Quid Pro Quo: A dark stepbrother romance

by Nenia Campbell

  “Haven't you ever wanted to fuck in the dark? When the lights are off, nothing matters.” He bent to kiss her sternum, and then her belly, following no linear path. In the fuzzy darkness, the only indication of where he'd be was the light puff of his breath on her skin. “You could do anything,” he added, “and no one would know.”

  She began to anticipate that warm pressure, breathing a little harder as he dipped lower, nipping at the sensitive skin above her waistband. “That sounds . . . twisted.”

  Nick laughed quietly. “I thought so, too. But I think you're a little twisted yourself, Jay. You're just better at hiding it than most. But I see it. I see everything.” He bit gently at her hipbone. “You should let me take a picture of you. Something to look at . . . when I'm all alone.”

  “No.” Jay dug her fingers into the mattress. “You keep that fucking camera away from me.”

  “Funny you call it that. You should see what I have on there.” He pulled at the tops of her pants with his teeth before trailing a series of light bites to the other hip. “You'd be shocked.”

  Jay shot up, gasping. “Of me?”

  “No.” Nick pushed her back against the bed. “You're not the only one I have dirt on.”

  Jesus Christ. Jay gritted her teeth. “How many people are you blackmailing?”

  “Just you.” She felt his hair brush her ribs as he looked up at her. “Feel special?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you should. You're the only one with anything I want.” He pushed her top up higher and began kissing her breasts until her nipples were sore. “I've never made anyone come with my mouth,” he whispered. “Have you ever let anyone eat your pussy, Jay? Or am I going to be the first?”

  A low growl left her throat, even as something hot and shameful pulsed through her.

  “Good,” he whispered darkly. “I can't wait to put my tongue all over it.”

  He levered his arm under her hips and jostled her up, yanking her pants all the way off. She jumped at the touch of his hands on her legs. He was kneeling between her thighs and it was dark and she couldn't tell what he was about to do and that was fucking terrifying.

  “What are you doing?” she asked nervously, when he lightly gripped her calves.

  “This.”

  “What—”

  Jay clapped a hand over her mouth, smothering her startled yelp as he yanked her twelve inches down the bed and hauled her legs over his shoulders. Oh my God, she thought, trembling with nerves when she felt the warm seal of his mouth between her thighs.

  At first, it didn't feel particularly good—not bad, but not as good as when she got herself off. He was too rough. That gave her a perverse sense of satisfaction, as if she had thwarted him in some way. But as Nick mapped out her body in the dark, he began to shift his approach. The blunt laps became light, fluttering caresses that soon had her squirming against the insistent pressure of his lips, and what he lacked in skill, he made up for in enthusiasm.

  “Like that?” he whispered, barely grazing her.

  Jay pressed her lips together, but when she drew in her next breath, it choked her.

  “What does that mean, Jay?” He tightened his grip on her thigh when she squirmed. “Does it mean, 'yes, please touch that with your tongue'?”

  Jay soon found herself breathing very hard and she squirmed again, pushing against his head. He let himself be moved and she could feel his breath fanning against her tingling skin before he bent again and grazed her with the tip of his tongue in a rough, flicking motion that made her breath catch and her back arch. “Nick,” she croaked. “Please.”

  He kissed her again, bearing down with his lips and his tongue, and her hips lifted as he sucked, hard, and something in her body her seemed to give, making her insides collapse like a house of cards. Jay let out a soft moan, going limp, and heard Nick swear.

  Then there was the telltale blue glow of a cell phone.

  “Oh my God. Are you—” She gulped are. “Are you taking a fucking picture?”

  “No.” He glanced at her, his face pallid and demonic in the harsh light. “I'm putting on a condom. Why? Do you want me to take your picture, Jay?”

  “Give me . . . your fucking phone. Now.”

  “It's actually your phone,” he said, handing it to her obligingly as the light flickered off. “I just borrowed it. Who's Jessi and why are you leaving her on read? You think she'd like to know what you're doing right now?”

  “You bastard—”

  She dropped the phone with a clatter as Nick slid into her with terrible ease, causing her voice to die in her throat as he began fucking her with heavy strokes that slammed her back into the mattress while her body was still singing from his touch. Each time he grazed her tender clit was torture, and she found herself grabbing at him for leverage.

