You're still making me pay.
She had spoken the words aloud. His face shifted, becoming as remote as it had in the conference room, when she had accused him of trying to break her.
“Do you want to leave?” he asked, the words so reasonable that she could only stare.
Of course I do, she thought, surprised at the question, surprised that he could even ask. You're a sick fuck and I hate you. But for some reason, the words wouldn't come out.
“I see,” he said, his tone dry. “You'd rather pay the tithe and think of England, is that it?”
She squeezed her eyes shut when he bent to her mouth again. He's awful, she reminded herself, bracing only a little when his hands landed on her waist. His grip was unshakable as his fingers spread to span her ribs. His thumbs were brushing over her nipples, making her skin prickle with each slow pass. She wanted to hate it. She told herself to hate it.
You can still leave.
As if reading her mind, he pulled away abruptly, scooping her up behind her knees to drop her back onto his bed. The sheets that had been ruined by pool water were now gone. In their place were soft and silky ones the color of ink that rustled suggestively as he backed her against them on his hands and knees, forcing her to scoot backwards on her arms.
“I would have let you go,” he whispered.
“Don't lie to me,” she hissed, which elicited a ghost of a smile before his mouth covered hers again. The light in the sitting area was on, but dimly, and very little of the light filtered to the bed. When he tugged at her top, she let him remove it, and he started kissing her harder, touching her harder, touching her more. The textured drag of his clothed body against her mostly-denuded one made heat gather between her legs. She reminded herself again that she hated him, but she didn't hate him enough; in the darkness, he was as familiar as a habit, and just as easy to fall into.
He ran his hands down the length of her body in a way that was like the slow strike of a match. “You want honesty?” Slowly, speaking against her lips, he told her: “I still get hard thinking about the way your breath caught in my pool. I want to tie you up.”
She stared up at his face. Intent and unreadable, shadowed by desire. “Do whatever you want,” she said, which made him exhale in what sounded like displeasure. “I really don't care.”
“Whatever I want,” he repeated.
Nicholas slid a box out from beneath his bed that jangled ominously, shooting a look at her she couldn't interpret before opening the lid and reaching inside. Jay tried to look, but he pushed her back, blocking her view of the contents with one broad shoulder.
She was expecting rough rope or cold metal, maybe even something studded or spiked, but when he leaned back over her, he was holding padded leather cuffs.
“Give me your wrists.”
She knew it was stupid, but she still gave him her hand. He kissed the back of it, securing one end of each cuff to the Flemish scrolls around his headboard and the other around each of her wrists. She couldn't look at him while he buckled her hands, but her breathing began to quicken. He bent over her, knees on either side of her hips, letting her feel how hard he was.
“Let me tell you what I want. You, screaming my name, telling me how much you love being Daddy's slutty little girl while you beg me to go harder.”
His tone, which had started out almost conversational, dipped abruptly into a growl. She heard herself gasp. Then he swung off her legs and began unbuttoning his shirt. She had to look away from that, too, her face burning, as she heard the jangle of his belt, the soft scuff of his jeans. He disappeared into the other room and the light threw the contours of his body into relief.
He was completely naked.
She stared at the ceiling, tense and utterly aware, listening to the clink of glass on glass. She could still feel the burn of his lips on the back of her hand.
I've changed my mind, she nearly said. Let me go.
When he came back, he was holding a half-empty bottle. Her gut clenched as she craned her neck to watch his approach. “I—” Jay swallowed the words sticking in her throat. Keeping her eyes firmly on his face, she said, “I don't want a drink.”
“It's not for you.” He turned her face towards the ceiling. “Keep still.”
She didn't understand at first—not until she felt the tepid splash of liquid pool in the base of her throat. It made her startle, but he gripped her face in his strong fingers until she stopped moving, and then he drizzled a bit more into the well of her navel, and that slight indent just below her rib cage, before painting long, sticky whorls of liqueur over her torso, around her breasts, along the lines of her hips. The last thing he did was touch her mouth, dragging his thumb over the swell of her lower lip, before sliding her pants down and bending over her.
