12 Inches: A Secret Baby Dark Romance

by Alexis Angel

  That’s right. I’m feeling guilty. I hope that doesn’t surprise you.

  I’ve never in my life done anything like this. This goes way beyond just fucking a married woman. First, she’s older than me. I’m 15 years younger than her. I would have never considered anything like this before coming back to the city. Second, she’s married to my dad. That makes her technically my stepmom.

  Now hold on there. I know based on everything you’ve seen so far, you’re going to tell me to calm the fuck down. That 15 years is nothing. You probably know a couple where the woman is 15 years older than the man and they have a happy marriage. And then you’re going to move on to tell me that Michael Anders married my mother after I was already born. That when she died a year later, he assumed the role of guardian, but he’s not technically my biological father.

  Fine. From a technical standpoint, no one is related, okay. You fucking got me.

  But we’re not talking about technicalities here.

  This is the man who fucking paid others to raise me. The man I resented my whole life for always being busy and never having time for me. The man who was always wrapped up in his life and viewed me as an accessory to trot out to make him look good by talking about how he was raising the son of his dead wife.

  In short, he’s the only father I’ve ever fucking known.

  And so what do I do? I fuck the one woman who maybe he thought he would find happiness with? Really? Is that what I’ve come down to?

  Have I fucked so many women in my life that now I need to do things that shock the senses? Has normal fucking just gotten too boring for me?

  “You going to stand there or are you going to come in, Lance?” dad asks from his desk. He's staring at me, an annoyed look on his face. He’s got two tablets and a computer open in front of him and it’s obvious he’s busy. The television is on in the far corner of the room and he puts it on mute.

  I step into the office and walk to the desk. What am I even going to say here? Hey dad, how’s the mayoral race coming? By the way, I’m fucking Jocelyn. Just thinking you should know because it's the right thing to do.

  How do you even go about telling another man you’re sleeping with his wife?

  “What do you need?” dad asks, cutting through all the clutter in my head and going straight to the point. “I’m busy so I can’t give you that much time. So be quick.”

  I sigh. He looks at me with sharp eyes.

  “I wanted to talk to you about Jocelyn,” I say after a moment.

  He looks at me and sighs as well. Does he know?

  Dad leans back in his chair. “Sorry I didn't invite you to the wedding, Lance,” he says and takes off his glasses. “But there really was no wedding.”

  “Yeah, but you know, there wasn’t even any advance notice,” I reply back to him.

  Dad looks at me for a moment. “Lance, you’ve been here for quite a few days now and you’re just coming to me with this question?” he asks. “What’s prompting you to ask now? If you were really this upset about not knowing, this would have been the first thing you asked me.”

  What the fuck? Leave it to this guy to search for the ulterior motive.

  Although, to be honest, don’t I have the ulterior motive here? I mean, I’m making this conversation because I feel guilty about Jocelyn. He’s right to an extent.

  “I’m just asking you because it seemed like a good way to get into the conversation,” I tell him, trying to appear nonchalant. “It’s not like we’ve gotten much time to talk since I got back.”

  He appears to consider this.

  “But I mean, that’s the usual, though, isn’t it?” I ask, adding that one last bit in.

  It seems to convince him that I’m legitimate. He sits back upright and places his elbows on the desk.

  “I knew her father. You were away at school and you’re old enough now that you’re not really much of an asset to someone who’s looking to portray being a family man. Plus, your…antics aren’t really going to endear any of the demographics I need help with. And the only grandkids I’d have would all be illegitimate. So I needed a wife.”

  I’m silent, processing everything he’s just said. It sounds so cold. So fucking calculating.

  “So just like that, you what? Introduced yourself and got her to say yes?” I ask him.

  Dad sighs again, as if stalling for time.

  “Let’s just say,” he says and pauses, considering his words. “Let’s just say it was in the best interests of Governor Carter to give me Jocelyn’s hand in marriage.”

  Whoa. What the fuck is dad just telling me right here. Best interests?

