Ophelia
I open my eyes to the familiar warmth pressed against my back, his steady breathing falling into rhythm with mine.
A faint smile tugs at my lips as my gaze drifts toward the window.
It’s Thanksgiving morning, though it scarcely feels like it here, hidden away in this pocket of winter tranquillity.
The calendar may insist it’s still the last few days of autumn, yet the air, the snow, and that faint scent of pine and spice all say otherwise.
December feels close enough to touch—close enough that you can almost hear Christmas humming quietly in the distance.
And I allow myself to breathe it in.
Arlo stirs, his hardened length pressing against the small of my back.
His hand finds the nape of my neck, the touch that’s become his mark on me, before tracing a possessive path down to my chest, his palm cupping my breast, his thumb toying with my pebbled nipple.
His touch moves lower, rubbing his thumb over my swollen clit, and a soft moan escapes me before I can stop it.
“Arlo,” I breath.
He then drags two fingers through my wetness, coating them, and the next moment he brings them to my mouth. He shoves them past my lips, forcing me to open for him, to taste my own arousal on his fingers.
All the while, his tongue traces a slow path along the column of my throat.
Wearing only my panties, as I’d tried putting on pyjamas last night, but Arlo made sure they didn’t stay on for long, insisting I should get it through my head that when I sleep in his bed, there’s no need for anything between us.
I barely have time to react before he tears the fabric away with a single, rough motion. And slowly pushes his cock inside of me.
He draws back just as slowly before driving forward with more strength.
The maddening pace continues until I am on the verge of shattering. Succumbing to the sheer, overwhelming sensation of him filling me.
His thrust became more vicious, his arm wraps around me tightly, my back is pressed firmly against his chest.
I gasp, my body clenching around him tightly. A moan escapes me. “Oh, God, Arlo.”
“That’s it, ma lune,” he breathes in my ear. “Come for me.”
I did, before he even finished his sentence. With one hand squeezing my breast and teasing my nipple, and the other circling my clit with just the perfect amount of pressure, I didn’t stand a chance.
A powerful orgasm ripped through me, leaving me shaking.
And Arlo followed, he came with a groan, spilling inside me.
We stay like that for a few more minutes, our limbs tangled together, before he slowly pulls away.
He stands from the bed and disappears into the bathroom. I am left with what I am sure is a most unbecoming, love struck expression, which I inwardly despise, yet I cannot suppress my smile.
He returns a moment later with a cloth in hand. His touch is gentle as he cleans me, the silence between us oddly comforting, there’s no need for words.
A glance at the clock on the bedside table confirms that if we’re to be downstairs by nine, we’ll have to leave the warmth of this bed.
I slip into the bathroom for a quick shower, but Arlo follows. I shake my head, unable to hide the small smile tugging at my lips.
“Don’t,” I murmur, but the wicked curve of his lips tells me my protest is futile.
He steps into the shower, his body glistening, and captures my mouth in a searing kiss that draws a whimper from me. “You are insatiable.”
“As are you, my love,” he whispers against my skin.
After another dizzying orgasm against the marble tiles, we finally exit.
I step into the closet and pull on a cream thermal turtleneck and matching leggings, the fabric soft and close against my skin.
Over them, I slip into my Fendi ski suit and fasten the belt neatly at my waist.
I twist my hair into a low ponytail, then pull on my snow boots and gloves.
When we step downstairs, everyone’s already gathered. We always seem to be the last to make it down.
Voices overlap, some laughing, some arguing, the usual chaos of too many big personalities in one chalet.
“Good morning,” I say, stepping into the kitchen.
Arlo’s presence is right behind me.
Adelaide stands in front of the open fridge, hair falling loose from a braid, pulling things out at random, milk, eggs, berries, butter, none of which she seems remotely sure what to do with.
“I was hoping we could just leave now and get breakfast through a drive through or something,” I say.
Octavia’s perched on the counter, phone in hand. She looks up at me, then points toward Adelaide. “Yes, please, I second that. Don’t let that woman near an open flame, she’ll burn the house down and take us all with her.”
Adelaide narrows her eyes. “I heard that.”
“Good. It was meant for you to hear,” Octavia says, not even glancing up again.
A spatula sails across the kitchen, narrowly missing my sister’s head. She ducks, laughing as it clatters to the floor. “You really ought to work on your aim, Addie,” she says.
Milo straightens, his expression hardening. “Don’t you dare throw things at my woman,” he warns, voice unnervingly calm. “Or else…”
Isaak, who has been leaning against the counter with a mug in hand, turns his head slowly. “Finish that sentence, Markev,” he says, “and I’ll put a bullet through you.”
They hold each other’s gaze, the tension between them stretched tight, neither one willing to yield.
Octavia exhales sharply. “Right, that’s enough testosterone for one morning. Let’s get out of here. We’ll grab breakfast on the way.”
She narrows her eyes at Milo. “And for the record, I don’t need you to defend me.”
He gives a faint smirk. “Too bad. I’m doing it anyway.”
My sister is up and gone a moment later, muttering under her breath as everyone disperses to fetch their ski jackets.
Already dressed, I step outside and make my way toward the garage, the cold nipping pleasantly at my cheeks.
Snow drifts in slow, lazy spirals, blanketing the world in white as the others begin to spill out behind me.
By the time everyone gathers in the garage, Isaak and Adelaide are already at it beside one of the cars.
“I’ll drive,” Isaak says, plucking a set of keys from the hook. “You’ll ride with me. Arlo can take the other.”
Adelaide snatches the keys straight out of his hand. “You drive as if the laws of physics don’t apply to you.”
He folds his arms, his expression cutting. “Statistically, my reaction time is faster.”
“Statistically,” she echoes, mockingly, “you also have a god complex.”
“Objectively correct,” he replies without hesitation.
“Objectively intolerable,” she shoots back.
Hunter, looking unimpressed, walks past them and plucks the keys from Adelaide’s fingers. “Enough. I’m driving.”
Adelaide opens her mouth to argue, but Hunter’s already looking at Piper. “Get in.”
She blinks, caught off guard. “What?”
“I said. Get. In.” His tone leaves no room for debate.
Piper hesitates, then moves toward the passenger door. Hunter opens it for her, waits until she’s inside, then leans in to pull the seatbelt across her and clicks it into place himself before closing the door.
He turns back toward Isaak, his expression flat. “Happy now?”
Isaak mutters something in Russian under his breath that sounds anything but happy.
Adelaide smirks triumphantly, brushing past him to claim the back seat. Isaak follows her.
Hunter exhales, visibly regretting his life choices, and starts the engine.
Arlo turns to me. “Get in.”
He opens the passenger door, waits until I’m seated, then closes it before circling around to the driver’s side.
Behind us, Octavia and Milo climb into the back, already arguing over who gets to connect to the Bluetooth and choose the music.
As we pull out of the garage, the sky is pale, the morning quiet except for the crunch of tires against snow.
Another day.
Another truce.
Another fragile illusion of peace among the chaos.
And I can’t help but wonder how long it will last.