And then she felt his mouth—everywhere.
She began to anticipate his touch, but sometimes he would trick her, breathing softly against her skin before pressing his tongue to a completely different part of her body. It was torture and soon she was writhing under it, but there was something strangely freeing in having her wrists bound, which didn't make sense. It was a bit like the dark. If she couldn't see, she didn't fear. If she didn't touch, she wasn't responsible. When she finally rode out that long, drawn-out climax, Jay found herself knotting her hands in her bonds as he slid inside her.
If she didn't think, she couldn't feel.
He filled her so completely that she found it hard to be aware of anything else. It wasn't for her, but she came anyway—the small, almost-painful rips of sticky skin adhering and then pulling forcibly away; the filthy things and dark promises he whispered in her ear; the pressure as he drove her into the sheets, cinching something inside her so taut that it seemed to cut off the valve of her lungs.
When he kissed her, he tasted like sex and honeyed whiskey, and it felt like she'd surrendered her soul.
Maybe she had.
▪▫▪▫▪▫▪
The next morning, Jay awoke to the soft flutter of his breath against her neck and quickly fled before he could wake. She stood under the scalding spray of the shower in her room, washing her hair and body, scrubbing herself until she could no longer feel him in her skin and the only smell filling her nose was the sweetness of her own apple-freesia shampoo. Her eyes were stinging; she told herself it was soap. She wasn't sure what she was feeling, only that it left her chest tight and her throat aching.
I think he might really hurt me this time.
After she showered, Jay pulled on a pair of old jeans and a faded t-shirt, pulling a hoodie over it and rolling the sleeves up. Nicholas was already downstairs, in another expensive-looking pair of jeans and one of his old metal shirts. She remembered them being loose and baggy over the skinnier frame of his youth, but now the material was tight, faded from multiple washes.
For the few seconds before he turned, she could look at him unobserved. At ease in his body and unconcerned to a degree that nearly felt shameless. Jay couldn't think of anything that might humiliate him—and then, with a lurch, she realized all at once that she could.
It was why she was here.
She must have made a sound because he turned. The only sign of his surprise was a slight widening of his eyes and then his face relaxed into something that wasn't quite a smile. “I need to run those errands today,” he said. “I thought you might like to come grocery shopping.”
Jay hesitated a long moment before speaking. “Sure. I'll get my shoes.”
“Take your time,” he said. “I'll wait.”
She grabbed her purse and slipped on the knockoff purple Vans she'd gotten from Target, before tying her hair into a bun with a little printed scarf covered in avocados. It had been a gift from Lily, tied around the neck of a wine bottle for her birthday.
I should really message her, Jay thought absently, fingering the edges of her phone in her pocket. But maybe that would be weird. I've already waited too long to get back to her.
It wasn't like they had
really been that close, anyway. Lily had probably only been hanging out with her because of their close proximity at work. She'd only be bothering her, now.
Nicholas had left the kitchen, moving to the entryway, swinging his keys around his finger while looking at his phone. When he glanced up, his mouth twitched.
“What?” she asked, crossing her arms. “We're just going to the store, aren't we?”
“You're so cute,” he said unexpectedly. “Like the host of a children's show—the hot one everyone wants to fuck when they grow up.” Jay whirled around, trying to suppress her unease as Nicholas strolled around her in a lazy half-circle. He shot her a grin and then deliberately smacked her ass, jostling her against him as they walked out the door.
She pushed his hand away. “What's wrong with you?”
“I'm a little worked up.” The hand came back, smoothing over her jeans. “You slipped away again. I told you how I feel about that.”
Jay eyed him warily. Even when he was being playful, his games could have the constrictive feel of a snare. You wouldn't feel the bite until it was too late. “Where are we going?”
“Hollybrook Grocery.” His hand fell from her backside as he unlocked the car and moved to open her door, but she got to it first, swinging it open. “I happen to believe it's important to support small enterprise within the local community.”
