A Week in the Snow Read online

  A Total-E-Bound Publication

  www.total-e-bound.com

  A Week in the Snow

  ISBN #978-0-85715-582-5

  ©Copyright Gwen Masters 2011

  Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright June 2011

  Edited by Lisa Cox

  Total-E-Bound Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.

  Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

  The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

  Published in 2011 by Total-E-Bound Publishing, Think Tank, Ruston Way, Lincoln, LN6 7FL, United Kingdom.

  Warning: This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has been rated Total-e-burning.

  A WEEK IN THE SNOW

  Gwen Masters

  Dedication

  For my Patrick Jane,

  who turned a spark into a raging fire.

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  FOX News: Fox Entertainment Group

  Cadillac: General Motors Corp

  Band-Aid: Johnson & Johnson

  Tabasco: McIlhenny Company

  Chapter One

  “You sound happy. Are you?”

  Rebecca smiled and shifted the phone on her shoulder. She stared at the single candle on the mantel. The clock had just chimed midnight. “Yes.”

  “Tell me.”

  “This isn’t just a want. It’s a need. It’s like breathing, or my heart beating. I can feel it right now, between my legs.” She slid a hand down her naked belly. “I want to lie underneath you and open my legs for your hand, at the same time as you slide your cock into my mouth.”

  Her own words turned her on just as much as his did, and she let her fingers walk farther down, until she was brushing the neatly trimmed hair at the apex of her thighs. Her nipples were sensitive and tingling, and the cool breeze from the air conditioner kept them hard. She curled her toes against the end of the couch as she listened to his voice, coming low over the phone line.

  “You like that, don’t you? My cock in your mouth? You like it when I pull your hair and hold you there and make you take it, don’t you?”

  She touched her clit with her fingertip, then dropped her head back and moaned.

  “And at the same time, I’m pushing two fingers into you—no, how about three?—just slamming them in, because you’re so wet already, and I’m driving them in and out, and every now and then I press on your clit, right there. You like that? I can hear you panting for it. You wouldn’t be panting if my cock was in your mouth, would you? You would be fighting to breathe while you came and came and came.”

  Rebecca ran one finger on either side of her clit, scissoring it gently, rubbing up and down. The tingles got bigger and her mind started to venture off into the fantasy, the thought of his hands doing those things to her. She imagined her own hands would be on her nipples, playing with them while she bent her head back just so, taking his cock in deep enough to please him, but not deep enough to gag. His fingers would be working magic between her thighs, sliding into her when she needed to be filled, pulling back and teasing her before she could come, making her beg with moans before he slid his fingers in again. That delicious stretching would overcome her and she might forget the motion of her mouth, forget the way she was supposed to move, and he would have to pull on her hair to get her attention again.

  That was what did it for her this time—the thought of him pulling on her hair, maybe a little bit frustrated with her, demanding she pay attention to his cock. She imagined the velvet skin sliding between her lips, the tense muscles in his thighs, the way he would look at her as he came. She imagined all of it, except the one part she didn’t have to imagine.

  “Oh, fuck, Becca—I’m going to come!”

  He hollered when he came, his voice loud enough to make her pull the phone away from her ear. He held his breath for a moment, then let it out on a moaning exhale. Rebecca smiled as her own orgasm hit, right in time with his. She arched under her hand, everything but the voice in her ear forgotten, as the orgasm swept from her middle and out to her fingers and toes. Her whole body tingled, her nipples hard enough to hurt, her clit humming under her fingers.

  When she relaxed and opened her eyes, she saw the candle. It had burned halfway down, the flame dancing on a small breeze.

  “Was it good for you?” he asked, his voice low and dramatic. As if on cue, Rebecca giggled. She always giggled after a really good one, and that was right up there in the top ten. He laughed with her, and that made her feel warm inside. So what if he was thousands of miles away? At moments like this, he felt close enough to touch.

  After long minutes of talking about what had just happened, he yawned. She knew he would be going to bed soon, and, even though her time zone put her an hour ahead of him, she would be awake for hours yet, thinking about the coming week and what it might have in store.

  He was thinking of it, too. “Have you decided what to pack?” he asked.

  “I’ve already packed one bag with the essentials.” She stretched, delighting in the feel of her legs, a little too tense, reminders of what she had just done. The orgasm still thrummed through her now and again. “It’s going to take two bags, though—I’m doubling up on everything to survive those chilly temperatures.”

  “Iowa is chilly in the fall,” he agreed.

  “You can keep me warm.”

  “Don’t forget the vibrator,” he teased.

  “Gene,” she teased right back. “I thought we were just going to have coffee.”

  “Of course we are. The morning after.”

