Off Season I

The snow falls at the edge of Ashford Hills quietly.

It falls exactly like my boring life and yet was much interesting than it.

Stretching, Four inches. Five. like my husband’s cock that would never enter me.

I watch it through the window, my hands deep in soapy water. The plate is warm. The water is hot. My skin is pink from the heat.

Mark is on the couch. Snoring as usual. Whiskey bottle empty on the floor. His mouth is open, drool dancing off the side of his mouth. His arm dangles off the edge. He looks like a stranger.

It has been like this since the second year of our marriage. After the ski incident that cost him his shoulder. An incident he blamed me for.

"If you stopped asking for sex I could have gone earlier and avoided the fucking slide!" That was the usual anthem when I tried to get him help.

"Ooof," I sigh exasperated cracking the part of my back that ached cleaning after Mark. Taking Jobs to cater for us. Yet. I was still a bad wife according to him.

I hear the floorboard creak behind me.

His strong musky perfume cloud my senses.

My fingers tighten on the plate. We weren’t expecting anyone till much later, especially him.

"Don't," I whisper.

"Don't what?" Jake's voice came in from behind. Low. Close. Too close.

In less than a minute I could feel his breath on my neck before I feel his hands. Warm air against my skin. The tiny hairs on my nape stand up. My stomach drops.

"Please don't touch me," I barely form a whisper.

I know what being close to Mark’s youngest brother does to me. I quickly squeeze my tigh together.

"Pretend he is not here. Pretend he is not here," I mutter to myself trying to stop the heat that had already started pooling between my tigh.

His fingers find my hip. Light. Barely there. Just the tips. Just a whisper of contact.

"Like this?"

My breath catches. I stop breathing. I can feel the heat of his fingers through my shirt. The weight of them. The intent.

"Jake—"

"You're shaking."

"I'm cold," I retort back clinging at my rapidly melting resolve. He had never been this bold before. Mark’s condition has never been this bad before.

He turns me around. The plate slips from my hands. Splashes into the water. I should care but I don't. My liquid was fucking spilling between tigh.

He looks at me. His eyes travel my face. My neck. My barely clothed chest that exposed the curve of my boobs. The shape of my nipples. He continued. Slow. Like he's reading a book.

"You're not cold," he says calmly but confidently.

"Jake, your brother is right there—"

"He's dead to the world. He's been dead to the world for years."

His thumb finds my chin. Lifts my face. "Look at me," he says.

I do like I’m being controlled. And I am. My pulsating pussy is threatening to explode inside me. My heart is also hammering inside my chest.

His eyes are dark. His jaw is tight. There's a muscle twitching in his cheek. I notice everything. The way his chest rises and falls. The way his pupils are blown wide. The way his hand is trembling just slightly.

"Tell me you don't want this," he says.

I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.

"That's what I thought."

He leans in. His lips brush my ear. I feel his breath. Warm. Soft.

"You've been looking at me," he says. "All summer. All winter. All year."

"I haven't—" I shake my head aggressively trying to deny the truth he splashed on my face.

"You have. I noticed. Every single fucking time."

His hand slides up my arm then to my shoulder, my neck. His palm is warm. Slightly rough. Calloused from working with his hands.

"Your skin," he says. "It’s so soft."

I shiver. I can't help it. My whole body reacts before my mind catches up.

"See?" he says. "You're not cold, you’re just starving, hungry."

"Glck," I gulp down my saliva. Hard.

His thumb traces my lower lip. Gentle. Barely there.

"Tell me," he says again. "Tell me you don't want me."

I try to speak. My voice is barely a whisper.

"I can't please."

"Yes, you can."

His mouth suddenly comes crashing on mine.

Slow. Like he has all the time in the world. His lips are soft, warm. They press against mine once. Twice. Testing. My lips part without my permission. His tongue brushes my lower lip.

My hands come up touching his chest. I should push him away.

I don't.

I feel his heart under my palm. Fast. Like mine. His chest is warm. Solid. I can feel the muscle beneath his shirt.

"Jake—"

"Shh."

His mouth moves to my neck. His lips press against my pulse. I feel it — my own heartbeat — under his mouth. The thump-thump-thump of it. He must be able to feel it too.

"Your heart," he murmurs. "So fast."

"Jake, please—"

"Please what?"

His teeth graze my skin. Gentle. The barest pressure. I gasp. My body arches toward him without my permission.

"Don't stop," I breathe tears welling in my ears. I am more scared of him stopping than Marcus catching us. My tongue is grazing my brother-in-laws tongue and I’m not stopping it.

"Please Jake, don't stop."

He doesn't.

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