  “No,” Nick panted, holding her hands down beside her face. “No scratching. I have practice.”

  Jay curled her fingers. “Embarrassed?”

  He made a rough sound of amusement. “No. It's the chlorine . . . it fucking burns.”

  She closed her eyes as her hips fell into an easy rhythm that matched his. She could feel guilt gnawing at the edges of her pleasure—that she was wrong for doing this and worse for enjoying it. But for whatever reason, it was easier in the dark. Easier not to see his face. Easier not to see herself. She could just lose herself to the sensations and forget about the cause of them.

  “Tell me who your Daddy is,” he said, speaking just louder than a whisper.

  “You,” she said, crying out. “Oh god. Please.”

  “Shh. Not so loud.” He turned his head, as if glancing at the door. She could feel the muscled wall of his chest working against hers, as if he were fighting her for air. “Say it. Beg.”

  “Daddy,” she said, speaking into the void. “Please.”

  “You're all mine—and you love the way I fuck you, don't you? Even if you're afraid it might hurt.”

  Jay frowned at that, even as her breathing quickened. “I don't know . . .”

  “Yes, you do.” She could feel the heightened tension in him, hear it in his voice; he was close. If she gave him what he wanted, this would stop. “You're my little bird. Say that, too. I want to hear it.”

  “I'm your bird, Daddy,” she said, and he shuddered into her, pressing a clumsy kiss to her face as he let his weight sink them both into her bed. He released her hands and she felt him tense as she ran them over his spine, relaxing in degrees as her fingers swept harmlessly over his skin.

  “Fuck, I'm going to miss you.” She could taste herself when he covered her mouth with his, sharp and musky on his tongue. “You're the only one in this fucking town worth more than the air that you breathe. You know that, blue jay?”

  Jay wasn't sure what to say in response to that. The muted affection in his words sent something sharp cutting through her and her tongue felt weighed down by the shadows. She let her eyes slip closed, slipping back into the warmth when he pulled her against him, and when she woke up, she was alone. She might have thought it had all been a dream, if not for the fact that her body ached and her pants and underwear were both thrown on the floor.

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  Several days later found Jay sat on the sofa in the den, watching the science channel on the television with her hands curled around a mug of tea and the throw pulled over her lap.

  Her mother was out with some of the other women and Damon was work. She could hear birds outside, just barely audible over the television, and Nick was throwing things around in his room as he packed with his usual carelessness. He was going away to college tomorrow and Jay wasn't sure how she felt about that. It wasn't quite dread and it wasn't quite relief, but it had elements of both, and left her feeling very tired.

  Eventually, the door clicked open and Nick came out in sweatpants and a wife beater. He glanced at her for a long moment before disappearing into the kitchen. Jay let out a slow breath, trying to focus on The Crimson Wing but foun
d herself tensing when Nick sat next to her, sliding beneath the throw. He still smelled like clean sweat.

  “What's this?”

  “It's about flamingos.” She stared at the screen, no longer seeing any of it. “All packed?”

  He turned her face towards his, eyes studying her intently. “Today's my last day.”

  “I know.” She hesitated. “Do you think you could . . . talk to your dad?”

  Nick was studying her thin sweater with obvious disapproval but now his eyes rose to her face. “About what?”

  “I don't know. Tell him to . . . not sabotage me. To leave me alone.”

  “That's not a good idea.” He paused. “What do you need the money for? To leave?”

  Yes. “No,” she lied. “I just want some independence. I miss having my own life and I don't like having to use his money to do it. It seems to make him think I owe him.”

  “Talking to him would make it worse,” Nick said decisively. “He doesn't like it when people talk back to him or question his decisions. And it's not like you really need to work, anyway.”

  “Funny how people keep telling me that,” Jay snapped. “I want to work. I like working.”

  “I wouldn't want you working. It suggests a man can't take care of the women in his life.”

  “Is that more of your father's sexist garbage? You're always parroting him. Do you even realize that? Sometimes you sound exactly the same.”