  “Wait one second,” I say, forgetting the guilt for a moment. “Best interests of the Governor? Are you telling me this is some sort of payment?”

  “I’m telling you that this is none of your business, Lance,” dad says, a hard edge of steel hiding behind his voice. “And it’s in your best interests to drop this.”

  “I’m not fucking dropping something when you basically tell me that you may have coerced someone to spend their fucking life with you, dad!” I say heatedly. “Especially when there’s unanswered questions about…”

  But I can’t finish because dad whips his head in my direction.

  “Unanswered questions?” he snaps at me. “Unanswered questions about things we shouldn’t be talking about?”

  I’m quiet as I watch him bring himself under control. Then, with an almost deathly chill in his voice, he says to me. “Be careful how far beneath the surface you want to dig, son. I’m used to this world. I have no problem burying anyone. Especially someone who’s past his useful life as my son.”

  Was that a fucking threat? Are we fucking going to war?

  “Work on the campaign and help the family and I promise you, you’ll be rewarded,” he continues. “But start bringing up the past or stick your nose where it doesn’t belong, and don't be surprised if you start getting burned.”

  This man did not sit here in his ornate fucking office and threaten me. I’m the closest thing to a son that he’s fucking got. This would just be a dark wood-paneled room with an old man if all the shit that I’ve suspected comes out. The late night visits with Kenneth. Seeing the two of them kissing on the balcony.

  No, I can’t let this man bully me here and now and not respond back to him.

  “If you want to sit there and threaten me, Dad,” I say to him as I stand up. “Then I’m ready to take this to the next level. But I’m not leaving till I get some answers as to why Jocelyn felt forced to marry you.”

  “Oh, give it a rest, okay? Your dad seduced the Governor, kept the evidence, and then when he was ready, went to Governor Carter and has been holding it over his head since then,” a voice says behind me. I turn around and see Kenneth Loomis standing there with a grin on his face. “Don’t tell me you never suspected, Lance?” he asks me as he steps closer.

  I turn my head to look at dad. At first there’s a momentary flash of annoyance and concern on his face. Then that changes to annoyance.

  But apparently my own father thinks I’m not worth the fucking effort required to lie.

  “You…you fucked the Governor to marry his daughter?” I ask, turning around to face dad. What kind of fucking man is my father? For maybe the millionth time, I’m so fucking relieved that I’m not related to him by blood. That I’m really just his stepson.

  Dad, yeah I know, but I’m used to calling him that by now—he just shrugs. “I didn’t do anything to marry Jocelyn, son,” he says to me, raising his head to look at me.

  “That’s right,” Kenneth says coming over to stand by dad’s side. “That woman was just a fringe benefit. An afterthought to the real goodies that the Governor helped him get.”

  I’m still trying to fucking comprehend. Dad, blackmailing the Governor. Getting God knows what from him. Favors? Power? But Jocelyn Carter, probably the single most beautiful woman I’ve ever fucking met ending up as just a fucking afterthought.

 
Holy fucking Christ.

  My world is in a state of complete numbness. Shock.

  Just fucking kill me now. A forced marriage that was just icing on a much larger cake.

  This is too fucking much. I can’t believe the callousness. The fucking waste. I get up from my chair.

  “Close the door on your way out, will you please?” Kenneth says to me as I stalk to the door. I turn around to look at him. His hands are on my dad’s shoulders, a lascivious smile playing on his lips as he brings out his tongue to lick them. “We’re going to be a little…busy…in here.”

  I don’t have the fucking strength to argue.

  I do as Kenneth asks, close the door, and go toward the front door.

  I need fresh air.

  I need to find Jocelyn.

  47

  Jocelyn

  I've never considered myself a great cook, but looking at the dinner spread on our dining room table, I'm proud. I went all out, planning four courses for the evening—an asparagus, green onion, cucumber, and herb salad, a mushroom and leek soup with thyme cream, grilled lamb chops with a sweet chutney sauce, and to top it all off, I even prepared a rich and decadent chocolate lava cake. You know, the kind of warm cake that oozes in the middle.

