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I try to appear unfazed, casually sipping on the whiskey that has been warming my glass as I waited for them to return from their hot tub playtime I found myself so desperately wanting to be a part of.
The indignant little brat rolls her eyes at me. “Not that it is any ofyourbusiness,darling brother,” she spits the words with such vehemence, it’s a surprise venom doesn’t drip from her tongue, “but this is my girlfriend, Holly.”
“Ah, I see how it is.” I wiggle my eyebrows at her suggestively. “Finally realized those little pimply college boys would never be able to give you what you were looking for, so you decided to switch teams thinking a woman would know your body better than any man ever could?”
I know I deserve it, but I’m still not expecting the sting of her palm as it meets my cheek. “Again, not that it is any ofyourbusiness,” she punctuates the words with a short, red fingernail poking me in the chest, “but I’ve known I was queer since I was nine years old—that I found both women and men attractive. Maybe you would have known that had you taken the time to get to know me and not always ran away the second things got uncomfortable, if you had stood up to me and fought instead of scurrying away like a scared, little bunny rabbit.”
Ouch, that might have hurt worse than the slap across my face.
And I hate to admit it, but she’s not exactly lying. I did run away from her—and I did so often. But I did it to protect what would have inevitably happened if I stayed in New York. I did it to protect myself. To protect her. And never has that been as apparent as it is right now. I can pretend to hate her all I want. Pretend that she’s always been nothing but my pain in the ass little sister who was always in my way.
But that isn’t exactly the total truth.
And maybe it isn’t Noel’s complete truth either.
The signs feel almost obvious now—her constant need to be as close to me as possible, the suggestive glances and the outrageous way she paraded herself around our parent’s house half-naked as she blossomed into womanhood. Could it be that the entire time she was trying to get closer to me, she was actually trying to show her interest in a way that only an inexperienced teen could do?
Not that I have time to dissect that fucking bombshell of a revelation right now.
In her anger, she hasn’t noticed that her robe is hanging wide open. The gentle slope of her breasts—dangerously close to being fully exposed—taunt me, her creamy stomach begs me to trace its smooth expanse with my tongue. Between her thighs, I can make out the tiniest patch of curls before dark shadows take over. Suddenly, I find myself cursing the dim lights that provide only the barest bit of illumination inside this monstrous and otherwise dark cabin.
Get a hold of yourself, Saint.
You cannot go there.
“You have to leave,” Noel tells me flatly. Thankfully, it distracts me from the thoughts of pushing her against the island, of spreading her out on top of the cold granite before leaning over her body to lick her cunt while her skin pebbles from the dichotomy of sensations.
I snort in response. “The fuck I do. I did my due diligence, made sure that no one would be here. As far as I’m concerned, you and your little girlfriend can gladly leave. Give me the peace and fucking quiet I know I’m not going to have with you here.”
She laughs in my face.
The fucking audacity.
“Little Saint Nick, not getting his way and pouting about it–as always. What’s wrong, brother? Are you afraid to be alone in a house with two grown women who love to explore each other’s bodies? Are you worried that you’re going to hear us fucking and get turned on. Just like you did two years ago when I called you Daddy?”
Pushing up from the barstool I’ve patiently been perched on, I step closer to my stepsister. “Forgive me for wanting a silent fucking night, Noel. Not that you would ever understand the concept of silence.”
I step closer to her as she huffs out her frustration. One, two, three steps until I’m so close that she has to crane her neck to meet my eyes. All the while, I feel Holly’s big, blue eyes bouncing between us as if she’s torn between watching the scene play out and intervening.
If my sister thinks I’m going to back up, that I’m going to turn and run like I have so many times before, she is sorely mistaken. Instead, I trail my fingertips up and over her exposed stomach, silently loving the way she sucks in a gasp as my fingers touch her skin. “But then again, as much as I do love silence, I also love the sound of a woman as she comes. And we both know from your past performances that you are sure to be afantasticactress.”
Continuing to taunt her with my fingertips, I lightly travel upward over the concave place between her breasts. Up, up, up, I travel, tracing the column of her neck before gently wrapping my fingers around her throat. Her eyes go wide, yet I don’t move. I don’t squeeze or apply pressure, simply hold her in place, my eyes boring into her soul with a fierceness I’ve never felt before. “Tell me, Sweetheart. Does she make you come so hard that you see fucking stars? Does she make you climax so hard that your legs are unsteady, and your entire body shakes afterward? Because if so, it might be worth it to stay just to listen to you come from behind a closed door somewhere in this lodge.”
Her eyes darken, a deep, forest green with rings of jade at the outermost edge that work to hypnotize me. “Who said anything about it being behind closed doors? We came early so we could use the space. Don’t expect me to change my plans on account of you being here. Maybe if you’re on the nice list this year, we’ll let you watch.”
Evil little fucking temptress. She should have been named after the devil himself.
I drop my hand from around her neck, flicking the fabric of her robe, which still hangs open around her body. “Stay out of my way and I’ll stay out of yours.”
Picking up my glass, I start to exit the kitchen but turn around quickly, swiping the expensive bottle of whiskey from the counter as I retreat to my room in haste.
And as I go, I hear their laughter echoing behind me the entire fucking way, just like the last time I ran away from the siren that is my stepsister.
Of all themodern amenities this place seems to have, I was surprised to see an old, digital alarm clock perched atop the nightstand in the room I sent myself to for my self-imposed solitary confinement. One of those small, black boxes with red numbers, a few switches, and a large, flat snooze button, it would be more at home in a cheap, roadside motel than a swanky, palatial winter retreat tucked remotely in the woods.
And now, after nearly five hours of staring at the numbers on that dammed alarm as minute after minute ticked by with near-glacial speed while laughter poured from the living space of the house, I’ve had enough.
There will be no sugar plums dancing in my head tonight. Only visions of my own personal vixen—not to be confused with Santa’s helpful reindeer of the same name.
