this isn’t a normal conquest. Grace covers key areas of Arianna’s body. Hips, thighs. That incredible hot center.
And she won’t sleep through the night.
Shit. I break my line of thought and refocus. Arianna hasn’t spoken a word, just waited, watching me.
“You done gawking?” she asks.
I’m a little taken aback. “It’s a lot of beauty to take in,” I say.
I think she’s about to make another smart remark, but she stops herself and takes a deliberate pause before saying, “Well, thank you, but I’m just here to help with the baby.”
She bites her lip, which she only seems to do when she’s guilty of something. I wonder what crime I’ve missed.
But Bernard appears at the doorway. “Dinner, sir.”
I jump to my feet. “Great. Should we put her in her bed?” A little wine with dinner might loosen Arianna up a bit more.
She shifts, trying to lift Grace carefully.
But it’s no good. As soon as she’s moved, Grace stirs, looking around with sleepy eyes.
And then, she’s wailing.
“Poor bub,” Arianna says, shifting to her knees and pulling Grace to her shoulder. “You’re okay. You’re just fine.”
She repeats these words over and over as she stands, then rocks back and forth in place. I don’t want to notice the luscious sway of her breasts, but they are right in front of me.
I can see all of her now. Her belly is flat, hips curved. There’s a nice round ass accentuated by the pockets on her jeans. She’s not very tall, but nothing is dainty about her. She’s exactly right.
Grace settles again.
“You going to try for the bed now?” I ask.
At my words, Grace lifts her head to look at me with an expression so angry and annoyed that I have to laugh. Then she flops down again.
“I don’t think she’s really sleepy enough,” Arianna says. “It will probably take a bottle to settle her in for the night, or whatever part of it she’ll sleep.”
“Bottle it is, then,” I say. Bernard leads us back down the hall, through the kitchen to the formal dining room. Only when I see the crystal and china at two places do I realize the breakfast nook would probably have been more appropriate.
Arianna’s frown at the arrangement seals its fate.
“Bernard, please move us to the smaller table,” I say. I won’t make him scrape the amazing-looking cut of veal and garlic roasted potatoes off the plates, but at least we can sit someplace casual.
When we’re back at the breakfast nook, Arianna sinks onto one of the cushioned spinning chairs that surround the round stone table. I can tell she’s relieved to be someplace comfortable while holding Grace in the crook of one elbow.
The chairs are very mobile, and soon she’s turning hers from side to side, keeping Grace in her almost-sleep mode.
Bernard places the plates in front of us and there’s a clear problem. Arianna can’t cut her veal with only one hand free. She tries separating a bite with the edge of her fork, but it doesn’t quite work.
“Here, let me take her. You eat,” I say. “You had the rumbling stomach.”
She looks at me suspiciously, as if she wasn’t expecting chivalry. But she passes Grace to me. I hold her as Arianna did and rotate back and forth on the chair. “We should have bought that rocking chair,” I say.
“You didn’t want anything permanent,” she says, swiftly cutting the meat.
I don’t reply to that. It’s true. Still true. I can’t send furniture with social services.
Arianna takes a bite, then makes a swooning face as she chews. “So good,” she says. “We had a cook like this when I was around ten.” She spins in her chair to face Bernard. “This is amazing.”
He nods from his place between the kitchen and the breakfast nook.
Behind the glass door to the atrium, I spot Maximillion sitting and watching us.
“Bernard, can you go and fix up Max’s dinner? He’s not used to watching us dine in here. I don’t want to torture the poor boy.”
Arianna turns to where the dog waits patiently for our attention. “He’s a beautiful dog. Did he race?”
This is a topic I can warm up to quickly. “Yes. He started as most greyhounds before the age of two. He soon proved himself a worthy racer and commanded the leaderboards at four facilities. His home track was Birmingham.”
Arianna takes a long pull from her glass of red wine. She closes her eyes, as if overcome by all the flavors. It is true that Bernard is a master of food and wine pairings.
I pick up my glass to take a sip myself. My dinner will get cold, but I don’t mind.