“I'm surprised they're still in business.”
“They hit a rough patch a few years back when the economy was bad. A generous donation helped keep them out of the red when they were floundering.”
“From you?” Jay asked, not bothering to keep the doubt out of her tone.
“I'm giving philanthropy a try,” he said. “It's great for tax write-offs.”
“Do you even do your own taxes?”
“Of course not.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Do you?”
“Yes,” she said. “Because I'm not an out of touch tycoon.”
“I'm not a tycoon,” said Nicholas. “I'm an investor. I'd be happy to give you a referral for an accountant. In fact, I'll even pay for yours, if you want. We'll call it a gift.”
“More philanthropy?” Jay asked, sorely tempted. She hated doing her taxes. “Or do you still think you can buy your way into people's affections?”
“Maybe I'm just trying to be nice.”
You're not nice. She swallowed back the words as Nicholas parked the car and loped around the side to help her out of the door, but she knew in her heart that they were true. Nobody would ever mistake him for a gentleman, any more than they would call him nice. His father had been concerned with appearances and Nicholas had been taught chivalry in lieu of compassion.
She looked down at his large hand, closed over hers, and pulled away. When he frowned, she busied herself by rooting through her purse for her wallet. She could tell he didn't like that, either. Watching her locate her cracked and peeling wristlet, he said firmly, “I'll get you whatever you need.”
“You don't need to pay for me.”
“I want to.” His smile was without humor. “I take care of what's mine.”
“You don't own me, Nicholas.”
“No,” he said, in an oddly stilted tone. “On that, we agree.”
With those frustrating words, he locked the car, strolling up to the entrance like he didn't have a care in the world, leaving her standing by the Tesla. Maybe he still didn't care. He had enough money that he could just throw money at his problems until they all went away.
Jay entered after him, looking around curiously. The store hadn't changed much in the eight years she had been gone. The smell was the same. The décor on the walls was the same. When she looked at the checkout area, she saw the same cork board with fliers for community events.
When she had shopped for herself in San Francisco, she had tried to keep a careful budget, staying under $600/mo. for food. Vegetables were expensive, though, even when purchased on sale, and going out to eat bumped up her expenses to astronomical proportions, especially with cocktails. Some of those places she'd gone to with coworkers had charged $25 for a single drink.
It had been so hard living in the city and not being able to enjoy it as much as she wanted to. Staring at the shelves, Jay realized that now she didn't really have to worry about food, or about weighing what she wanted against what she was allowed to have. It was a strange feeling—too heady to be relief, but tinged by emotions too bitter to be gratitude, she found herself swamped with an odd blend of resentment, eagerness, and reluctance, all in roughly equal measure.
I can get whatever I want, she thought. But what is this really going to cost me?
She began filling her basket with bags of mixed greens, root vegetables, baby kale, tofu, yeast, cashews, flour, vital wheat gluten, lentils, chickpeas, and coconut oil. Then, feeling extravagant, she got some prepared mixes as well, everything from fresh tabbouleh to packaged curries to vegetable-based broths, a package of microgreens, a big tub of hummus, a kobocha squash, and a bottle of inexpensive chardonnay. If she didn't like the taste of it, she thought she could probably cook with it, although she figured she'd like the taste.
The basket was quite heavy now and she grimaced as she hefted it away from the wine aisle, looking around for Nicholas. She finally spotted him in the frozen food aisle but he wasn't alone. Jay ducked back behind the end cap, rustling a package of cookies.
Who was that woman? She looked a little familiar, which meant she was probably from Hollybrook High. Natasha? No. Natasha had been the crier.
“Nick,” the woman trilled. “Nick Beaucroft, is that you? It's Amanda—Amanda Strife. Do you remember me? We used to make out under the bleachers in fifth period.”
