His Best Friend's Little Sister

by Vivian Wood

“Yeah, sure,” he said. “What do you want?”

  “I don’t care. I just want some noise.”

  “You’ll get something decent for once, then,” he said. “An Affair to Remember. You’ve seen it?”

  “Nah,” she yawned. “Is it old?”

  He shook his head. “If you mean a classic, yes.”

  “Never seen it,” she said, snuggling into the couch cushions. “But I can promise you it’s not an affair I’m going to remember.” She didn’t even make it through the opening credits. What kind of movie put credits at the beginning, anyway?

  The day seemed to both crawl and fly by at the same time. She awoke in spurts. Sometimes she could see Henry lounging in the armchair by the fire, and other times she heard him rustling in the kitchen or clacking away in the office. No matter what, she was always aware of his presence. Sometimes she felt his cool hand on her forehead, and she pretended to keep sleeping. If she moved, he might take his hand away.

  “You awake?” he asked every hour or so. “Do you need anything? Tea? Soup?” Usually she’d say no, and blush with his doting.

  “Come on, Ellie,” he told her as the sun started to fade from the purple sky. “You got away with broth for lunch, but you need to have a proper dinner.”

  She’d fallen asleep again, amazed that the aroma coming from the kitchen hadn’t woken her up. “Mmm, what’d you make?” she asked. “It smells great.”

  “Spicy lentils, well dahl actually, and some saag paneer with parathas. The parathas I had to get frozen, of course—they’re a beast to make—but these are pretty good. The other stuff I made from scratch.”

  “You know how to cook Indian food?” she asked as they sat down in the kitchen, Henry pulling out her chair for her.

  “Sure,” he said, placing the flaky bread on her plate. “There was an Indian guy in the Navy who taught me. It takes a while to get intuitive with the spices, but these two dishes are actually pretty simple compared to the others. Plus, I thought the heat might help with your flu.”

  She’d gone to a campus Indian restaurant a couple of times with Sam, but never knew what to order. Even when the Hindi was translated to English, it was tough to make sense of what was what. There were countless types of bread, and Sam always got the butter chicken, so she followed suit. It was good, but nothing like this. Every spice, every flavor note, and the work Henry put into the dishes jolted her alive.

  “This is incredible,” she said. “Really, Henry. I can’t believe you made this.”

  “It’s not that big a deal,” he said. “When you’re better, maybe I can show you some time.”

  Some time. That was code for an easy out, she was sure of it. She’d used the “some time” addition herself plenty of times, usually when a guy asked her out that she wasn’t interested in.

  “Can, uh, can I get a fork? Or spoon?” she asked.

  “First try it like this,” he said, tearing off a piece of bread with one hand, folding it into a type of cup in his hand, and scooping up the spicy lentils. “You don’t need a fork.”

  It took some practice, but she managed. Funny, she’d always thought that eating with hands, whether it was at the sole Ethiopian restaurant she’d been to or even picking up street food after a night out, was messy and unladylike. But this? It was intimate.

  “Indians say that using utensils mars the taste of the food,” Henry said. “You know how Coke tastes different out of a glass, plastic bottle, or can? Utensils change the taste, and not always in a good way.”

  “I get that,” Ellie said, tearing off another piece of bread. “But this whole one-handed thing is hard. Why can’t you use both hands?”

  “Well, in India, the left hand is reserved just for… the bathroom,” he said, keeping his eyes on his plate.

  The bathroom. Right. Even in this romantic moment, his cooking and the closeness of dining like this, she couldn’t escape the fact that she’d vomited in front of him. Not just once, but at least two times. Who knew, there might have been other incidents in the night she didn’t remember. God, how many times could she throw up in front of the same person? At least it wasn’t on his shoes this time. She giggled a bit at the thought.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she said. “I think I’m still just kind of tired.”

  Henry went back to work on his plate, masterfully working the bread. His hands could do anything.

  And she’d messed it all up. The chance of being with him, long shot that it was, was completely destroyed after last night.

