24. Elle
Elle
The next morning
The cabin is so quiet that I can hear the wind pushing at the windows, the creak of the floorboards, and the faint flicker of the fire winding down.
Outside, the world is trees and nothing else.
Only endless nature. Inside this cabin that’s become home, it’s warm and safe. Full of tension too, but the nice sort.
Sterling’s seated in his usual spot, right beside my bed, with his chin tipped slightly down. When he’s like this, he watches me with half-lidded eyes, ready to close at any moment. But he’s not willing to. I don’t think he sleeps much. Maybe he dozes. Maybe he just…waits.
Stan, of course, is the complete opposite.
Through the open bedroom door, I can see Stan sprawled across the couch.
He’s draped over the couch with one leg kicked up over the armrest, shirtless, as though modesty doesn’t exist in his dictionary.
His withdrawal symptoms must be crawling under his skin, but he’s hiding it well with bravado.
I know that pain. I see it in the twitch of his fingers when he thinks no one’s looking.
“Sleep well, Elle?” Stan asks when I finally sit up, stretching against the thin blanket.
His voice is rough, rousing from sleep, and teasing, which is typical for Stan. I glance toward Sterling, whose eyes move to mine, then back to the floor. I know that look. He was watching again, quietly reading the air between me and his brother.
“I slept okay,” I answer, glancing at Sterling again. “Though, it’s interesting to sleep with someone staring.”
“That your way of calling me out?” Stan asks, grinning wickedly. “Or him?”
I shake my head and grab the glass of water on the nightstand. It’s full—definitely Sterling’s doing—and I try not to smile. “Guess you’ll have to figure that out.”
Sterling stands to stretch in that effortless, efficient way he does. His arm brushes mine as he passes the bed, enough to remind me how close he is.
Stan lets out a low whistle when I stand too. Then I spot Sterling’s flannel by my feet, already waiting for me. I slide it on, following Sterling, while Stan speaks. “Damn, look at you two. All those lingering glances and casual grazes. It’s like the world’s slowest porno.”
“Could you not,” Sterling says without looking at him, already at the stove, refilling the kettle for tea.
Stan grins. “What? You jealous I can say what she’s thinking out loud?”
Sterling says nothing, but his grip on the kettle tightens.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
It’s not funny. It really isn’t. But it’s also exactly what I need.
This strange, messy tension—the three of us stuck in the woods with nothing to do but recover, talk, and argue about silly, harmless things.
Stan’s humor might be crass but it works.
He lightens the mood. He says the things I can’t quite find words for.
He makes me feel normal, and Sterling makes me feel alive.
“Hey, Elle,” Stan calls again. I step toward him and pull at Sterling’s flannel to completely cover my body, at least down to my upper thighs. “When you’re up for it, I wanna show you my new ink again.”
I stand in front of Stan while he sits casually on the couch, spreading his legs and welcoming me with open arms.
He covers the left side of his chest with his flat palm. “You remember what’s here?”
Of course I do. The cursive E over his heart. The one that still felt too fresh.
Sterling turns with a deadpan look. “Don’t start stripping again.”
“No promises,” Stan says, dragging a hand down his abs, revealing the tattoo. “Elle likes the view. Right, babe?”
“She’s not answering you,” Sterling mutters, pouring water into a pair of mugs.
“She’s blushing. That’s good enough,” Stan shoots back.
I’m not blushing, I think. But I do sink down into the couch beside him and take one of the mugs from Sterling when he offers it. His fingers linger on mine, merely a second longer than necessary. When I glance up at him, we don’t exchange words. Only heat.
Stan stretches his legs across the space until his knee bumps against mine. He winks at me. “You know,” he says, voice dropping, “this little cabin isn’t so bad. Two brothers with their beautiful girl. Honestly, I’m starting to think I’m living in a dream again.”
Sterling scoffs quietly. He sits on the other side of me, shoulder to shoulder, calm and steady. I sip my tea and smile, feeling warm, happy, and safe. Truly safe this time. The memories clawing their way to the surface can wait.
***
After breakfast, I’m not sure who it was that suggested lounging by the fire—me or the desire between my legs.
Either way, it happens. The dishes are stacked, the kettle’s refilled, and Stan’s leaning back on the rug, chewing a toothpick with his shirt still missing, still basking in the aftermath of his last joke about “the best spit-roast he’s ever had,” but he made sure I knew he wasn’t talking about the roasted boar.
