One Bride for Five Brothers Page 3

  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.

  Speaking of which, I need to get the hell out of bed if I'm going to be getting any breakfast before they get their hands on it. They’re like a plague of locusts, eating everything in sight.

  But as I shuffle down toward the kitchen, I hear the voices. I think I’ve already missed my window and I'll be lucky to get a bowl of cereal before I have to get on that chainsaw issue.

  “I'm sure she liked me better,” I hear Tom say. “Absolutely sure of it.”

  “Fuck you,” Tim spits. “I had her thighs clamped around my hand so hard I thought she was going to tear it off.”

  “Who are we talking about?” I yawn, shuffling toward the coffee pot. Fuck. They didn't even leave me a drop. Again. I rinse the vessel, frowning.

  “New girl,” Tim grunts, chewing a piece of bacon like a German Shepherd. “Next door.”

  My eyebrows go up. “New girl? Excuse me?”

  Tom pops a piece of of bacon into his mouth just as I'm reaching for it. I have to clench my jaw to keep from swearing at them, because it would not be a good start to my morning.

  They look at each other, pausing for just a second in that weird twin way they have, probably trying to figure out which one of them is going to tell me what's going on.

  “In the Geller's place. That family we rented to just moved in yesterday. I can't believe you didn't see the trucks or anything.”

  I shake my head in disbelief. “The fuck are you talking about?”

  “New faaaamily,” Tom enunciates slowly, like I'm hard of hearing or something. “Next door. Geller house. Dude. You should drink some coffee or something.”

  I just take a deep breath and turn around, snatching a filter and the bag of coffee grounds off the shelf. In a few moments the aroma of coffee reaches my nose, promising me that I'll have some very soon, if I can only keep from murdering one of these guys before then.

  “I think she's one of those girls that wears dresses all the time, too,” Tim mumbles over a mouthful of toast. “I love that shit. Dresses, little shoes, little hair ties.”

  Finally, a cup of coffee. I stir sugar into it deliberately, then a splash of heavy cream. I take several deep swallows before turning back around.

  They glance at each other, then back to me, each smirking knowingly like dogs that caught a rabbit or something.

  “What's going on here?”

  They both shrug.

  “Did you just say something about a girl?” I continue, squinting.

  “Naw, just let it go,” Tim says.

  “Fuck yeah, there was a girl. She likes me best!” Tom adds.

  Tim punches Tom hard in the bicep then turns back to me. He meets my eye for just a second then stares at the granite countertop. I suppose my disapproval is probably pretty obvious.

  “It's probably nothing,” he mumbles self-consciously. “Pretty girl, though. Real friendly.”

  “Exactly what do you mean by real friendly,” I asked pointedly. “What did you do? Tell me, exactly, what did you do?”

  They look at each other for five seconds, then ten, until I can't take it anymore. I pound my fist on the counter, making both of their plates jump in place. Tim leans back, raising his hands defensively.

  “Don't hulk out,” he scowls. “We didn't do anything to her. Not really.”

  “Sure sounds like you did something,” I shoot back.<
br />
  “Well, not really. Just a little… you know. Apple wine.”

  My eyebrows go up. “Apple wine? Did you tell her how strong it is? How old is this girl?”

  Tim shrugs. “I don't know. She said something about college, so…”

  “So you could've gotten an underage girl drunk? And then, what? Did you fuck her?”

  “No way!” Tom objects. “We wouldn't do that, no. We know the rules.”

  I look over at Tim for confirmation. “And you? Do you know the rules?”

  He rolls his eyes dramatically. “Course I do. We didn't fuck her. We wouldn't actually, you know, fuck her…”

  And then they glance at each other again, smirking. When they look back at me, they're both little startled, a little sheepish. I’m probably bright red or something. This is not cool.

  “She's fucking gorgeous man,” Tom bawls. “She was just right there… just rubbing her thick, healthy thigh on my leg… just kind of… you know. She didn't mind. Really.”

  I drop my head into my hands, trying to massage my forehead with my fingertips. The last thing I need now is these two chuckleheads acting like a couple of frat boys and getting the sheriff out here or something.

  For the most part I’ve got them under control, but they’re still just young men, barely twenty-five, kids at heart. Good hearts, I'm sure. But being raised out here on the orchard has left us all a little secluded.

  In high school, they had an impressive social life. Twin star quarterbacks. National Honor Society too, though you wouldn’t know it, by how often they act like idiots. But they were the whole package. In fact, everybody kind of thought that they were good to go to somewhere glamorous like New York, maybe Boston University. Then our parents passed away and the only way to keep the family business going was for everybody to pitch in.

  Tim and Tom never complained, not even once. It was like the future was a red carpet rolled out in front of them, and they just rolled it back up and stuffed it away somewhere, never to be spoken of again.

  But now, we've got a chance. Business is good. Our wine is really popular, not to mention our cider, and our apples at the farmstand in a month or so. We've all worked our asses off and if things keep going like this, we’ll all be set for life.

  Just as long as they don't, for instance, get some underage woman drunk and gangbang her in front of her parents. Yeah. That would be bad.

  “You guys better get to work,” I snap, downing the last my coffee and leaving the mug in the bottom of the sink.

  “Where are you running off to? Thought you had to work today too?”

  “You bet I do,” I growl, letting the screen door slam behind me. “First I gotta go clean up whatever kind of fucking mess you guys made.”

  I set off across the side yard, checking the fruit out of habit as I make my way toward the old Geller house. We've had good rain this summer, deep and thorough, and the apples look like I don't think I've ever seen them. It's going to be a really good year, at least as far as the fruit is concerned.

  Even though we are technically neighbors, the three houses in this little cul-de-sac are arranged like the spokes on a wheel. It's actually at least eight hundred yards between our houses from this angle. I have to circle around the pole barn and through the vegetable patch to get to the path we use to come up to the Geller's back porch.

