Page 26 of Van Cort

WEST

They’re cooking dinner now, as if they’re some couple on the road to happiness.

I say they are, and Rhett isn’t doing a damn thing other than watching her ass move around the kitchen and drinking wine.

Which is exactly what I was doing as she ran through the forest. I chuckle and keep watching, remembering her panicked face and that ass pumping her legs forward.

I could’ve tripped her up, smothered her, fucked her. Didn’t, though. I’m nice like that.

My gaze drifts up to my brother again. At least he’s drinking again now. He’ll fuck up that way - make a mistake. Or purposely screw the whole situation just to make sure she feels his screwed-up idea of care.

Wait – I move to the side window, keeping to the darkest sections of the shadows out here – she’s got him up to do something. Cutting vegetables? And he’s smiling? Jesus Christ, this is like a family retreat, where one’s wearing an apron and the other’s in a smoking jacket.

I spin away to stare into the dark rather than feel as nauseated as I do. He’s fucking serious, isn’t he? This woman really does mean something to him. Or that damn marriage contract does, because he sure as hell wouldn’t be cutting vegetables otherwise.

Despite my original purpose back in Seattle, I’m now unsure what to do about any of the situation in front of me.

I frown and stare out into the darkness, part remembering footsteps and laughter, the water, the island.

Of all the places he could have brought her, this was the worst for me.

It shouldn’t be. I should be able to manage it - be more Rhett about the whole damn place and ignore the pain. But it hurts. It all fucking hurts.

Well, maybe making him share her will fucking hurt, too.

Looking back again, I watch as she reaches for the remote to the stereo.

She turns it up loud enough that I can see Rhett flinch.

He hates loud. Always has. And now she’s sashaying her way over to him, for what?

Dancing? He reciprocates – hand on her waist, grip tightening, lips meeting lips.

She’s loving it. Him? Not so much. Need always overruled heart for my brother.

Fascination, protectiveness, fits of covetous rage?

Yes, they’re all there, but enjoyment of touch?

Of passion? I’m not sure he’s experienced it, or even wants it.

That must be what this bullshit is now – an attempt to show something he doesn’t understand, even if he is good at acting.

Unless he’s changed. Could have, it has been twenty years after all. Unlikely, though.

He should just get on with fucking her. So I can watch.

He’ll know I’m here if she told him what she thought she saw in the woods.

I could have scared her more; a little game of chase never hurt anyone.

She was panicked enough to race back. She might not have been able to see me properly, but I saw the fear in her eyes.

Maybe I scared her just enough so she did run to him.

Desperation for help? That would suit him.

Even test his stranglehold of the mask he’s got on.

I walked for a while after I played with her.

I wandered the land I should own and trailed the footsteps we walked long ago.

All the while picturing her breath in the air from her hassled sprint towards the boathouse, and that’s where I ended up.

Just thinking and staring at the island in the distance.

Leaving my hidden position, I cut around the side of the house and use the old cellar doors to access the main house.

Two secret doors and a passageway later, I enter the music room.

Dust plumes from the door as I close it quietly behind me.

It’s a sad fucking room to look at considering its past use.

The old, dark wood panelling looks lacklustre and dirty, and sheets lie dormant over the piano and array of musical instruments.

I pull one gently off the guitars and smile.

We spent hours here as kids. We played and we learned.

He was the technician, classical and precise.

I broke all the rules and made a lot of fucking noise just to piss on his sense of serenity.

And yet we wound each other to the same place eventually, with one of us conceding, or finally matching the other, whether we liked it or not.

It’s annoying how that happens with twins.

We fought, and argued occasionally, but somehow we always ended up back at the most natural state we could be.

Compatibility, I guess. We’d be a good couple if incest was of any interest to us. Or dick was.

I wonder if he’s fucking her yet?

Picking up the guitar, I strum a few chords and pick at the notes.

Old songs come quickly, lightly, so I ramp up the strength of the sound to make sure either he or she hears it.

The music out there switches off abruptly.

Two more chords, just to make sure they hear something, and I stop and put the guitar back on its stand.

