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“That's amazing,” I shake my head. “You seriously made this? Really, that's… amazing!”
Okay, I tell myself. Time to get a new word. You can't just say amazing over and over again, Vanessa.
“Well, it's nice that you think so,” the second brother says. Tim. I’ve got to try to remember that. “I guess we kinda get used to it, doing it day in and day out. But it sure is nice to hear someone else appreciate us.”
I take another sip of the wine, then set it down carefully. If I'm not cautious, I'm going to end up drunk — college girl drunk — before I even have a bite to eat. I reach out and pluck a still warm flatbread from the pile and drop it on the plate in front of me. Then I grind some spices over the top and finish it with a healthy dollop of hummus.
“Okay, we should eat,” one of the brothers says. Tom, I’m pretty sure. “What is this? Flatbread, you said?”
“Yeah…” I nod. “You eat it like a taco. Just get some of the things that you like, put it in there, and fold it in half. It's good! You’ll love it.”
The late afternoon air fills with the sound of bowls and cutlery clinking, and things being slid around the table as everybody piles little morsels of this and that on their plates. I finish my flatbread off with some strips of red pepper and chicken curry, and then balance a couple of grilled shrimp on top. It's an interesting variety, but I hope it'll soak up the apple wine I just had. How did I manage to down a glass and a half before the flatbread was even cool?
“Oh, man, this is delicious,” says the brother on my right as he tucks into an abundantly overstuffed flatbread.
I watch his jaw knot as he chews and his throat flex with each swallow. Momentarily transfixed, I barely notice when he lets his legs fall open a little bit. When his knee touches mine, the connection is electric. He cuts his eyes toward me, still chewing enthusiastically, as if to make sure that I felt it too.
Boy, do I feel it.
I push up on my toe, nudging him back with the side of my leg. The corner of his lip twists up in a slow, eager smile, tight with anticipation. Slowly I let my leg fall again, dragging my skin against his and watching to see his reaction. His eyes never waver as he holds my gaze with keen, burning interest.
Then suddenly, on the other side, I feel a hand brush my other leg. Fingers sneak around the back of my knee and pull it toward the other brother.
Stifling my reflex to gasp, I look over as slowly as I can, not letting anyone else at the table in on what's happening. That brother gives me an identical look of intense concentration. An identical smirk. An identical invitation, I feel certain.
Is this happening? I'm certain it is, though I have to admit the wine is affecting me already. I almost feel it sloshing around in my belly as I scoot closer to the table, surreptitiously tucking my chair and the lower half of my body out of sight. If my mom or dad look over this way, all they will see is me being friendly with our shy, rather intense neighbors. Nothing strange here, right?
Then I feel their hands drifting over my thighs, fluttering under my skirt, slipping up toward the warmer parts of me. Something holds me captive in my seat as their hands pry apart my humid, curvy thighs, all while their expressions hardly change.
Something about the magic of the wine makes me let them. My heart is beating like a hummingbird, so fast I can barely breathe. Yet I'm eager, so eager to have their hands on me.
I let my legs fall open and feel the first tentative friction across the surface of my panties. I bite my lips together to stifle a moan and instead grab my glass, holding it up to my lips so that I can sigh into it. The glass of this intoxicating elixir holds my secret moan as curious fingers probe the outlines of my panties, searching for a way in.
I'm so grateful when they find it. My legs are wide open, and I sneak a glance toward the far end of the table, noting that those four are deep in discussion. I can hear some snippet about armadillos in Texas, a story that my dad likes to tell. I know I've got several minutes before he even glances this way, while the story plays itself out.
Under this camouflage I wiggle slightly, surprising even myself, nudging those curious hands toward my center. I feel my skin buzzing, feel the mounting need inside me. I'm on a mission. All I want is contact. All I want is the right friction to complete the electrical circuit, to get that sweet relief that I know is inside me.
The brother on my left sucks his breath between his teeth, then holds his breath when he feels the slippery depth of my channel. He knows I want him. He knows how much pleasure he's giving me right now.
And I know it's insane, but when the other hand follows right after, I welcome it too. I wiggle against them both, urging them to explore me, to satisfy this pulsing, burning desire that's sparked inside me.
Shame has simply melted away from me as I submit to their touch, their complicated dance of plundering, probing, stroking sensations. My hips automatically and softly rock against the pressure, seeking that magical combination of sensations that unlocks my bliss.
Suddenly, there it is. A blinding flash, a white veil that passes in front of my vision. I grip the edge of the table, biting back a cry of relief and naughty delight. My thighs clamp together, trapping their hands inside. For long seconds, I hold them there, pinned against my quivering sex until I manage to breathe again.
When I finally release them, I feel one rearranging my panties over me, then patting me sweetly before he brings his hand back. He draws it up to his mouth and licks the tip slowly, sucking it as his eyes burn into mine.
The other puts his elbow on the table and conceals similar gesture by appearing to rest his chin on his hand. But I see the way he he drags his finger under his nose and breathes in deeply, the secret smile of triumph on his lips.
Luxuriously, I allow myself a long, drawn out yawn. I feel completely amazing. Extremely naughty, a little shocked, but totally righteous.
Chapter 3
Stan
It's Saturday, but I still wake up just after seven, even without an alarm. I'd love to sleep in one of these days, but there's always stuff to do around the orchard. Always.
As soon as my eyes open, it's like my to-do list boots up immediately, practically floating like a ghost vision in front of my eyes. I've got a pole barn to sweep out, the juice vats need to be inspected, and I’m pretty sure Tim or Tom broke the chainsaw last week, horsing around of course. Those guys never matured much past middle school, even if they look like professional football players. Sometimes I think they break more than they’re worth in field labor.
