Chapter 13: Girls Weekend Cabin

The lie had taken root weeks earlier, planted in casual texts and watered with Sarah’s distracted nods. “Kayla needs a real sisters weekend,” I’d told her over breakfast one random Tuesday, voice steady as I poured coffee. “Just the two of them at that cabin up in the mountains. She’s been stressed about the new job.” Sarah had barely glanced up from her phone, already halfway into her workday. “Good for her. You’ll be buried in that audit anyway, right?” I’d nodded, the guilt a familiar low burn that no longer surprised me. By Friday evening the plan was locked: Kayla would leave first, I’d follow after dark, and for forty-eight hours we’d have something we’d never had before—time that belonged only to us.

The mountain road twisted upward through thickening pines, headlights cutting tunnels of green and gold in the fading dusk. Kayla waited at the pull-off we’d agreed on, her car tucked behind a cluster of boulders. She slid into the passenger seat before I’d even stopped rolling, the scent of her filling the cab—coconut still clinging to her skin, but now layered with something sharper, like fresh pine and the faint woodsmoke from a distant chimney. Her hand found my thigh instantly, fingers digging in with quiet possession as I pulled back onto the pavement. “Two hours alone,” she said, voice low and rough with the same need that had kept me half-hard the entire drive. “No sneaking. No pretending.”

The cabin appeared at the end of a narrow gravel lane, tucked deep in the trees like it had been waiting for exactly this. Log walls weathered to a soft gray, wide wraparound deck overlooking a small clearing, outdoor hot tub steaming faintly under the first stars, and an outdoor shower framed by cedar slats that opened straight to the forest. No neighbors. No thin walls. Just the distant hoot of an owl and the cool mountain air that raised goosebumps the second we stepped out. We unloaded in silence—groceries, a small duffel each, the bottle of red wine she’d brought like this was any normal getaway. The moment the heavy wooden door clicked shut behind us, the pretense burned away.

She turned, backed me against the kitchen island, and kissed me like the world had narrowed to just this room. Tongues sliding slow and deep, her hands shoving under my shirt to map every ridge of muscle she already knew by heart. I lifted her onto the counter, the granite cool against her thighs as her sundress rode high. Dinner could wait. Everything could wait. I dropped to my knees right there, pushed the fabric aside, and tasted her—hot, slick, already dripping for me. My tongue worked in long, deliberate strokes while she gripped the edge of the counter, thighs trembling around my ears. The remote vibrator she’d slipped in during the drive hummed low inside her; I thumbed the controller in my pocket, bumping it higher until her hips bucked and she came with a broken gasp that echoed off the log beams.

We cooked after that, half-dressed and laughing in the way people do when they’re pretending this is ordinary. She wore one of my old button-downs, sleeves rolled, nothing underneath. I stood behind her at the stove, arms around her waist, stirring pasta while the remote buzzed against her clit on the lowest setting. Every time she stirred the sauce her breath hitched; every time I bumped the control she pressed back against my hardening cock. “You’re evil,” she whispered, but her voice cracked on the last word when I turned it up and she had to brace both hands on the counter to stay upright. We ate on the deck under string lights, the mountain air cool on our skin, her bare foot sliding up my calf under the table while we talked about nothing and everything—the pregnancy scare that had cracked us open, the way Sarah’s texts about “how the project was going” made my stomach twist even now.