  She giggled again and nestled deeper into the couch. The thought of going to see him was like an adventure. She was always the good girl, the one who was reliable and safe and careful, and this felt like doing something she had always wanted to do, but had never had the nerve. She was going to meet her online boyfriend and she was going to fuck him silly, and then she was going to fuck him some more, and to hell with the good girl act.

  “The morning after sounds good,” she said. “Are you going to make it for me?”

  “You’re the woman,” he replied. “It’s your job.”

  That was the only thing about Gene that drove her crazy. She always hoped he was joking about the macho way he viewed things; that he really did believe in equality, that he wasn’t as chauvinistic as he seemed. But the more time went on, the more she thought maybe he really believed a woman’s place was in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant. Each time the thought came up, it made her wonder: what in the world was he doing with a woman like her, who ran her own business and was determined to make a name for herself?

  “Speaking of jobs, mine is waiting on me, and I need to get a few things done before I go to sleep,” she said, dangling more bait. “I have to wrap up this latest project before I come to see you.”

  Gene yawned, as though the project she had going wasn’t interesting in the
least.

  “Okay, babe. I’m going to go to sleep. You might want to get some sleep, too, so you can make that drive.”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “Are you sure you won’t fly?”

  She didn’t want to fly, and she had told him that over and over. She wanted to drive her way up from Florida to Iowa, her camera on the seat beside her, ready for good light. She could already imagine all the farms along the way, the old barns begging for a picture, the town squares that deserved to be caught by her lens. The point of the trip was to see Gene, but what was wrong with taking some time of it for herself?

  “I really want to take some photographs on the way up.” She had said it a hundred times if she had said it once, and she was getting tired of the same old saw. She carefully filtered the note of wariness out of her voice.

  “Okay.”

  His tone was curt, almost hurt, but she stood her ground. “I’ll leave tomorrow, and I’ll see you on Friday. Want me to call you before I leave?”

  “Before you leave, and while you’re driving, and while you’re at the hotel, and everywhere in between,” he said. “I can’t wait for you to get here.”

  No matter their differences, she knew that much was true, and it warmed her from the inside out. “I can’t wait, either.”

  “Goodnight, Becca-girl.”

  Before she could say anything in response, he hung up. She clicked the phone closed and dropped it on the table, where it slid to a stop against a stack of photo proofs. She stared at the candle until it started to blur, trying to hold on to the good sex and the even better orgasm, but it was already a distant memory. Now she was thinking about the hours of work still ahead of her, the proofs to organise and the mailings to be done. Just thinking about it made her tired.

  She sat up on the couch. The sudden wetness between her thighs reminded her of what she had just done with Gene, and what she could expect to do much more of as soon as she got to his house in Iowa. She padded to the bathroom and cleaned up, smiling as she thought about climbing into the shower with Gene after making love, washing away the remnants of him, leaving only the tiny little bruises and love bites that would remind her for days of what they had done.

  But first, she had work to do.

  Rebecca grabbed the proofs from the living room table and took them to her office, where she sat naked at her desk and pulled out the envelopes. Taking pictures of school kids and dogs and families was the way she paid the overheads, but her real passion was creative photography. In between the shots that took her breath away, she had to do the monotonous jobs—like stuffing four hundred proofs into mailers and getting them ready to drop off at the county school.

  She studied the envelopes, glanced at the clock and got to work.

  By the next nightfall, she had made it to the Georgia border. It would take another two days of steady driving to get into Iowa, but she felt more than up to the task. As she watched the sun set over the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, she thought again how good it was to drive the stretch. She pulled over to the side of the road and took pictures until the sun went down, then headed into town for a motel.

  She called Gene as soon as she got to her room. He was already asleep, so she quickly told him she was safe in Georgia, and let him go back to dreamland. When she hung up the phone, she crawled under the cool, impersonal covers. She tried to sleep but soon found it impossible—the excitement of the day, the travel, all the new things she had seen, flashed through her head and refused to give her rest. The anticipation of seeing Gene for the first time was the thought that came to her most often, and she finally kicked down the covers, resigned to not going to sleep for a while.

  She flipped through the television channels and watched the local news, which was not so different than the news in Miami, though the accents of the newscasters were decidedly different—not as slick and careful, somehow. She watched a bit of a movie, something she vaguely remembered from years ago, but quickly tired of the drama.

  She turned the channel again and this time she hit the pay-per-view section. She looked at the listings, and one of them caught her fancy: Sebastian’s Hot Ride.

  She laughed out loud at the name, but that didn’t stop her from clicking on the title. When it asked if she was sure, she clicked on the button that said she was, though she had no idea what she might find. When the images filled the screen, she dropped the remote on the bedside table and stared.

  “Jackpot,” she whispered.

