Snowed In With My Stepbrother novel · Chapter 2 of 24
Chapter 2: One Blanket
Furious at two lost years, Ailsa lets her stepbrother take her on the shack's only cot and tells herself it's only the storm, until dawn brings a tractor, his father's voice and her bra drying on the stove rail.
"You'd met me once," I said.
"Once was enough."
"At a hotel dinner. For three hours."
"Three hours and ten minutes. They were turning the lights off round us."
I remembered.
I had spent the whole of that April night next to a big quiet man who asked me what I painted and actually listened.
He told me about a hill above a sea loch where the deer come down in winter.
I told him that sounded like a painting nobody would buy.
He'd laughed, and I'd drawn him on a napkin in biro to stop myself staring at his mouth.
Then Mum had leaned over and said, "That's Alasdair's son. Behave."
"The next morning you went to your father," I said.
"I asked him to wait a year."
"So you could what? Take me out first? Before I was family?"
"Something like that."
"And when he wouldn't wait, you decided to treat me like dirt for two and a half years."
"I decided to keep my hands off you for two and a half years. It looked the same from outside."
I threw the blanket off and stood up.
My bare feet hit the cold boards and I didn't care.
"Do you know what you did to me?"
He stood too.
"Tell me."
"I went home from that dinner and I painted your stupid hill from your stupid description. Then the wedding came and you looked through me like glass. I thought I'd made it up. I thought I'd made a fool of myself over the one man in Scotland I wasn't allowed."
"You didn't make it up."
"I spent two years thinking I was disgusting for even remembering it."
"Then we've both been disgusting," he said. "For two years. Separately."
I shoved his chest with both hands.
He let me.
He didn't go anywhere.
"I hate you," I said.
"No, you don't."
He walked me back one step, then another, until my shoulders hit the door.
The latch dug into my spine.
His hand came up and took the pencil out of my hair, and the whole mess of it fell down.
"I'm done keeping my hands off you," he said.
I opened my mouth to argue with him.
Nothing came out.
He kissed me.
It wasn't polite.
It was two and a half years of passed potatoes and silent car rides and Christmas crackers pulled with my mother watching.
I kissed him back so hard our teeth knocked.
I grabbed his jumper in both fists and hated myself, and didn't let go.
He lifted me off the floor.
"This is a terrible idea," I said into his mouth.
"Aye."
"My mother would die."
"Your mother isn't here."
He didn't answer that.
He carried me to the cot and set me down on the blanket's rough edge.
His hands found my jumper's hem and pulled it over my head.
The stove's heat hit my bare skin.
My bra was black lace and he looked at it like he'd been waiting to.
Then his thumbs hooked under the straps and dragged them down my arms.
"Lift your hips," he said.
I did.
My knickers came off with one pull.
He stood over me, still fully dressed, and looked.
I should have covered myself.
Instead I lay there with my bare legs over the side of the cot and let him see all of it.
"Say it," he said.
"Say what?"
"That you've thought about this."
"You're a bastard."
"That's not what I asked."
His hand went to his belt.
Not undoing it.
Just resting there, waiting.
"I've thought about it," I said.
"How?"
"Your mouth. Your hands. What's under that stupid jumper."
"What else?"
"Your cock. Inside me."
The word landed between us.
His jaw moved.
He pulled the jumper off in one motion, then the shirt.
The stove light ran over his chest and arms.
I reached out and put my palm flat on his stomach.
Muscle jumped under my hand.
He unbuckled the belt and shoved the cords down with his boots.
His cock was hard and thick and it made the clench in me turn to an ache.
"Get on the bed properly," he said.
I moved back on the horsehair mattress and he came over me.
The cot creaked with his weight.
His mouth went to my throat and sucked.
My hips came up off the blanket.
"You've no idea," he said against my skin.
"I've some."
"Then show me."
I grabbed his hair and pulled his mouth to mine.
Kissed him like I was owed it.
His hand slid down my ribs to my hip and then between my legs.
His fingers found me wet, and he made a sound low in his chest.
"That's for me," he said.
"Don't flatter yourself."
