Eliantra pressed her lips together.
He entered the water.
From the corner of her eye — the absolute periphery, barely a glance — she registered the shape of him, the waterline, and then immediately found the wall again with great attention.
Marta, beside her, had achieved the expression of a woman who is professionally required to be present and has disconnected herself from the situation through forty years of practiced dissociation.
Then Rihana moved to him.
She came from behind — her thick, wet body pressing against his back, her arms coming around his waist, her heavy breasts wrapping over his forearm from behind and simply 'overflowing' it, the full, warm weight of them resting over his arm and against his side.
And he turned his head.
And kissed her.
Not a polite kiss.
Not a kiss that acknowledged they had company.
