Our Parents Wed in June, So I Spent the Winter Claiming My Stepbrother novel · Chapter 5 of 24

Chapter 5: The Kitchen Counter

The power came back at noon on Sunday, and by two I had flour to my elbows and bread rising in the warm oven.

Reeve came in from the plow with snow in his hair and the cold still on his coat.

He stopped in the kitchen doorway and looked at me, and I looked at him.

"Sit," I said.

"I'm wet."

"Sit down in that chair."

He sat in the wooden chair by the counter.

I took off my apron, and the long ties trailed from my hand.

"Give me your wrists," I said.

His eyes went dark.

He put his hands behind the chair back without a word.

I knotted the apron strings around his wrists, loose enough to slide, and tied the other end to the slats.

"Pull if you want out," I said. "They'll come apart."

"I won't pull."

"You might."

"Page," he said. "Don't stop."

I stood back and looked at my stepbrother tied to a kitchen chair with melting snow dripping off his jaw.

I had never in my life felt so completely in charge.

I walked around him once, slowly, and let my fingers drag over his shoulders.

"You've been bossing me around for two days," I said. "Damper at a quarter. Don't go out. Eat something."

"That was your mother and my dad."

"It was both of you."

I undid his coat and pushed it off his shoulders, and his arms stayed pinned behind him.

I pulled his wet shirt up over his head and left it bunched around his tied arms.

His chest rose and fell.

I stepped between his knees and slid my hands down his bare chest.

I rubbed my thumbs over his nipples until he hissed, and then I dragged my nails down his stomach.

I undid the button of his jeans and did not touch what was underneath.

"Page," he said. "Come on."

"I'm looking."

"You're killing me," he said.

"I know. You love it."

He did.

His whole body told me so.

"Now it's my turn," I said.

I went to the counter and hitched myself up onto the edge of it, facing him, six inches from his knees.

I took off my sweater.

I took off my leggings and my underwear and dropped them on the floor.

I sat on my mother's butcher-block counter with my bare feet on the arms of his chair, and I spread my knees.

His breath left him.

"Come here," I said. "Use your mouth."

He leaned forward as far as the chair let him, and I slid down the counter to meet him.

He put his face between my thighs.

The first long lick made me gasp, and I held on to the edge of the counter with both hands.

"That's right," I said. "Slow."

He was slow.

He had nothing but his mouth, and he used all of it.

He licked me in broad, flat strokes.

Then he circled my clit with the tip of his tongue, and closed his lips around it, and sucked.

Every time I jumped, he groaned against me.

I put one hand in his hair.

"Good," I said. "God, you're good at this."

"Right there," I said. "Stay right there."

He stayed.

My thighs trembled against his shoulders, and I knew he felt it.

He hummed, and the vibration went through my whole body.

"Harder," I said.

He strained at the strings.

"I can't use my hands," he said, muffled.

"I know."

"Page, let me."

"No," I said. "Make do."

He made a low, wrecked sound in his throat, and he did.

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