His thumb pressed my clit and I lost the rest of the sentence.
A whimper came out of me, high and pathetic.
"Again," he said.
He circled slow, watching my face.
I hated how good it felt.
Hated that he could see it.
"Look at you," he said. "Furious and soaking."
"Fuck you."
"Ask properly."
His fingers pushed inside me and curled.
My back arched.
"Ask," he said again.
"Put your cock in me."
"Please."
"Please put your cock in me, Finlay."
He pulled his fingers out and brought them to his mouth.
Took his time licking them clean.
Then he knelt between my legs and lifted my hips like I was nothing.
His mouth closed over my clit.
I said his name and my hand flew to his hair again.
He licked and sucked while the cot shook under us.
The wind hit the window and the stove spat.
I came with his mouth on me, my thighs clamped round his head, my whole body a long string pulled tight and snapped.
He didn't stop.
He worked me through it until I was trembling and swearing at him.
"Enough," I managed.
"Not yet."
He moved up over me, and I felt the hot head of his cock press where I was still pulsing.
"Tell me you want this."
"I want this."
"Say it properly."
"I want your cock inside me, Finlay. Now. Please."
He pushed in.
The sound I made was not dignified.
He was thick and the cot was narrow and there was nothing to hold onto but him.
"Fuck," I said into his shoulder.
"That's the idea."
He started to move, slow and deep, every stroke pulling something loose in me.
"Harder," I said.
"Make me believe you."
"Harder, you bastard."
He laughed, actually laughed, and then he gave me what I asked for.
The cot slammed against the wall.
My nails raked down his back.
He grabbed my wrists and pinned them above my head.
"Who's in charge here?"
"You think it's you?"
"That's not an answer."
"Fuck you."
He pulled out and I nearly screamed at the loss of him.
"Say it," he said.
"I hate you."
He pushed back in, one hard stroke.
"Say it."
"You. It's you. Now move."
He moved.
The sound of him driving into me filled the little room.
I wrapped my legs round his hips and tilted up to take him deeper.
His hand left my wrists and went to my jaw.
He turned my face to his.
"Look at me."
I did.
His eyes were black in the firelight.
"Not your brother," he said.
"I know."
"Say it."
"Not my brother."
He kissed me, rough and open-mouthed, and kept fucking me.
The heat built low and mean.
I could feel the orgasm coming again, tighter this time.
"Come on my cock," he said. "Let me feel it."
His fingers found my clit and pressed.
I came apart cursing him.
He fucked me through it, then his rhythm broke.
He buried himself deep and I felt his cock swell and spill inside me.
His whole body went rigid.
A sound came out of him like he'd been punched.
We lay there panting, the cot still knocking against the wall with the aftershock.
He didn't pull out.
His forehead dropped to mine.
"That was a terrible idea," I said.
"Aye."
He pulled the grey blanket over us and rolled us onto our sides.
The cot was too narrow for two bodies.
I didn't care.
I lay against his chest with his cock still softening inside me and listened to the wind.
The stove had burned down to a red eye.
His heart was slow under my ear.
His arm was heavy across my back, and the blanket only covered half of us.
I lay there and made myself say it.
"This is the storm."
His hand stopped moving in my hair.
"Is it."
"It's one night in a shack in a blizzard. It isn't real. Tomorrow we dig the cars out and we go up to the house and it never happened."
He was quiet for so long I thought he'd fallen asleep.
"Tell yourself that," he said.
"I will."
"Go on, then."
I didn't.
I lay awake listening to the wind until it dropped, and then to his breathing.
Somewhere near dawn I must have slept.
I woke to grey light at the window and an engine.
Not a car.
Something big and slow and grinding, coming down the glen track.
Finlay was already sitting up.
"That's the tractor," he said.
A man's voice carried across the snow, loud and cheerful and close.
"Finlay! You in there, son? Is the lassie alive?"
Alasdair.
My stepfather.
I looked around the shack in a panic.
My jeans were stiff as cardboard on the floor.
His trousers were by the door.
And my bra was hanging off the stove rail, black lace, right where the first person through the door would see it.
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