What? thought Jay, glaring at Nicholas's back. She had a distant recollection of a curvy blonde with platinum hair two years her junior. Hadn't Amanda been the one who was always being cited for dress code violations? She looked very pretty now. Tight jeans and a cardigan left unbuttoned to show off a tasteful amount of lace-covered cleavage.
Good for Amanda Strife, Jay thought, surprising herself with her own bitterness.
“No,” Nicholas was saying. “Sorry. I don't remember. I'm bad with names.”
“I'm sure,” said Amanda, after a brief hesitation. “You must be so busy now. What are you up to these days? Elizabeth mentioned that you two had been meeting for drinks.”
Elizabeth?
“I haven't been meeting with anyone lately. I'm swamped with work.” His head turned briefly down the aisle, giving her a glimpse of his profile. “Was it Liz Wong?” he asked abruptly. “I believe we met to discuss one of her husband's projects.”
“Yes,” Amanda said, with far more enthusiasm than really seemed necessary. “Liz is my friend. And she had nothing but good things to say about you! She told me I should speak to you, actually, since you're so involved with the community.”
“Oh?”
“My PR firm is blowing up. We recently moved offices after our latest expansion, so now we're based in Laguna Beach. We have several very prominent influencers as our clients—even a couple A-list celebrities. The expansion is killing me—but in a good way,” she added, leaning forward on her cart the tiniest bit. “I like having to work for it.”
Jay felt the heat rise to her face. Oh my God, she thought, embarrassed. Is she—?
“Yeah.” Nicholas folded his arms, drawing Amanda's gaze. “I know the feeling.”
“You know, I've always thought it was so sweet how you stayed in this town after what happened with your father and your sister. I mean, look at you. Big man on campus and you're still doing your own shopping. It's honestly so humbling.”
Nicholas made a sound Jay couldn't interpret. “You're the first to call me humble.”
“Well, I'm delighted to be your first,” said Amanda, in a way that really left no doubts at all to what she really meant. “Would you like to grab a cup of coffee, Nick? We can talk business. Maybe catch up? I don't think I've laid eyes on you since high school. You lo
ok good.”
“I'll give you one of my cards.” Nick rifled through his jeans pocket, missing the look of disappointment on her face. “My administrative assistant will schedule you. Call before noon or I get completely booked. And now I really need to find someone, so if you'll excuse me—”
Nick turned. Jay fled.
▪▫▪▫▪▫▪
Nicholas shoved the business cards back into his wallet and strolled past the aisles, scanning them for Jay. It never failed to amuse him how people just seemed to crawl out of the woodwork at the slightest hint of success. Like worms surfacing after a heavy rain.
Oh, he remembered Amanda. But forgetting was a simple way to put people in their place, especially when distance became a necessity. She had been so certain of him that the brief look of hurt on her face had been gratifying. Sometimes people needed to be reminded where they stood.
It didn't take long to find Jay; it was a small store and she was wearing bright colors. He found her in the dairy aisle, staring at the fake milk. At the first sign of movement, she tensed, glancing at him and then away as he casually reached around her to grab a few cartons of oat milk and put them in the cart.
“I wondered where you went.” His body brushed against hers. “Are you ready to go?”
“I think so.” Jay looked down at her full basket. Not meeting his eyes.
How much of her submission was because of the debt? If she wasn't so desperately afraid of having her mother ruined and her reputation destroyed, would she still feel so soft when she fell asleep curled in his arms? Would she look at him with that same hopeless wanting in her eyes when he pinned her to the bed? It was in there now, though she was trying to hide it, and he heard her let out a rough sigh as he impulsively hugged her from behind, smoothing his hand over her front as he gave her soft little body a squeeze.
“What are you doing?” She gripped his forearm. “Someone might see.”
“I don't really care.” He toyed with the zipper on her sweatshirt. “Let them look.”
“Even if it gets back to your office that your secretary is actually your sister?” She began to squirm and he let her duck under his arm. “You can't touch me like that in public. Everyone knows someone here.”
Quid Pro Quo: A dark stepbrother romance Page 24