Our Parents Wed in June, So I Spent the Winter Claiming My Stepbrother novel · Chapter 17 of 24

Chapter 17: The Workbench

I took the sander out of his hand and switched it off.

The shop went quiet, except for the space heater ticking in the corner and the wind against the tin roof.

"Page," Reeve said. "I'm in the middle of a."

"I know."

"It's two in the afternoon."

"It's Thursday," I said. "I have the day off, and I've been thinking about you all morning."

I turned the lock on the shop door behind me.

The long room smelled of cut pine and machine oil.

Sawdust lay in drifts under the workbench, and sunlight came through the dusty window in a white bar across the boards.

He stood with his back against the bench in a flannel shirt open over a gray T-shirt, with wood shavings in his hair.

I loved him so much that I felt it in my knees.

"Take your hands off the bench," I said.

"What?"

"Put them at your sides. Don't touch me until I say."

His throat moved.

He put his hands down.

I walked up to him, slowly, and ran my palm down the front of his T-shirt.

I followed the hard plane of his stomach to the buckle of his belt.

"Page, anyone could."

"Nobody's here. The nearest neighbor is a mile."

I undid the belt, and the button, and the zipper.

He was already hard, heavy against the cotton of his boxers.

I pushed the jeans and the boxers down to his thighs, and he sprang free, thick and flushed.

A bead of wetness shone at the tip.

I looked at it.

"Look at you," I said.

I knelt on the shop floor.

The boards were cold through my jeans, and sawdust pricked my knees, and I didn't care.

I put my hands flat on his thighs and looked up at him.

His gray eyes were black.

"Say please," I said.

"Please."

"Say it like you mean it," I said.

"Please, Page. I'm begging you."

I took him into my mouth.

He swore, a long ragged curse that ended on my name.

I took the head of him in slowly, and ran my tongue around it, and tasted salt.

His hips jerked, and he caught himself.

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