2. Sawyer
2
SAWYER
E ntering the cabin through the back door, I shake the snow from my sheepskin coat and kick off my snow-covered boots, making sure to not ruin my mate Colin’s wooden flooring. This place has been my home for the last month, and while Colin said I can stay here while I get my life back on track, I have to remember this is still his place.
With a bag of groceries in hand, I head into the open-plan living space, but pause, holding my breath as I train my ear to the sound of running water coming from above.
The carved wooden deer on the wall stares back at me with its all-seeing glass eyes. I’m sure that thing is alive. Either that or Colin has a camera fitted into the head as I swear it watches me.
A huff of a laugh bursts from my mouth at the ridiculous thought. I wouldn’t put it past my mate Dom, who lives in the next cabin along the lake, or even Dan, his brother, but not Colin.
Pipes groan, and the boiler rattles as if the water is on. Floorboards creek with shuffling noises. The deer’s eyes seem to follow me as I prowl up the staircase, listening for any movement elsewhere, but the only noise is coming from the bathroom.
Different scenarios run through my head. Did I leave the shower on? Is there a burst pipe, a faulty tap? Has the boiler finally packed up? Does Colin have a ghost? A chuckle shakes my chest at yet another silly thought.
If his deceased wife is hiding in these walls, maybe she could keep me company this Christmas while I’m bunking here. I’ll take a ghost over spending another holiday with my ex.
Reaching the top step, steam floats through the gap in the bathroom door like mist on the lake or the Ghost of Christmas Past. Walking through the hot air, I push the bathroom door open. Then freeze at the sight.
Blood rushes to my head and my groin. The pulse in my neck throbs. My Christmas wish has been answered and Santa has come early, delivering a full-figured woman to keep me warm this winter.
Even with the misted shower screen, I take in her curves from the side profile: a round belly and even rounder arse.
She steps back from behind the screen out of the spray of the shower while she lathers her long brunette hair, the scent of a cinnamon wafts through the small space. She turns slightly, showing me the delicious creases in her back. I follow the dripping soap suds to the dimples above her ass and the deep valley that I want to explore with my tongue.
I rub my eyes, making sure they’re not deceiving me.
She lifts the shower hose from the holster and uses it to rinse her hair, tilting her head back as she turns. Now facing the other side, she’s no longer a brunette beauty, but a blonde bombshell.
Her breasts are full but perky, with youth on her side. Red nipples beg to be sucked like a glazed cherry atop a Bakewell tart.
My gaze follows the rivulets of water running south over her round belly that meets her thick thighs. My mouth waters at the plump V below her stomach. It’s barely visible, like a hidden cavern full of treasure between lush hills.
A scream breaks the spell I’m under.
I stumble backwards as I’m doused with a spray of hot water. I wipe my face, but it doesn’t stop, like heavy rain hitting me in the eyes.
The squealing stops along with the spray of water as she points the hose back inside the double shower.
I rub my eyes to get a better look at the woman before me.
“Uncle Sawyer?” Her voice is that of an angel. An angel I know all too well. Damn it. My best mate’s daughter, Angelica.
My stomach twists into knots, forcing acid to breach my throat. My best friend’s daughter, Angelica, is now a woman. A woman I was about to take to bed.
I gulp down the rising bile and the climbing shame that heats my face. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”
She covers herself with one arm across her breasts and the other below her stomach. With her head popping out from behind the misted glass screen, she quirks an eyebrow. “You’re still here.”
“Right.” I turn around and step out of the room, grabbing a towel from the hook on my way out. Closing the door behind me, I stare at the wood and silver handle, unable to think straight.
Mindlessly, I wander into the guest bedroom where I’ve been sleeping the last few days and dry my hair with the towel. I can still see the curve of her breasts in my mind and the way the water hung from her nipple like a pearl clinging to a shell, a natural treasure that was ripe for the taking.
I didn’t know it was her. Angelica always had a full head of blonde hair, like her mother. She must have dyed it this two-tone brunette and blonde colour. I swear I didn’t know who she was until she called my name. And not just any name, the name she’s called me since she was a little girl.
I may not actually be her uncle, but since I’ve known the lass, it’s the name she gave me and I went with it. Not having any kids of my own, she was like a little ray of sunshine who would jump into my lap, always lifting my spirits.
I glance down at the bulge in my jeans. Now she’s lifting more than my spirits. I swallow the rising bile again, willing my dick to go down too, as I shove my wet jeans off my legs.
My checked shirt sticks to my chest as I peel the wet fabric from my body. Fuck. I’m sick. Somehow knowing it’s Angelica in the shower, and not some random woman sent by the gods, turns me on even more. But no matter how much my dick wants her, she’s off-limits.
I throw my wet clothes into the laundry hamper in the corner of the room, then grab a pair of joggers from the wardrobe and pull them on.
“Uncle Sawyer?” That angelic voice again calls to me.
“Come in.” I turn to face the door as it creaks open.
In flannel pyjamas with a gingerbread print, she reminds me of the little girl she was, not the goddess in the shower with curves that would turn any man towards sin.
“What are you doing here?” She fiddles with her long wet hair as it hangs in front of her shoulders, her eyes roaming my chest as I rub it down with the towel.
I let her wandering eyes look their fill, enjoying how they linger on the ink hidden beneath a carpet of hair on my chest.
“What are you doing here? Your father told me you were spending Christmas in London.” I discard the towel into the hamper and open a drawer, searching for a t-shirt.
“I had a change of plans.”
I grab a black tee and pull it over my head. “Your dad said I could crash here for a while. Said it was empty.” I walk towards her in my doorway. “I can leave. Draven at the Black Crow will put me up for the holidays.”
“No, don’t leave.” Her voice is desperate, eyes wide like a rabbit caught in the headlights. “I mean, the weather isn’t good, and this place is big enough for both of us.”
I nod, swallowing the acid in my mouth. I should leave right now and get the hell away from her as fast as I can, but the desperation in her voice sounds like she wants the company at this time of year.
I’d come here to be alone. I’ve no family to speak of and since last month, no girlfriend after I caught her with another man. It was the wake-up call I needed to get out of a toxic relationship, even if it meant I was homeless. But if my angel doesn’t want to be alone this Christmas, then I’ll just have to be the good uncle she’s always seen in me and not the beast that wants to tear her apart and wreck her pretty plump pussy.
I can do that. I can be the man she needs while her father’s away. “You hungry?”
Her face brightens like I’ve just flicked a switch on the Christmas lights. “Starving.”
“Me too. I bought a ready-made lasagna. I’ll put it in the oven.” Squeezing past her in the doorway, she’s a lot taller than I remember. She’s grown in every way. Her breasts brush against my chest and I remind myself once again that she’s Colin’s little girl.