Let it Snow, Chapter III

Willow.

Fortunately, we're able to find a charming little inn where we can stay until the road is cleared, hopefully, in the morning.

Unfortunately-

"You're very lucky.” The plump, red woman tells us with a knowing look as she dangles the keys in her fingers. “This is the last room available." 

It's like she doesn't know she just dropped us a bomb. I'm ready to complain, but surprisingly enough, Nick does it before I can even open my mouth.

"One room,” he says. “Are you sure?”

Shirley nods, smiling widely, the white pom-pom tip of her bright red Santa hat bobbing up and down. The little reindeer on her sweater with a red pom-pom nose seems to be finding this entire thing very, very amusing.

"We're fully booked. And you haven’t made a reservation…."

And this town takes it very seriously, I hear.

I watch as Nick tightly wraps his hands around his wheels and lets a long, painful sigh out, barely containing himself. It's the kind of pained expression that he usually reserves for me. I don’t know why this bothers him so much.

I step in, "We'll take anything. He wouldn't mind the pantry."

"I would, in fact, mind the pantry." He blinks. 

I can tell that Shirley is under the impression that we’re a couple, so the look in her eyes is one that wonders what kind of holiday argument we had on the way here to be so eager to stay away from each other. 

"Fully booked." She shrugs apologetically, still smiling.

 It's pretty clear we'll have to share the room. Still, I don't see why he's way more pissed about it than I am—I definitely hate him more than he hates me, don’t I? Definitely.

Nick pinches the bridge of his nose. 

"Let me see the room." He asks, defeated. 

God, I can't be that dreadful. I'm pretty lovely. It’s only one night. I won’t do anything to him in his sleep. 

"Don't look so excited." I say to him as we go down the hallway. "I don't snore anymore."

He doesn't take the bait, staring straight ahead, his single duffle bag undisturbed on his lap as I struggle to drag my ridiculously (though entirely necessary) luggage with me. He doesn’t even offer to take my makeup bag, which would fit perfectly on top of his’.

I unlock the door to the room and stand there for a moment, taking it in—-I can only describe it as Christmas. Very Christmas. I’m about to make a funny comment, but Nick dashes straight to the bathroom, grabbing the doorframe to get inside. He takes an unnaturally long time there, so I walk over half expecting to see Santa himself taking a piss.

“What’s so interesting?”

He shakes his head. “It’ll do.”

It's just a perfectly normal bathroom. Shrugging, I walk back to the middle of the bedroom.

"We have more pressing issues, anyways." I cross my arms.

Nick wheels back and forth and then backs out of the bathroom with another sigh.

"What?"

"A single bed?”

Nick’s expression softens. Suddenly, he’s laughing. I hate being laughed at — it's not like I'm supposing he sleeps in that chair, too. He doesn't. But there's only one bed and the thought of sharing makes my skin crawl.

"Well, it's big enough for the both of us." He rolls his eyes, dismissing my concern.

"C'mon."

"You want me to sleep on the floor? Me?" He gestures at the wheelchair.

“You want special treatment?” I ask, pressing my lips together. "I'll let you keep most of the pillows."

Somehow, that makes him laugh even harder. He shakes his head.

"I'm sorry, sugar, but that ain't happening." Nick slides forward with a single smooth stroke of his wheels and places his bag on the bed. “We either share or you go back and ask for the keys to that pantry.”

☃

Honestly, it’s not that bad. My parents never really liked Isaac. They pretended they did, but they didn't really. They thought he looked ridiculous in his turtlenecks and polished oxfords, that he cared more about his hair than me, that he tried too hard and at the same time, too little.

They were right, after all.

 I spend a long time thinking about that as I spread moisturizer on my legs, sitting on the bed with one foot propped on the dresser, thankful that Nick is taking so long in the bathroom that I've almost forgotten all about him and our shared bed situation. I don't hear the shower running, so God knows what he's doing in there. 

