The cabin was a rental in Aspen, a log structure with a stone fireplace, a bearskin rug, and a bedroom that smelled like cedar and new beginnings. I’d arrived there four hours ago — married at noon, flown by 4 PM, in the cabin by 8 PM. Richard was my husband. A man I liked. A man I didn’t love. A man who’d hired a ski guide to “show us the best runs tomorrow” because he planned everything and because he had no idea that the woman standing in our living room would become his wedding night nightmare.
Sloane was the guide. Twenty-seven. She’d arrived at 8:30 PM to drop off equipment — skis, poles, boots — and she’d stayed for hot chocolate. Then for wine. Then for the fire. Richard had gone out at 9:45 PM to get firewood from the shed. He’d been gone for twenty minutes.
“Your husband is getting firewood,” I whispered, sitting on the bearskin rug in my white lace honeymoon lingerie — the one my mother had given me, the one that was supposed to be removed by my husband on our wedding night. The fur throw was soft against my legs. The fire was roaring. And Sloane was kneeling beside me in her red plaid flannel shirt and black thermal leggings, looking at me like I was a slope she wanted to conquer. “It’s minus ten outside. The snow is up to the windows. And you’re the ski guide he hired to ‘show us the slopes.’ You were supposed to drop off the equipment and leave. That was two hours ago. You’re still here. You’re looking at me like I’m a trail you want to map. Like I’m—”
Sloane didn’t speak. She just leaned in, her cheek brushing my jaw, her hand sliding from the fur throw to my waist, then under the lace, finding my skin with a coldness that was completely at odds with the heat of the fire.
“If he walks back in with snow on his boots,” I breathed, my voice trembling as her fingers slid higher, “he’ll see his bride on a bearskin rug with your hands inside her lingerie. He’ll see your flannel shirt open and your mouth on my neck and the fire reflecting in your eyes and he’ll know that his wedding night ended with the ski guide. He’ll know that the woman he married spent her first night as a wife with the woman he hired to show her the mountain. He’ll know that I said ‘I do’ to him while my body was saying ‘please’ to you—”
She turned my face toward her with a hand under my chin. Her mouth found mine. A kiss that tasted like pine and snowmelt and the exact moment when a fire becomes something that consumes everything in its path. Her tongue slid against mine, her hand sliding down my stomach, into the lace, finding me wet and ready and completely exposed to the heat.
The cabin door rattled.
A gust of wind. Or a key. Or Richard.
“Sloane?” Richard’s voice. Muffled by the snow. “You still here? I found the wood!”
Sloane didn’t pull away. She just pressed her other hand over my mouth, her fingers still moving inside me, her eyes locked on mine in the firelight.
“Let him watch,” she whispered against my ear, her thumb circling my clit, her fingers pressing deeper, finding a rhythm that matched the crackling fire. “Let him see what his bride looks like when she’s actually warm. Let him walk in and find us on the bearskin rug with the fire watching. Let him know that you were never his. Not really. Not where it matters.”
She made me come on the bearskin rug. Her fingers inside me, her mouth on my breast, the fire casting shadows that made us look like animals. I came with her hand over my mouth, my cry swallowed by her palm, my body shaking so hard the fur throw slid across the floor.
After, she fixed my lingerie. Kissed my forehead. Walked to the door and opened it before Richard could knock.
“Just giving her some skiing tips,” Sloane said, her voice perfectly casual. “See you both at 8 AM for the lesson.”
She left. Richard came in. He built the fire higher. He made love to me — gentle, cold, completely unaware that the woman in his arms had already been claimed by the mountain.
I saw Sloane again. At 8 AM. On the slopes. She taught me how to ski. She also taught me how to fall — and how to let her catch me. We’re still married, Richard and I. But every winter, I book a cabin in Aspen. And every wedding anniversary, Sloane knocks on the door with skis and a hunger that hasn’t faded.
Richard thinks she’s the best ski guide in Colorado. He has no idea she’s the only one who knows exactly how to navigate my terrain.
