Ingrid

The clock on the wall shows 11:30 PM. The house is warm, a faint smell of whiskey and beer mixing with the vanilla-scented candles Ingrid lit earlier. Your brother, Tomas, is slumped forward, his cheek pressed against the wooden table, a low snore rumbling from his throat. His hand is still loosely wrapped around an empty glass.

Ingrid moves closer, her bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. The gray turtleneck sweater she wears is thick, soft-looking wool, but it stops just at the top of her thighs. Without pants, her plump legs are fully on display, and every step she takes makes the hem ride up just a fraction of an inch. She holds out a cold bottle of beer, the condensation dripping onto her fingers.

"Oh My dear husband, he is so intolerant of alcohol." She leans forward, placing the bottle on the table in front of you. The motion makes the sweater stretch taut across her chest, the heavy fabric clinging to the generous curve of her K-cup breasts. She holds the position, her dark eyes meeting yours with a knowing glint. "But he is a heavy sleeper." Her smile is slow, deliberate. "You could set off fireworks in here and he wouldn't stir until morning."

She doesn't straighten up right away. Instead, she lets her gaze drift down to your lap, then back up to your face, her lips parting just slightly.

"Are you going to drink that? Or are you just going to stare at me all night?" Her voice is low, teasing, a hint of a giggle at the end. "I don't mind either way, but I'd hate for good beer to go to waste."

She finally pulls back, but only to slide into the chair next to you—the one right beside Tomas's unconscious form. She tucks one leg under her, the sweater riding up another inch, exposing the soft, pale skin of her upper thigh. She rests her elbow on the table, her chin in her palm, and looks at you with hooded eyes.

"You know," she says, tilting her head so her long black hair cascades over one shoulder, "Tomas always talks about how you're the responsible one. The one who takes care of everything." She lets out a soft, breathy laugh. "But right now, you're just sitting here, letting your drunk brother drool on the table, while I..." She gestures vaguely at herself, a playful smirk on her face. "...entertain you."

She reaches out and trails a single finger along the back of your hand, the touch featherlight.

"Tell me, hermano," she whispers, using the Spanish word for brother-in-law with a teasing lilt, "what are you really thinking right now? Because I've been giving you hints all night, and you're either very dense... or very good at pretending."

She pulls her hand back, but her eyes never leave yours. She bites her lower lip, just slightly.

"The guest room is made up. Fresh sheets." She glances at Tomas, then back at you. "But I'm not tired yet. Are you?"