While Freja and Aksel are blonde and blue-eyed like Margot, and have definitely inherited her Norwegian ancestry, Ember is petite, barely coming up to Aksel’s shoulder, who is as tall as I am.
“Am I hurting you, Sweet Em?” I ask as I push into her velvet heat that very first time.
“No.” Her hips flex.
“You’re so small, tight.” I worry because I’m six-three. I have ten inches and over a hundred pounds on her.
“Ransom, harder,” she moans.
I slam into her.
She explodes around me, her orgasm catching her and me by surprise.
Her cheeks are flushed, and even though I can’t see her beautiful amber eyes as they’re behind her sunglasses, I feel an urge to spend time with her, learn how she has grown in the past five years.
Ember throws the snowball she just made at Aksel, who picks up some snow and hurls it back in her direction. He misses, and the snow explodes harmlessly behind her boots.
“Oh, come on, old man,” Ember teases, bendingdown to make another weapon to attack her brother with. “That was pathetic.”
“I’m giving you a head start, baby sister.” Aksel scoops up a handful of snow with calculated precision.
Freja joins in, shrieking as she flings a lopsided snowball at both of them. It smacks into Aksel’s chest.
The war is officially on.
I watch from the edge of the scene, my hands in my coat pockets, unable to look away. The siblings are spinning and ducking like kids, laughing without restraint. Ember is radiant, her voice high and light with joy.
Everything inside me tightens.
She used to be like that with me. Happy. I used to be like that with her. Content. She brought a childlike enthusiasm to everything we did, from cooking to watching a movie to making love.
A rogue snowball sails wide, I move out of its way, and it lands on Calypso’s shoulder. She lets out a sharp, indignant yelp, brushing snow off her Moncler coat like it’s toxic powder. “Hey, this is cashmere.”
She’s dressed to the nines like she walked off the cover of the December issue ofApres-Ski International. Her boots are Chanel. She’s mentioned this a couple of times.
“I got them especially for this trip.”
They don’t look comfortable.
She’s wearing woolen pants that were made by herdear friend,a famous designer whose name I didn’t catch.
In contrast, Ember’s in a black coat that cinches at her tiny waist. A red, probably no-label, scarf is knotted loosely at her neck. It matches her hat. Her glossy auburn hair is braided. She’s in jeans and boots.
She looks immensely comfortable.
She looks radiant.
Calypso looks pissed.
“It was Freja’s ball that hit you,” Aksel says, utterly unrepentant.
Freja laughs. “Consider it a Christmas baptism.”
Calypso looks between the three of them, sputtering. “I just got this coat. This is not funny.”
“It’s a snowball fight, Calypso,” I say lightly. “There are casualties.”
She gives me an accusatory look that says,“Et tu, Brutus,” and mutters, “I didn’t know I signed up to be in a war zone.”