  11

  He kept a close eye on her all the time. Watching her, trying to gauge if what she’d said in her fevered state was true. How much of it had been hidden deep inside her for years, and how much of it was just frenzied talk? He couldn’t really tell, but at the same time, he remembered how she’d looked at him for all those years. From the dance at the party years ago, to how her eyes had widened when she’d dropped the towel and realized it was him, was there more to their relationship than he’d thought?

  She was embarrassed about the other night and probably much of their time in the cabin together, he could tell. However, not nearly as embarrassed as she would be if she realized everything she’d revealed, he was certain of that.

  I want you to be my first. Her words kept echoing in his mind nonstop. “Ellie, how are you feeling?” he asked as he headed into the office.

  She rolled her eyes slightly. “I’m fine, Henry, seriously. You ask me that all the time! It was just a flu.”

  “I’m just worried about you,” he told her.

  “I’m okay. It’s much better now,” she said, turning back to the television. Was she flushed again? Or blushing? It was difficult to tell. He wasn’t the best at reading emotion, or compassion as the VA therapist would put it, but he was getting better. Distinguishing emotions wasn’t exactly the kind of skill they taught you in the military.

  Henry. I want you to be my first. He also couldn’t figure out if her saying she was a virgin was true. Could it be? She'd dated Sean for a couple of years, and surely there were shorter relationships and flings between that. I mean, look at her, he thought to himself. And she wasn’t overtly shy. He remembered her at sixteen, bold and flagrant enough to come up to him even when he was talking to a woman his own age. She had no qualms about cutting in and claiming a dance. Surely her confidence had flourished even more since then.

  But why would she lie about such a thing, especially in her state that night?

  There was no denying that being with a virgin was a turn-on. Hell, it was for any man, right? But the idea of Ellie being a virgin—and wanting to give herself to him—that was more than he could handle. She’s still Ellie, he told himself. She’s still Eli’s sister, the president’s sister! And she always will be.

  “Hey.” He turned in the office chair to see her draped across the doorframe. “I’m lonely out here,” she said. “You want to watch a movie or something?”

  “Oh, hey,” he said, adjusting his jeans. He’d taken to wearing them unless he was changing for bed. These days, he never knew when she’d do something to make him hard, and he already was, sitting there thinking about her. “I just—yeah, give me a minute. I need to finish something up.”

  “What are you always doing in here, anyway? We don’t even have Wi-Fi.”

  “Just working on some stuff,” he said.

  “Well, yeah. I figured that,” she said, smiling at him. “What kind of stuff?”

  “Personal stuff, Ellie.”

  “Oh, okay, I get it,” she said. “Well, once you’re done with your personal stuff, come watch a movie with me. The DVD player’s messing up again.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s old. I guess Eli hasn’t been up here enough to upgrade the system.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “But sometimes older things are better.”

  He swallowed hard. “Like wine,” he said.

  “Something like that.”

  As he watched her t
urn on her heels, bare feet padding into the living room, he struggled to figure her out. In some ways, she still seemed so young and innocent. Of course, compared to him, she was. Thirteen years younger and there was something war did to a person that aged them in incomparable ways. He didn’t know if he’d ever get a strong hold of his PTSD, or if he’d ever be able to connect with someone—anyone—without it getting in the way.

  He turned back to his computer and pulled up the document he’d been working on. The VA therapist had encouraged him to write down his dreams and thoughts, ideally right when he woke up. He hadn’t been very diligent about it though. “On paper if you can,” the therapist had told him, but that hadn’t worked out well. His thoughts moved too fast, and he'd had to rely on typing. For weeks, he’d struggled to type out even a few sentences, but now? They were flying out of him. The only problem was that his thoughts and words were now wholly consumed by Ellie.

  His therapist wouldn’t ever see what he’d written, and wouldn’t ask. “This is solely for you,” he’d told Henry. However, he could just imagine how ashamed he’d be if anyone, especially Ellie, ever saw what he’d written about her. On the other hand, it was the only outlet he’d allow himself. Otherwise, he might explode.

  “Henry!” Ellie called from the other room. “Come on, I’m bored out here! I’ll make popcorn.”

