The Lake House Had One Bed Left for Our Parents' Wedding Week, So I Shared It With My Soon-to-Be Stepbrother novel · Chapter 22 of 24

Chapter 22: Windows Open

"Number one," I said, "is the quilt."

It was ten past two in the morning.

The window was open to the lake, and the box fan turned in the corner, and the tent party had finally gone to bed.

We had been lying in the one bed for an hour, awake, in the dark, not talking.

Tomorrow I would wear a corsage.

Tomorrow I would stand on a lawn and watch my father marry the mother of the man whose hand was resting on my hip.

"I want everything once more," I'd said into his shoulder. "In order. Before it's a ceremony."

"Everything."

"The first night, and the second morning, and the pantry. All of it. In order."

"Is there a list?"

"There's always a list."

So now I lay on my back with the quilt gathered up in my fist.

Jack lay on his side with his hand already under the hem of my Gophers shirt.

"The quilt," he said, in the voice of a man reading a menu.

"I'll bite it."

"I know you will."

His fingers slid under my underwear, warm and slow, and I was already wet, because I had been wet since the tent.

He found me and made one lazy circle.

I stuffed a corner of the quilt between my teeth.

"There," he whispered. "Just like Monday, except now I know every sound you're going to make before you make it. This one." His finger slid down and pushed in. "And this one."

I made both.

"You bite down on the left side," he said. "Always the left. Your hand comes to my wrist. You hold on like I might run."

He curled his fingers, and I arched off the bed and swore into the cotton.

"I'm going to count," said Jack.

"You don't get to count."

"One."

He pressed the heel of his hand against my clit.

"Two."

I came into the quilt with my whole body shaking, short and sharp and bright.

He held it to the end and kissed my temple.

"Number two," he said.

"The boathouse."

"I remember."

He pushed my shirt up over my breasts and slid down the bed, and settled between my thighs with his shoulders spreading my knees.

He parted me with his thumbs and he looked, in the dim light off the lake, and I felt myself get wetter.

"You're still pink," he said. "You're still swollen from the quilt. You're still so beautiful here that I could stay for a week."

"Then use your tongue."

"Yes, ma'am."

He licked me slow.

He licked me the way he had on the sails at dawn, broad and warm and patient.

He added what he'd learned, a little pressure on the left and a flick at the top.

The tip of his tongue circled for exactly as long as I could stand.

I got both hands in his hair.

"You taste the same," he said, against me. "And different. Like you're not afraid of it now."

"I'm not."

"I know."

His fingers slid inside me and found the spot, and his mouth closed on my clit.

I came again in a long rolling groan that I let all the way out, because there was nobody left to hear.

"Number three," I said, when I could.

"Missionary."

"Slow."

"I've been practicing."

He came up my body and kissed me, and I tasted myself.

He lay between my legs and slid into me in a single unhurried push.

Our eyes met.

"Look at me," he said.

"I am."

"No, look."

I looked.

"You're so open," he said. "You open all the way. You're taking me to the base, and your whole face says I love it. Do you see it? You never did that on Tuesday."

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