My Stranger Became My Stepbrother, Then Our Parents Divorced novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: The Blizzard Rule
I leave a stranger's bed before light with no name and no number, and ten weeks later he comes down my mother's fiance's staircase.
The airport shut down at nine, and by ten there was one room left in the hotel and two of us at the desk.
The clerk looked from me to the man beside me.
"King bed," she said. "It's all I have."
I was tired, and my flight home had been cancelled twice.
I did not look at the man.
"No names," I said to the clerk, and then to him, "I mean that. No names, no numbers, no where you're from."
"Fine by me," he said.
His voice was low and dry.
I looked at him then.
He was tall, with dark hair wet from the snow and a pale crescent scar through his left eyebrow.
He looked back at me, and neither of us took the key.
"I'll take the chair," he said.
"There is no chair."
"Then I'll take the floor."
I picked up the key and walked to the elevator, and he walked behind me.
In the room the window was white.
The storm hit the glass and slid off it, and the whole parking lot below had disappeared.
I stood at the window with my coat still on.
He stopped behind me and did not touch me.
"Tell me to sleep on the floor," he said.
I turned around.
I took hold of his shirt with both hands, and I kissed him.
He made a low sound and pulled me against him, and his mouth was hot and tasted of coffee.
My coat hit the carpet.
His hands went under my sweater and up my back, and I shivered against him, and he pushed me back until the cold glass was against my shoulders.
"Off," I said.
He dragged the sweater over my head and dropped it.
He looked at me in my bra for a moment, breathing hard, and then his mouth was on my neck and his hand was inside the cup, his thumb dragging over my nipple until I arched into him.
I got his belt open.
I got my hand around his cock, hot and hard and thick in my fist, and he swore against my throat.
"Bed," he said.
"No. Here."
He laughed once, rough, and shoved my skirt up around my waist.
He pulled my underwear down and I stepped out of it.
He lifted me by the thighs and the glass was freezing at my back, and I wrapped my legs around him.
"Look at me," he said.
I did.
He pushed into me, one long slow thrust, and I felt every inch of his cock spread me open.
I cried out.
He held there, buried to the root, shaking, his forehead against mine.
"Fuck," he said. "You're so wet."
"Move."
He moved.
He fucked me against the window, hard and deep, with my back sliding on the glass and the storm roaring on the other side.
Each thrust drove the breath out of me.
I held onto his shoulders and bit his neck, and he groaned and went faster.
His hand came between us and found my clit, and he rubbed it in tight fast circles that made my thighs shake.
"Come on my cock," he said.
I came with a cry I did not know I had, my head knocking the glass.
My pussy clenched around him in long hard pulses and he groaned and carried me to the bed without leaving me.
He laid me down and drove into me again, deeper, with my knees up by my ribs.
I was still coming when he started to.
"I'm going to cum in you," he said.
"Yes. Do it."
He slammed in twice more and held, and I felt him pulse deep inside me, hot and heavy, filling me.
We lay there afterward with our chests heaving and the sheet on the floor.
Then he pulled me on top of him, and we did it again, slower, with the lamp on.
I woke in the dark with his arm across my waist.
The storm had stopped.
It was a quarter to five.
I had told myself I would be gone by light, and I was a person who did what she told herself.
I slid out from under his arm.
I dressed in the bathroom with the fan on.
I did not wake him, and I did not look at the pad of paper by the phone.
At the door I put my hand to my ear and found one gold stud missing.
I left it.
Ten weeks later, on a Friday night in April, I stood in the front hall of Gunnar Lahti's house on Lake Superior with my mother's hand tight in mine.
She was getting married tomorrow.
The house was cedar and glass and very warm, with a dining table down the middle of it long enough for forty people.
Gunnar was waiting at the top of the staircase in a dark suit.
He was a big man with a silver crew cut and a smile that was always the first thing in the room.
"There they are," he said. "My two favorite women. And now, the last member of my family."
I looked up.
Someone was coming down the stairs behind him.
Tall, dark hair, gray eyes, a gray jacket.
A pale crescent scar through his left eyebrow.
He stopped on the fourth step.
All the color left his face.
Gunnar clapped a hand on his shoulder.
"Annika, this is my son, Nils," he said. "Your brother."
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