Sterling didn’t laugh. I did, after it took me a moment to understand.
Now Sterling sits in the armchair near the fire, head tilted, either assessing the room or calculating the probability of throttling his youngest brother in the passing second.
But Sterling’s eyes rarely leave me. I feel his gaze searing into my skin, deep into my bones, like my body knows and wants to relive last night’s memories of how he and I fit. So perfectly.
I shuffle around on the couch, folding my legs. Sterling’s flannel is still draped over my body, and I’m aware of how I have nothing underneath.
“Elle…” Stan drawls from the floor, stretching his arms over his head. “I should’ve gotten your entire name tatted on me. Or something poetic, like owned by.”
Sterling’s fingers tap against the armrest. A few times in quick succession. He works his jaw, but he doesn’t say a word. Still, his silence says everything.
I hum, pretending to consider it. “Wouldn’t that make you property?”
“Oh, baby.” Stan’s grin is vicious. “That’s the goal.”
My cheeks flush, from Stan’s words and Sterling’s gaze that drags down my body. I want to feel his hands replace the flannel.
I sigh, soft and shaky. “You’re both so…”
Stan rolls to lie on his side, propping his head up on his fist. “So…what, Elle? So good at making you feel good? Making you want more?”
Sterling finally moves. He leans forward in his seat, forearms resting on his thighs. His eyes are shadowed by firelight. “You’ve said enough, Stan.”
“Oh, have I?” Stan smirks, unbothered. “But I’m about to mention the best part. How Elle looked last night. Blindfolded, moaning, mouth on my—”
“Stan.” Sterling’s voice cuts, deep and sharp.
I rise from the couch and cross the room, toward Sterling.
The rug’s warm beneath my bare feet as I lower myself to the floor between them.
Sterling’s eyes burn into mine. Stan’s breath catches.
I lift my hand and rest it on Sterling’s knee first. Then I glance over my shoulder at Stan and place my hand on him too.
In the silence that follows, everything between us builds with anticipation.
“You’re both so rowdy when you rile each other up like this,” I whisper, smiling a little. “But I like it best when you’re both speechless.” I swallow around my next words, mustering my bravery. “Because of me.”
Stan’s sharp intake of breath is all the encouragement I need. I smile wider, warm in the cheeks. Sterling’s hand curls into a loose fist over my hand. He stares at me, like he’s weighing his options, to drag me into his lap again or drag Stan out the front door.
Stan breaks first. His hand brushes mine.
His thumb strokes over the back of my fingers with a familiarity that makes my stomach flutter.
“You’ve got no idea what you do to us, do you?
” His voice drops low, that smoky rasp threading under my skin.
“Sitting there between us like you’re not the goddamn flame. ”
I don’t answer. I can’t, when my breath catches again as his hand trails up my arm, slipping under the collar of Sterling’s flannel on me. Sterling watches, his eyes dashing down to where Stan’s knuckles graze my skin.
Then Sterling moves. He leans forward even more, his hand sliding up my thigh, palm warm, firm and possessive. His other hand tilts my chin toward him, fingers framing the side of my face. “Eyes on me, Elle,” Sterling says, his voice gravelly.
I obey. I always do with him. And when he kisses me, it’s not rushed, never rushed, but claiming all the same.
His lips take their time, mapping mine like he didn’t already do so last night.
His tongue slides in, and I melt into him without thinking.
It’s so nice not to think, to put all of my trust in Sterling.
Behind me, Stan comes closer. His breath warms the nape of my neck. I feel the way his chest fits against my spine.
Sterling breaks the kiss to let me breathe. His hand stays on my thigh. Stan wraps an arm around my waist.
“Fuck, Elle, you still smell like us,” Stan says, lips brushing my ear.
Sterling glares at Stan over my shoulder. “Crass,” he hisses at his brother.
“But she does. Tell me I’m wrong,” Stan counters, the grin clear in his voice.
Sterling doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t stop him either.
Stan’s fingers dip lower, toying with the buttons of the shirt I’m barely wearing. He works them loose with ease. Then he slips the flannel off my shoulders and holds me against him, my back against his chest like before.
Sterling stares, jaw tight and pupils dilated. His fingers slide higher along my thigh, inching inward. I tremble from his tantalizing touch.
“You okay?” Sterling asks, voice hushed.
“Yes,” I breathe. “Please don’t stop.”
“Wasn’t planning on it,” Stan answers against my neck, his teeth grazing enough to make me arch.