Now that I'm (involuntarily) thinking about it, I wonder how Nick is even supposed to use the shower, since he can't stand up like he once did, leap from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist and a naked chest like I witnessed many times in our teenage years, in the afternoons after his soccer practice. I suppose he can shower in his wheelchair, although it must be a messy affair. I consider laying a towel on the floor outside the bathroom so that he doesn't get the entire carpet wet—he should've thought about it before he went inside, right? Isaac always thought of stuff like that.

I dig my fingers into my calves, swollen from the liquid retention of a day's worth of traveling, spreading the lotion in hard, circular motions against my skin and muscle and fat. Next time, I'm wearing compression socks.

God, I'm getting old.

I'm moving to the next leg when the door opens, startling me. I'm half expecting to see a bare chested Nick emerge from the bathroom, amazing abs and all, like back in high school. Thankfully, he's fully dressed in gray sweatpants and a white tee. I pull the robe around my body, blinking, suddenly too aware that I forgot to change into my PJs while he was inside. My hair is still wet, twisted inside the towel on my head.

"Done?" I ask.. 

I swear I don't intend for it to sound like that. I'm not a bitch. Not all the time. He rolls his eyes. I notice his wheelchair isn't damp at all. 

"Help yourself."

But I still have a full leg to moisturize—this weather is just unforgiving on my skin. We go through our routines in awkward silence, me rushing through my thighs, sitting on my side of the bed, carefully set by a wall of pillows. I don't admit that I'm watching him with the corner of my eyes when he picks his legs off the footplate, one after another, ankle on his knee, slipping a pair of white socks on his limp feet before setting them down. His biceps are straining against the shirt, his hands are big, male, and as I watch, I find myself secretly wishing he'd take the moisturizer off my hands to give me a foot massage. Isaac hated feet of any kind, even my perfectly pedicured ones, so I never got any massages I didn't pay for—with money or a blowjob.

I doubt either would work with Nick, even though I can see that he's also paying attention to me. To my naked, hydrated, waxed legs. I take my time, spreading the cream from my shin to my thigh, higher and higher.

“That smells nice.” He says, adjusting himself in his chair.

“It’s peaches.” I grab the bottle and hold it in his direction. “You can have some if you want. For your hands.”

He slowly wheels around the bed to my side of the room, accepting the offer with his palm up. I’m generous with the amount, seeing how rough his hands look and guessing that he does need it. It must be a result of pushing himself all day.

The lid closes with a pop.

Then, Nick’s hand is around my ankle. I suck in a breath, meeting his green eyes, shaded by an intensity I’m only somewhat familiar with. 

He doesn’t say anything, and neither do I; I just slide towards the edge of the bed, leaning back comfortably into the wall of pillows as his hands, warm and rough, slide up my leg, into my thighs, spreading them apart and pulling me closer. He leans forward, kissing the insides of my knees, his short beard brushing the sensitive skin behind my thighs, and I place my foot on his shoulder in surrender.

Ah, fuck.

By the time he’s reached me, I’m warm and slick, throbbing in expectation. He’s merciless. I don’t beg, I’d never beg, not with him, but I do reach down to pull his hair between my fingers. He’s insufferable even here, denying me a quick sort of pleasure. My nails dig into his neck, urging him on, almost a threat.

Finally, he’s sucking my clit, slowly flicking his tongue, sending jolts of electricity into my belly with each tiny movement, repeated waves of pleasure shaking my entire body. Finally, I come undone. 

I stay there, sprawled, the robe half open and half closed, putting my thoughts back in order. He’s panting like he’s just ran a marathon, still leaning forward on his forearms. We did this — again. Again again again..

I glance down at him. Flushed, disheveled, victorious, challenging. Fuck, he’s hot. He stares back under his thick eyelashes, grinning mischievously, knowing exactly what he did, perfectly aware of his magical skills. 

I hate giving him that pleasure.

Never mind that he just ate me out.

After a while, Nick pushes himself into an upright position again, brushing his hair from his forehead, a gleam of sweat across his collar.

“Done?” He asks, blinking, echoing my snarky question from earlier. 

I wish I had enough strength in me to say something back. But I can only barely gather my robe around my body and carry myself to the bathroom.

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