  The man on the screen was tall, broad-shouldered, unbelievably buff, the kind of man who graced the cover of romance novels. The woman with him was impossibly tiny, her breasts much bigger than God had intended, and she wore nothing but blood red lipstick.

  Rebecca watched as the woman lay on the bed and pressed her ample breasts together with her hands, her come-hither eyes making it very clear what the tall stud was supposed to do. He crouched over her and slid his long, thick cock between the white globes. The woman lifted her head a bit, and the camera watched from behind as she sucked his balls into her mouth and worried them with her tongue. The sounds of moans filled the air.

  Rebecca’s own moan joined in as she slid a hand between her thighs. The movie was unreal, completely over the top, but that didn’t stop her from looking at the dick and wishing she had one right now. When the man changed positions and got on top of the woman, lifting her legs high in the air and slowly impaling her with his impossibly perfect cock, Rebecca slid a finger inside herself. She imagined the couple on the bed were really her and Gene, and she watched with fascination as they went through every position imaginable. She played with her clit the whole time, backing off when she got too close to the finish, wanting to make it last.

  When the man on the screen held the woman by the hips and slowly pushed his dick into her tight ass, stretching her with it, Rebecca came so hard she felt lightheaded.

  She watched the movie to the end, hoping to garner some new and interesting positions to use during her time with Gene. When it was over she flipped off the television and lay awake in the darkness, thinking about Gene, and almost wishing she had taken the plane after all.

  During the journey, Rebecca stopped often to shoot images that struck her. A field of late-blooming flowers caught her attention, and so did a huge group of wild turkeys. In Tennessee she took pictures of the soaring bridge over the Natchez Trace Parkway. She stopped at a cafe in Kentucky and took pictures of the tractors outside, the farmers at the counter and the waitress who gave her a free scoop of ice cream on top of her apple pie. In Illinois she caught an impressive mass of dark clouds over the flat corn fields while she listened to dire accounts of severe weather on the FM radio stations.

  She found old barns everywhere and took enough pictures to create a whole book of them, if she was so inclined. Some of her favourite photographs were those she snapped of the giant windmills. The steel rose imposingly from the ground, at definite odds with the century-old silos and small, squat farmhouses.

  She spent the night in a little motel that offered only three channels on the television, no room service and a heater that worked only half the time. There would be no pay-per-view this evening, but she was too tired to care. She cuddled up under the blankets and fell asleep to the buzzing of a neon Vacancy sign outside her window. The new morning dawned crisp and clear, and the neon buzz was replaced with the sound of chirping birds.

  In northern Illinois she saw her first snowfall.

  Rebecca pulled over to the side of the road when she saw the little white flakes. She stared at the windshield as the snowflakes fell, stuck to the glass for a moment and melted into a drop of water. She was stunned by how pretty they were. She had lived all of her twenty-something years in sunny Miami, where the thermometers never dropped below the fifties. Now that she was seeing snow for the first time, she was utterly fascinated.

  Rebecca got out of the car and stood in the cold air, surprised that the temperatures had dropped so quickly. Sh
e grabbed her camera, focused on the trunk of her car and tried to get shots of individual snowflakes before they melted. She found it much harder than she had imagined it would be. Finally she put the camera away and simply stood in the softly falling snow, listening to the world around her and breathing deep of the crisp air.

  By the time the sun went down, she was crossing the Iowa border. Small farmhouses dotted the landscape, their porch lights shining in the twilight darkness. The snow was falling harder now, and Rebecca drove with her windshield wipers on. The heater in her car had never been used before—why would she ever need it in the Sunshine State? When she turned it on, a burning smell blasted out of the vents. Once the dust was burned away, there was nothing but the blessed heat blowing over Rebecca’s face and feet.

  The farmhouses became few and far between, and the road was darker than ever without streetlights to help guide her way. The snow came down furiously, drifting across the road, piling up in the ditches. Mixed in with the snow was a hard ticking sleet, the tiny pieces of ice pinging from her windshield. Her headlights shone on a fury of white as she looked for another porch light, and became increasingly worried when none appeared.

  When she glanced down at the gas gauge, that worry turned to near-panic.

  She pulled carefully to the side of the road and reached for her cell phone. She dialled Gene’s number and immediately got a beep, followed by another, louder one. She looked at the little glowing screen.

  Call failed.

  She tried it again, with the same result. There was no signal.

  Think, Rebecca. Think. What’s the best thing to do now?

  She knew she was on the right road—she had turned on to it several miles back, but she was still a good thirty miles short of where she needed to be. Glancing at the gas gauge one more time, she decided to drive on until she came to another service area. Then she would call Gene, tell him her situation, and ask him to come out and meet her. He knew the roads better than she did, and he knew how to drive on snow. She hadn’t the faintest clue.