Chapter 5 Story 4: Blame the Storm not My Stepbrother

The wind howled outside like a wild animal, clawing at the windows of the mountain cabin, shaking the frames until they groaned. Snow came down in thick, suffocating sheets, blanketing the world in white and swallowing everything whole.

They'd said the storm would be bad.

They hadn't said it would feel like the end of the world.

I stood at the window, arms crossed over my chest, fingers digging into the sleeves of my sweater. The glass was cold against my forehead, and the trees beyond it were barely more than shadows. The cabin creaked under the weight of the wind. It felt like we were sealed inside a snow globe, one someone kept shaking violently.

Trapped.

"You're gonna get frostbite just standing there."

My heart jumped at the sound of his voice. Deep. Teasing. Far too close.

I turned, pulse flickering, to find Luca leaning against the living room doorway. Shirtless, of course. Always shirtless. A towel hung low on his hips, water still clinging to his chest, dripping down in lazy rivulets over skin that looked sculpted-like a sin wrapped in sunlight and smugness.

He smirked like he knew exactly the kind of thoughts that were about to ruin me.

"I wasn't staring," I said, voice too quick, too tight.

Luca chuckled, slow and amused. "Sure you weren't."

It had always been like this-tense banter, electric silences, looks that lingered just a little too long. Ever since our parents got married two years ago, I'd been forced to navigate holidays and family trips with him beside me. A constant reminder of something forbidden. Off-limits.

Wrong.

But now? Now we were snowed in. Alone. Just him and me, the fire, and a single bedroom.

What could possibly go wrong?

I turned back to the window, trying to ignore the fact that he was still standing there half-naked, a drop of water trailing from his collarbone down to the waistband of his towel. I clenched my fists. Tried not to wonder how it would feel to follow that path with my tongue.

"Cold?" he asked behind me, voice closer now.

I didn't answer.

"You know," he murmured, "I could help with that."

I felt him before I saw him-his heat at my back, his scent wrapping around me. Fresh soap, winter air, something darker and masculine that made my stomach clench.

"I'm fine."

"You're lying."

He brushed my hair over my shoulder, fingertips ghosting across the back of my neck. My breath caught.

"Luca," I warned, but it came out weaker than I wanted.

His lips touched the shell of my ear. "Say the word, and I'll stop."

My whole body was trembling-part cold, part something else. My hands were shaking, not from the storm, but from the war happening inside me. Every nerve screamed that this was dangerous, stupid, reckless.

But my heart pounded with a thrill I couldn't ignore.

I turned.

Big mistake.

His face was so close, his eyes a storm of their own. My gaze dropped to his lips-full, soft, bitten from where he'd probably been chewing them earlier.

I hated how badly I wanted to taste him.

"This is a bad idea," I whispered.

"Probably," he said, voice rough. "Still want me to stop?"

God, I should've said yes. I should've backed away.

Instead, I closed the gap.

The kiss was heat and desperation, a tangle of lips and tongues, teeth grazing as he grabbed my hips and pulled me flush against him. The towel between us was thin, and I could feel all of him-hard, hot, ready.

I gasped into his mouth, and he groaned like it wrecked him.

Luca walked me backward until my knees hit the couch. His hands were everywhere-gripping my waist, sliding under my sweater, tugging it up. My arms lifted before I could think, and suddenly it was gone. I stood there in just a bralette, chest heaving, nipples pebbled from the cold-and from him.

"Fuck," he whispered, staring at me like I was art. "You're so fucking beautiful."

The words hit deeper than they should have. No one had looked at me like that in a long time-like they wanted to worship me.

His mouth was on me again before I could breathe. Down my throat, over my collarbone, kissing the curve of my breast through the lace. His hand slid up my thigh, beneath the hem of my leggings, stroking fire along my skin.

"Take these off," he said, voice thick.

I swallowed hard, then hooked my thumbs in the waistband and pushed them down. He helped, tugging them over my hips, groaning when he saw that I wasn't wearing underwear.

"You're killing me," he muttered.

He lifted me, setting me down on the couch, spreading my thighs with his hands. His eyes drank me in like he'd starved for this moment.

"I want to taste you," he whispered.

And then he did.

His mouth found my clit, and I cried out, hips jerking. He licked, kissed, sucked like he needed it-like he lived for the way I moaned, the way I begged. My hands tangled in his hair, gripping tight as he pushed me higher, deeper, until I was falling apart with his name on my lips.

When I came, it was with a sob, back arching, thighs trembling.

He kissed his way back up my body, and I pulled him into me, greedy for more, lost in sensation.

"I need you," I said, breathless. "Now."

He didn't wait.

The towel hit the floor.

And when he pushed into me-slow, careful, stretching me with every inch-I gasped, clutching at his shoulders.

The pain was brief.

Then it was only pleasure.

He moved inside me, slow at first, rocking into me with steady, deep thrusts that made my breath hitch. My nails dug into his back. His mouth was everywhere-my jaw, my breasts, my mouth-driving me wild.

"You feel..." he groaned, voice raw. "So fucking tight."

I moaned, wrapping my legs around him, pulling him deeper. The couch creaked beneath us, the storm raging outside as we made our own kind of heat.

Faster now. Harder. The rhythm building. I could feel myself unraveling, every nerve alight, every thought lost in him.

"I'm close," I gasped.

"Me too," he panted. "Come with me."

And when we did-together-it was like falling through fire.

Everything burned.

Everything broke.

Everything changed.

We lay tangled in the aftermath, sweat cooling on our skin, breaths slowly calming.

Outside, the storm still howled.

Inside, I didn't feel trapped anymore.

I felt... free.

He brushed a strand of hair from my face, his fingers gentle. "So... what now?"

I looked at him-my stepbrother, the boy I'd grown up hating, craving, trying so hard to ignore-and knew nothing would ever be the same.

But maybe that was okay.

I smiled, soft and a little breathless. "Now we survive the storm."

And maybe, just maybe, this little crush would finally be over.