  “I’m coming,” he called back to her.

  The afternoon hours stretched out long and languid. With constant temptation wrapped up on the couch next to him, wearing nothing but men’s boxer shorts and an old button-up, it took all of Henry’s willpower to not stare at her constantly.

  “Whose underwear is that?” he asked in the middle of yet another rom-com.

  “They’re boxers,” she corrected him.

  “That’s underwear.”

  “Not when girls wear them,” she said with a laugh. “They’re mine.”

  “You went and bought men’s underwear for yourself?”

  “Yeah, they’re comfortable!” she said. “And cute. You men have much cuter underwear than us. All kinds of fun designs and stuff. You can’t find women’s underwear with monkeys and bananas on them,” she said, fingering the suggestive scene displayed across her hip bones.

  “I wouldn’t know,” Henry said. “I’ve never shopped for women’s underwear.”

  “Not even for one of your girlfriends?” she asked.

  “Not even for them.”

  “Another movie? I don’t know if I’m up for it, though,” she said. “I’m really tired.”

  “Go get some sleep,” he said. “Your body’s still fighting off the last of that flu.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “Okay, ’night. Don’t stay up too late.”

  “’Night, Ellie,” he said. Henry listened to her soft loping up the stairs, the click of her door closing, and the hushed whirring of the shower upstairs. What was she doing in the shower for so long? His imagination started to wander, and there was that now-familiar stirring in his jeans.

  “Screw it,” he said, getting up and going upstairs himself. This time, he locked his bedroom door behind him.

  He could still hear Ellie’s shower turned on in the next room as he turned the heat on his own shower to as hot as it could manage. Pulling off his jeans and T-shirt, he caught a glimpse of his own boxers in the mirror. They had a simple blue checked pattern. Ellie would probably never approve. “Boring,” she’d say, tossing her head back with a laugh.

  Pulling them over his muscular legs, holding the waistband out as far as it could stretch to clear his erection, Henry stepped beneath the pounding water and closed his eyes. What if Ellie were in here with me?

  She’d probably demand to soak in the majority of the water, and that would be fine with him. Her youth and innocence would make her a nearly selfish shower partner in all the best ways, and he wouldn’t mind at all. In fact, he’d love to give it to her, all the heat she could handle. Picturing her before him, he let his hand rake up his thigh and finally grasp his cock. Even in the intense heat of the water, it still radiated the most heat.

  Now, Ellie would be lifting her head, letting the water race through her hair and drop down her backside in torrents. She’d have a sliver of soap in one hand, tracing it up her stomach and across her ribcage to brush across her breasts. He’d want to ask her if she needed help, but he’d resist. Ellie wasn’t the kind of woman he could use such lines on.

  As he imagined her lathering up her breasts, he began to slowly stroke his cock. Even in his fantasy, he didn’t want to come too fast. “Will you do my back?” she’d ask him, feigning innocence even in this compromised position. How much of an act was it?

  She’d turn her back to him, pulling that curtain of hair around one shoulder. He’d never seen Ellie’s bare back before, not in reality. In his mind’s eye, it was pure marbled magic. He began to stroke himself a little faster, pausing at the tip of his cock with each gentle pull forward, willing himself to slow down. Keep pace.

  She’d hand him what was left of the soap, and look over her shoulder with that smile she must reserve just for him. Right? It had to be just for him.

  He’d trace the lines of her body, the sharp wings of her shoulder blades all the way to the dimples at the small of her back. He loved those dimples, the indents that perfectly fit his thumbs. He stroked even faster, giving in to his instincts and the animalistic nature of what felt right.

  With just a hint of hesitation, as the soap disintegrated entirely and his hand was slick, he’d slide his hand into the crevices of her ass, eliciting a low moan from her. With both hands, he’d cup her cheeks and squeeze, pulling her labia open gently from the backside to let her juices cover her entirely.

  With that image, he came hard, letting out a small cry just in case she was listening from the next room. Opening his eyes, with water from the shower dewy on his lashes, he watched the buildup he’d been holding onto for months go down the shower drain. But he was still hard—that was how crazy she’d made him.

