“How can I make it up to you?”
“You can forgive me for screwing up the budget.”
I stare at her. “This isn’t your fault, Sum. I don’t want you to stress about the budget.”
She sighs, closing her eyes. “We’re kind of screwed though. There’s no money left to fix it because I spent it. You were right all along.”
She gets up and lies down on her stomach on the towel in front of us. Her butt is in the air, momentarily distracting me with the position she’s in.
“Can you rub some tanning oil on my back? It’s in my bag.”
I reach into her straw beach tote and pull out the bottle of oil. I get down beside her and pour it over her lower back and shoulders. My hands gently massage her as I spread it around. She lets out a soft groan. My swim trunks are getting tighter by the second.
I love touching her. I had to resist it and settle for my imagination for so long.
“We’re going to finish the house. You made it beautiful. I don’t want you to worry about it. I have a lot of investors at my company.”
She must not know how much money I have, which I find … shocking. She’s not really in the finance world, but I would have assumed she knew that I’d have plenty of money to help us finish the house.
I guess because I’ve acted like a stuck-up, selfish prick all these years. I have millions, but it’s mostly all tied up in stocks.
On instinct, I swat her butt, licking my lips when it jiggles. I return to my seat before I lose the willpower to stop touching her.
She raises a brow, tilting her hip up and emphasizing the curve of her slim waist. After wiping the oil off my hands with a beach towel, I grab the camera she left on her chair and turn it on. I lift it to my eye and snap her photo.
“I’m supposed to be taking your picture.”
“You’re a prettier subject. Hold still.”
She lays her head down on her forearms. Her honey hair is spilling out around her, framing her like a halo. I keep taking different angles until she sits up and reaches for the camera.
“Enough! My turn.”
I hand it over before leaning back against my chair. She loops the strap around her neck and takes several pictures before I start to feel uneasy.
I lift up a hand. “All right, all right, ease me in here.”
She lowers it, silently laughing. “Your expression makes you look constipated.”
“I don’t like being in pictures.”
“You need to relax.”
She comes over and stands in front of me, turning toward the ocean. Her ass is practically in my face. I reach out and grab her hip near where her swimsuit ties.
She lifts the camera to take a selfie of us.
“Smile.”
I impulsively pull her down in my lap. She yelps in surprise, squirming. I try to ignore the rush of blood south. She lifts the camera and takes a few more pictures.
“I don’t know if we have any pictures together at all,” she says.
“Christmas, eleven years ago.”
“Oh, right. My mom made us wear matching sweaters.”
I nod, wrapping my hands around her waist, realizing I can almost make my fingers touch. I have big hands, and her waist is small.