  I'll admit that I had some help from the housekeeper, Rosa, but I still feel like I pulled off a miracle. I've been harboring guilt, and I needed something to re-direct my attention to, and today that something happened to be a four-course meal. Michael doesn't seem impressed though. He's limply picking at his plate of salad, his fork pushing the vegetables from one side to the other, but Lance is devouring it all. "You outdid yourself," he says to me. "This is impressive."

  His hands are dancing from the soup, to the salad, and back again, but he also seems to be holding something back. He's lifting his eyes to me in cursory glances. What I wouldn't give to be inside of his brain right now.

  Then he looks up, clearing his throat. "I wanted to say something," he begins, and a momentary wave of panic washes over my chest. What is he going to say? "I've decided—" he pauses and I can almost feel myself holding my breath. "—I've decided to go to Europe for the summer."

  Europe? For the entire summer? Why is he doing this? I don't respond and I work hard to stifle my surprise. I casually continue to take small and calculating sips of the creamy soup, allowing the earthy flavors to dance around my tongue. Michael merely shrugs his shoulders and wipes his mouth with his napkin, "That's nice Lance."

  I can detect the disappointment in Lance's face. He was expecting something more out of his father. That much is clear. But as quickly as that disappointment appears, he replaces it with an air of indifference. He's trying not to let his father get to him. "I've decided to take a direct flight to Heathrow airport next week."

  I look over at Michael to see if he's going to say anything else. Perhaps he'll ask Lance what his plans are? Why London, of all places? But no, he doesn't say another word. It seems like he's refusing to engage in any kind of conversation with his son. Maybe he doesn't care at all why he's leaving. Instead, he continues to take uninterested bites of his food, his eyes cast down on his plate. I watch as a small sliver of cucumber gets stuck on his bottom lip. Maybe this is what Michael wanted. I'm too shocked to say anything. I never anticipated this happening. So instead, I simply nod at Lance when he glances in my direction. And really, what can I say? There a lot of things that I'd let spill from my mouth, but not in front of my husband.

  Michael takes a few more bites of dinner and then excuses himself from the table, his chair squeaking against the hardwood floor. Lance takes his cue and leaves as well. I watch them both walk off, and with everyone leaving I start to clear the table. As I'm carrying dishes to the kitchen, Michael re-appears. He is slipping his arms into a coat, and seems to be in a hurry.

  "Where are you going?" I ask.

  "Out. Don't bother waiting up for me."

  He says it with such finality that I don't bother asking anything else. And just like that, he grabs his keys and walks out the front door.

  I decide I've had enough emotional ups and downs for one evening, and I head upstairs to soak in a bath and then go to bed. I walk into my master bathroom, and start the water. Bathing is a ritual that I enjoy, and I look around for the perfect accent. I see it—a purple and white-swirled, lavender-scented bath bomb. That sounds relaxing—the perfect remedy to clear my head—so I undress and drop it into the water, watching it spin and fizz until the water is frothy and the entire bathroom smells like I'm sitting in a field of lavender flowers. The warmth of the water stings my skin—I like my baths hot—the hotter the better, and I slowly sink my shoulders down further into the perfumed heat of it all. My noisy thoughts die down and become hushed, and a sense of tranquility settles over my body like a familiar, comfortable blanket. And it's only when my fingertips become wrinkled raisins that I decide to get out.

  I finish preparing for bed, and when I finally find myself slipping in between my sheets, my mind begins to race again. I shut my eyes and try to drown it out. Go to sleep, I tell myself, trying to will it to happen. But it doesn't work. I keep hearing Lance's words replaying in my mind, " I've decided to go to Europe for the summer." What made him decide to go to Europe? And why for the entire summer? Is he trying to end things between us? Is he trying to avoid me? Or did something happen between him and his father? Things seemed sort of strained between them at dinner. If so, why not just come out and tell me that's what he wants? Does he think I can't handle the truth? As much as I don't want to admit it, the idea of not having him here makes me feel lonely. I'll be physically and emotionally starved. What am I going to do without him? I crave his strong touch. My mind goes back to that first day in the dressing room at Saks Fifth Avenue… and the day in the limo… both close quarters… his strong, rock-hard body so close to mine. My pulse quickens just thinking about it. I also think about his icy blue eyes, and the way they can pierce through me in unexpected ways, and his massive manhood—the way he fills me up like no other man. I grow wet just thinking about him.