  We call it the Geller house, but it's actually still part of our estate. When my great great great grandfather came out here, a German immigrant who only knew about apricot farming, he found the land in unsuitable shape for stone fruit or grapes. But apples grow here, so he set to learning that. With a small family fortune from the old country, he bought up all this land, as far as the eye can see.

  He had six sons and two daughters, and built four more houses. One small cabin was eventually lost to fire. Another is deep within the orchard, and basically unused but still in decent shape. The last two, which housed the two daughters’ families until about thirty years ago, are now our “neighbors.” After the daughters and their kids died off and moved away about thirty years ago, we started renting them out to people we weren’t related to. We paved the road and and made ourselves a tiny little subdivision out here in the middle of nowhere.

  Even though strangers have been living here a long time, I still think of these as family property. I remember riding my bicycle through these dirt paths when I was just five or six. I graduated to a dirt bike when I was seven and used to just tear up the underbrush, zipping back and forth. When my last grand-aunt finally passed away, my parents informed me they were renting the house to strangers. I couldn't believe it. The Gellers moved in a short time later.

  Family is everything to me. I'm not sure I ever got over that. It felt like betrayal.

  As I step onto the back porch, I feel that familiar twinge, that reminder this is not my house anymore. There are strangers in here and I should be on my guard.

  I force myself to knock on the side of the screen door, the door that really belongs to me.

  The interior is dark and I realize I probably should have gone around to the front of the house and rung the doorbell like a civilized person. But as soon as I think it, the thought offends me. I'm not ringing the doorbell. Not now, not ever.

  She appears out of the darkness like some kind of ghost. She just steps into the light cast by the sliding glass door, her hand shielding her eyes, her tiny rosebud mouth tense and puckered.

  The sunlight bathes her in a soft glow, and I feel like I'm seeing something supernatural. There's a halo around her. It seems to come from her creamy white skin. Raising her arm has exposed about two inches flesh around her middle, and it's milky and smooth, velvety soft looking. Makes my jaw ache. Makes my mouth water.

  After squinting at me suspiciously for a few seconds she steps forward, sliding the door open.

  “Yes?” she asks in a hoarse whisper.

  “I'm Stan? From next door?” I stammer, suddenly unsure what to say. She raises her hand slightly and I see when the sunlight falls there that her eyes are ice blue and watery in the bright light.

  “Oh my God, are there more of you?” she sighs plaintively. She lets her hand drop to her thigh where it makes an impressive slap, then turns around and shuffles back toward the refrigerator.

  She left the door open so I tentatively step inside. I figured that must have been an invitation, right? I stand in the small breakfast area as she pulls open the refrigerator door, staring inside it and groaning softly.

  “You okay?” I call out.

  “Wine,” she groans.

  Oh, that makes sense. I walk into the kitchen and take her by the shoulders, squeezing gently. She allows me to redirect her toward the short stool next to the countertop so she can sit. Something about her skin sizzles against my palms, and the way she lets me move her thrills me deeply. I push that thought aside.

  “Our apple wine takes a lot of people by surprise,” I nod. “Why don’t you just sit there and let me make you something?”

  She doesn't answer, just lets her forehead fall into her open palm. I pull some eggs and bacon out of the fridge, then a pitcher of orange juice. I fix her a glass before turning to the stove.

  “Drink that, but not too fast. Small sips, okay?”

  I hear her groaning softly as I move around the kitchen, easily finding everything I need because I'm familiar with the layout. I haven't been here in years, but I remember where everything is supposed to be, and that's pretty much where everything is.

  It doesn't take too long to get a couple of eggs scrambled and two fat slabs of bacon crispy and on a plate. As I set it in front of her, she blinks up at me with wide, trusting eyes and smiles weakly.

  “You just go ahead and eat that,” I tell her. “It's good for you.”

  She tucks in, eating daintily and not saying a word. Small bits of egg disappear between those plump lips, and I watch her chewing carefully, swallowing every bite. As she's focused on her food, I can stare at her without her r
eally realizing it. I note the supple length of her fingers, the graceful curve of her wrists and forearms. She leans heavily on one elbow, letting the V-neck of her T-shirt skew to one side, revealing the creamy, velvety skin below her collarbones. I see her pulse throbbing at the base of her neck, and note the pink gumdrop shape of her earlobes.

  Dammit, why am I even thinking like this?

  Turning away, I get the pans scrubbed and dried in a hurry. Then I whisk her plate and fork to the sink and set a pot of coffee to percolate.

  “Thank you for taking care of me,” she says in a small voice that's definitely stronger than earlier.

  “So I guess breakfast is the least I can do, seeing how my brothers…”

  Her eyes flicker up toward me, startled and guilty at the same time, then quickly turning defiant. That's interesting. That little bit of sass indicates she's not quite the shrinking violet I had assumed.

  I stick out my hand. “So it’s nice to meet you,” I tell her. “I’m Stanley. Stan.”

  “I’m Vanessa,” she says shyly. “So. Three brothers? All of you live next door?”

  I search her eyes, looking for a hidden meaning behind the question. But she seems to really be asking me for a body count.

  “Five, actually. Family business. The orchard is a family business.”

  She draws her lower lip between her teeth, biting gently as she inhales. “Wow...There's coffee too?” she asks hopefully.

  I splash a generous amount in the mug for her and one for myself. Then I finish them off with sugar and heavy cream from the fridge.

  “Oh, you know just how I like it,” she breathes, smiling into the mug.

  “Just a lucky guess,” I remark.

  I like watching her swallow. I like watching her cheeks go pink from the steam.

  “You should come over,” I tell her abruptly. “When you’re feeling better. Tonight. Meet all the guys.”