I walk backwards as the sound of footsteps grows closer, heading for this room, and I slip behind the secret door again.

As the main door into the room creaks, I pull my own door closed, and my brothers’ feet sound heavy. “See? Nothing,” he says.

I smile. He knows damn well I’m not nothing.

“I’m sure I heard something,” she says. “Music. Look. Why is that guitar uncovered?” Silence for a second or two.

“It’s mine. I must have left it uncovered last time I was here.” Liar.

“You play?” she asks, surprised.

“Yes.”

“Piano and guitar?”

“Rich kids get to do all kinds of crap that doesn’t mean much to them.” I frown at his dismissal, almost hurt by it. This room meant a damn sight more than nothing. It was our sanctuary from that asshole we called a father.

His footsteps move again.

“Play something for me,” she says.

“No.”

“Please.”

Silence.

Lighter heels move in the room. “Everett, we’re here to find out more about each other, aren’t we? What did you call it? Compatibility? Show me something I’ve not seen yet. Play. For me. Please.” Oh, that’s good. Throwing it back at him. Maybe she’s more intelligent than I thought.

“Fine. I will if you will.”

“What?”

“Play. Take your clothes off.” I smirk and turn my head towards the door, pushing at it slightly. I can’t see anything yet, but I will when the moment’s right. He’ll make sure the view’s clear for me.

“Why?”

“Because I asked you to.” He steps across the room, and I hear the sound of the strings loosely played. “We might as well use the privacy to full effect. Make yourself come.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

“Here? What about dinner? And women really don’t do that sort of thing on command.”

A chord gets strummed, and then another, before it abruptly stops. “They do if they try. Are we playing or not, Andie?”

“You want me to strip?”

“Yes.”

Stillness permeates the air, and I doubt if she’ll play along, but then the sound of ruffled clothes dropping to the floor makes me smile, and before long he’s playing a sombre tune on the guitar, one I remember well from our youth.

Soft mewling comes after that, and I tip my head back against the wood and imagine her hand between her legs, her fingers delving deep, her mouth as she wets her lips and pants and moans.

My smile widens as the music stops, and I listen to his footsteps.

“On your knees. It’s my turn,” he says. I push on the door to ease it open a little further and watch him drag her chin towards him until she’s in a better position for me to see.

She reaches for his belt, apparently not needing instruction, and makes short work of getting him out and into her mouth.

Part fury, and part fascination, make me watch every move she makes around his dick.

She takes him all the way in, and all the way out.

Slow, deliberate strokes, like she enjoys teasing him.

My own dick rages, and before long, I’ve got it in my hand, mirroring her movements on him.

He stiffens after a while and pulls her up, pushing her to the still sheeted piano.

She’s bent over it, and he plants her face on the surface facing away from me.

Within seconds, he’s buried deep inside her and groaning his pleasure, fucking her from behind.

His other hand lifts, finger crooking at me.

The move makes me frown and take a silent step, unsure what he wants.

His whole palm goes up as I enter the room.

Stop. Watch.

So I lean back on the wall inside the room and watch, my own hand wrapped around my dick as he fucks her hard.

She jolts against the piano every time he flexes his hips, pounding against her ass.

His name, annoyingly, sounds out as breathy groans and moans every time he bites into her back.

It’s been so fucking long since we’ve done this, and yet every drive in from him feels like it’s me somehow.

I can feel her around me, feel her skin against mine, feel my own hand on her cheek to keep her head where I want it - where we want it.

Eventually, the mewls and the groans and moans, including my own, stop, and a heavy silence fills the room alongside the smell of cum.

I lick my lips and watch him run his own cum over her back and ass before he spanks it a few times.

She shrieks, but laughs afterwards, like he didn’t really mean it.

He did. And that earns her another, harder one to prove it.

“Everett?” she says, as she tries to lift off the piano.

He plants her head harder.

“Stay still. I’m not done with you yet.” His finger flicks at me.

Leave. I do, tucking myself back in my pants, and then I listen to the sound of his tongue inside her and her moaning in response.

It goes on, and on, until I finally hear her crying out another orgasm.

Lucky girl. She’d have been even luckier if he’d let me inside her.