  With a sigh, he dried off, slipped on fresh boxers, and climbed into bed after unlocking the door. Just in case she needed him in the middle of the night. Dutifully, he snapped the restraints back on and closed his eyes. Sleep came slowly and stubbornly.

  12

  “Ellie! Ellie,” she heard as she stirred in her sleep. Henry? His voice sounded so small and pitiful, she couldn’t tell if she was dreaming it. Slowly, wakefulness washed over her and she could hear his voice clearly in the room next door. Is he having another attack?

  She rushed out of bed, not taking the time to pull something with a little more coverage over her. Ever since the illness, she hadn’t felt up to doing laundry and didn’t have many clean clothes left. She’d resorted to sleeping in boy short underwear and an admittedly see-through white tank top.

  “Henry?” she asked, approaching his door. It was barely dawn. Was she allowed to enter at this time? For the first time, she felt truly sorry for him. He was still calling her name, but sounded like he was on the verge of tears. She hesitated, but turned the knob.

  “Henry!” she exclaimed, finding him handcuffed to the bed. His eyes were closed, and he was whipping his head from side to side.

  “Ellie,” he murmured in his sleep.

  She approached his bed cautiously. It was a shock, but what could he possibly do to her tied up like this? Any fear of a sudden PTSD attack was subdued. “Henry,” she said again, trying to wake him. As she neared him, she put a hand on his chest and shook him gently. Even like this, she noticed the bulk of his shoulders and the mounds of his biceps. Pure muscle. She still couldn’t get over how much of a man he was. “Henry,” she said, “I’m… I’m going to take these off, okay?” Spying the little key on the bedside table, she snatched it up and climbed onto the bed to unlock him.

  Nearly on top of him, Ellie struggled with the lock. This wasn’t a plaything like Sam had given her as a joke back in college, with those pink fuzzy handcuffs for her twenty-first
birthday. This was the real deal.

  Henry’s eyes snapped open. “It’s you. You’re safe.” His voice was low and gravelly. Was it really him, or was this some kind of waking sleep for him?

  She didn’t know what to say. Before she could even respond, he lunged up like an animal and kissed her with so much passion she sucked her breath deep into her lungs. Any touches or little kisses they’d shared in the past were nothing compared to this—they weren’t even a tease or a hint of what was possible. His tongue invaded her mouth, filling every crevice and flicking across her teeth. She’d never tasted something so addictive before, making every inch come to life.

  How could he manage such passion, and yet so much control, even when he was in cuffs? Henry pressed himself up against her as she was straddling one of his thighs. He was rock hard, pushing against her hip. “Ellie,” he moaned between kisses, and her name between his lips gave her chills.

  “Henry, I—” she began, but they were interrupted. A massive dog bounded into the bedroom, sniffing and slobbering loudly. “Arliss!” she yelled. “What—oh, God. Meredith?!” she yelled. “Eli? Are you guys here?”

  “Holy shit,” Henry muttered. “Get these off me, Ellie. Now,” he demanded.

  “Fuck, are they here?” she whispered, digging for the key she’d dropped in the mountain of pillows when he'd kissed her. “How the hell did they make it up the mountain?”

  “I don’t know, Ellie,” he whispered back. “Just hurry.”

  She finally found the key and got it to click the cuffs open.

  “Ellie!” Meredith’s voice rang from downstairs. “Are you here?” Ellie’s eyes widened as she climbed off of Henry. Scrambling off the bed, grabbing one of Henry’s T-shirts on the way, she raced downstairs.

  “Mer, hey!” she said, finding her sister-in-law in the kitchen putting on a pot of coffee. “What are you doing here? Is Eli here?” she asked as she hugged her.

  “There’s my little sister,” Mer cooed, wrapping her arms around Ellie. Meredith was polished as always, a look she’d been grooming since the notion of becoming first lady arrived. Perfectly coiffed hair in a French twist, crisp white button-up shirt, and dark denim skinny jeans. “No, Eli couldn’t make it, but he told me you were here, and I figured I’d check in since I was passing through. Especially with the weather and all.”