  Then I hear footsteps coming up the stairs. It's Michael. I can smell his cologne, and judging by the way his feet fall in uneven movements, I know he's drunk. I can even hear his shoulder dragging against the wall for upport. He's trying to steady himself. It's amazing he even got himself home. I wait and wonder if he's going to come into my room. But when I hear him walk past my door, I know he is heading for the couch in his study and he isn't going to say anything to me. I hear him flop down in his upstairs study and within moments he is snoring.

  What am I doing? Maybe Lance was right. It's like I don't exist to Michael. I'm just a means to an end. How can I be happy living in the same house with a man who doesn't love me and who refuses to show me affection? He didn't even once thank me for tonight's dinner. And with Lance in the house, I crave affection even more. I crave Lance. His touch. His body. His manhood. I need him. There's no way I can fall asleep right now.

  I decide to do something that I never thought I'd do. I quietly step out of bed. I don't know why I'm being so quiet. Michael is passed out. There's no way any amount of noise will wake him up tonight. But I continue to take light steps down the hall until I reach Lance's room. I lean toward the door trying to detect any sounds, but there's nothing. He must be asleep. I slowly turn the knob and push the door open. I see him, with his full figure; the light from the hall illuminated the chiseled muscles of his chest. He's asleep. I walk in toward the bed, and then I lift the comforter and join him.

  48

  Lance

  I open my eyes as I feel the door cracking open, soft footsteps making their way toward my bed. My eyes try and adjust to the fucking darkness in the room, but all I see is a silhouette walking toward me and sitting down on the bed, the mattress shifting under the added weight. That’s all I need, though. I could recognize these feminine curves everywhere.

  “What are you doing here, Jocelyn?” I whisper as she pulls softly on the she
ets, getting under them. She nestles her sweet body close to mine, the touch of her warm skin waking up that old fucking hunger. I turn to her, laying one hand on her waist as my eyes meet hers. Just touching it almost makes me lose all fucking control.

  “I just had to come,” she whispers, my eyes following the movement of her full lips. She just had to come? Oh, I’m going to make her come, alright.

  She places one hand over my bare chest, her fingers sliding down toward my stomach and over my abs. It doesn’t take long for my fucking cock to twitch and harden, desire pulsing in it; by the time her fingers go over the hem of my boxer briefs, they’re already tented over my bulging. Turning her hand, she curls her fingers around my member, pressing her body tightly against mine. “I need this,” she says, softly squeezing my cock.

  “You came to the right place, then,” I reply, a smile taking over my lips as I move my hand up her side, her nightgown hiking all the way up to her waist. I let my fingers climb to her shoulders, and I slowly peel the nightgown off of her body, losing it somewhere among the sheets. My forearm brushes against her naked breasts as I undress her, and I realize she’s not wearing a bra; after I took her nightgown off, the only piece of clothing on her body is a fucking black lace thong. Just the way I fucking like it.

  “I know. The right place is… wherever you’re this close to me,” she murmurs, pulling my boxers down. My cock jumps free immediately, slapping her across the back of her hand. Kicking off my underwear, I sigh heavily as she curls her fingers around my cock, her soft breathing against my neck filling my blood with the unstoppable rage of lust. Could she be any more fucking perfect?

  Inching closer to me, she crushes her mouth against mine, her tongue sliding past my lips as she starts moving her hand back and forth over my cock. She’s stroking me softly, her hand moving in a patient up and down rhythm, her petite fingers delicately hugging my thick shaft.