“You’re missing out,” she says. “I’ll cut this for you.”
She leans over and slices several generous bites. “Is it always this good? I might move in.”
I smile, feeling unsettled at the familiar gesture of her cutting my food. “Bernard is very consistent, although I still have him working on a lasagna as good as my mother used to make.”
Arianna grins at that. “He’ll never achieve it,” she says. “Or so I hear. My mother never cooked a meal in her life.”
“Power parents?” I ask.
“The worst,” she says. “I think I only saw them both together once the entire time I was in high school.” She spears another bite of veal, and I am fairly certain she’s actually stabbing the memory.
“That must have been difficult,” I say. I had a different sort of upbringing, but I’m not about to enlighten her on that.
She doesn’t seem to want to discuss parental shortcomings either, so she changes the subject. “So how long did your dog race?”
“The full five years that is expected of a greyhound. He was bred six times, and then I was allowed to bring him home.”
Arianna perks up at this fact. “Is that a lot of breeding?”
I cannot suppress my grin. “He got more than his share.”
“Did you always want to adopt a greyhound?”
“It was sort of a tradition at my house,” I say, then stop. I do not talk about my past or my family’s position at the Birmingham Racetrack. I spent hundreds of thousands of dollars getting it purged.
One particular image was nigh impossible to get erased. Me, in mud-covered overalls, holding a shovel, with the grand champion racer whose kennel space I managed. I had this huge grin and naive air that made the image hit the papers and later persist on the web.
She continues to eat, and I take a few bites as well. I am used to the quality of Bernard’s cooking, but after Arianna’s delight, I notice it for the first time in a while. He really is quite gifted.
She pushes the plate away and takes a long drink of wine. “That was amazing. I’ve gotten in the terrible habit of curry takeout and breakfast cereal.”
This amuses me. “Favorite cereal?”
“Cap’n Crunch, hands down,” she says, then shoots me a warning look. “Don’t be dissing the Captain. I’ll ditch you with a baby.”
I hold up my free hand. “I wouldn’t dream of it, I swear. I was always partial to the ‘all berries’ version.”
She scoffs at this. “Too much of a good thing. And what about that worthless ‘no berries’ version? What is the point?”
“I believe that was the original version,” I say.
“What? No way. They took them out.”
“You can look it up.”
She narrows her eyes. “Are you a connoisseur of Cap’n Crunch?”
Bernard arrives at the breakfast table with four boxes. “Evidence,” he says dryly.
Arianna bursts out laughing as she examines them.
“My butler betrays me,” I say.
“Look at these! The plain kind,” she shoots me a look. “Then, berries, the good stuff. And ‘Oops’ with all berries.” Another shake of her head. “And peanut butter?” She picks up the peanut butter box and holds it out accusingly. “This is an abomination.”
“No, it’s delicious,” I tell her.
She sets it back down. “Well, Mr. Brant, it seems we at least have the berry version in common. I’ll overlook the others for the sake of friendship.”
“I shall leave the berries to you,” I say. “I only eat them on occasion.”
She ducks her head. “I only eat them…every day.”
This makes me laugh. “I have been known to stash a bag in my desk drawer at the office.”
Her head pops up. “Really? Because I keep a box at the child spa.”
Our mutual smiles both warm my chest and unsettle me a little. What is this? Bonding over sugar cereal?
I straighten my expression and glance down at Grace. “Should we wake her to feed her?” I ask.
“You’re forgetting rule number one,” Arianna says.
Right. “Never wake a sleeping baby,” I say.
“Exactly. But I’d have it ready. She’s going to be so hungry when she wakes. Here, give her to me so you can finish in peace.”
I pass the baby over to her. Grace stirs a little, but once settled on Arianna’s chest, she is out again.
I think about this interplay as I attend to the meal, watching Arianna rock the baby in the springy chair. How easy it feels. How natural.
It should come hard to me. The messiness. The wild schedule. The grand consumption of fourteen hours with nothing to show for them. And this woman, just being here. Helping me and letting me help her.
But somehow, it’s working.