  “I'm not my father, Jay,” Nick said. “He wouldn't let you talk to him the way I let you talk to me.” He arched his eyebrows. “He doesn't believe in marriage, outside of what it means for appearance's sake, and he thinks the ideal woman should be passive and ornamental, like a doll. Would you be surprised to learn that I don't agree?”

  “I don't know what you think,” Jay said. “And right now, I don't really care.”

  “You should care.” Beneath the throw, his hand slid up her thigh. “Don't mouth off to my dad while I'm gone. You apparently have no self-preservation and I don't want him touching you.”

  “That wouldn't be a problem if I could get a job.”

  “Don't worry about it. I'm going to take care of you.” His fingers slid into her pants. “Just like you always took care of me.”

  Jay clung to the throw staring unseeingly at the pink-feathered birds and tropical blue water on the screen. “What does that mean? Do you think we're going to get married or something?” He didn't respond and she let out a sound that was part-sob, part-sigh as his searching fingers found her clit. “You're never going to delete those things you have on me, are you?”

  He watched her through hooded eyes and folded her free hand over his erection, scooting closer until they were hip to hip. “You know if I did, you'd leave.”

  Had she done something to bring this upon herself? She had tried so hard to push him away, but nothing she had done had worked. And even though she knew objectively that none of this was her fault, she couldn't help but feel responsible anyway. Because she was the older one.

  She was supposed to know better.

  According to society, it was always the woman's fault.

  “You would leave,” Nick repeated, accusingly, when her hand stopped moving.

  “Yes.” She saw no point in denying it. Staring ahead bleakly.

  “I'd find you.” He pushed her hand away and finished getting himself off, arching in a way that seemed to be for her benefit, before peeling off his wife beater and coming in that with a low moan that made her look away. Nick tossed the soiled garment aside and slid to the floor, shirtless now, stretching out his long legs. With a contented sigh, he reclined so he was cradled between her thighs. “I'd bring you back, blue jay.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I strained something while lifting my shelf. The fucking thing is solid mahogany.” He looked behind him, still breathing heavily. “You want to rub my shoulders?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, it wasn't a request,” he said coolly. “Do it, Jay.”

  Jay sighed in irritation when he pressed against her. The illusion of choice. His skin was like hot silk. An unspoiled canvas, save for the faint healing marks that had come from her own fingers. She ran her nails down the lines of muscle chiseled into his skin as she shuddered, imagining ribbons of gouged skin peeling away. The visceral salience of it startled her a little, and so did her own bloodlust. She'd never seriously considered hurting anyone before.

  “You don't need to be so gentle.” He glanced at her, upside-down, scratching absently at the stubble on his chest. He'd started shaving it again for swimming. “I won't break,” he added.

  She stared at the vulnerable arch of his throat, as if hypnotized, and slowly began to rub his shoulders. His gray eyes slipped closed, and he leaned further back, causing his dark hair to feather against the couch. She looked away from him abruptly, studying the baby flamingos on the screen with clinical interest, watching them stumble around on their ridiculously long legs.

  “I know,” she said. “Nothing ever touches you or your father.”

  “You really hate me, don't you?” he said, in that same cool, reasonable voice. “For not letting you go. You hate my dad, too, but it's different kind of hate. With me, it's personal.”

  Jay kept watching the TV and tried to tell herself that she felt nothing but her body felt as if it were not her own. His breath warmed her thigh through her pants, sending tingles shooting up her leg. She could feel the dulled flutter of her own pulse between her legs, and the pull of fabric over her sensitized skin made her keenly aware of his every movement.

  She was about to let her hands fall away when he mumbled, “I only wanted you to stay.”

  Blinking back tears, Jay looked down at his sleeping face. Even at eighteen, almost nineteen now, there were still pockets of baby fat that hadn't yet been chiseled away. He had the same heavy patrician features as his father, but elevated—higher cheekbones, a sharper slant to the nose. His mouth wasn't like his father's at all and neither was his hair, so Jay supposed both of those things must have come from his mother, whoever she was.

  She had probably been beautiful, Jay thought. Not just because that seemed to be the only thing Damon really cared about in women, but also because her son was, too. In sleep, purged of its jaded insensitivity, his face was almost painfully attractive.

  He sighed and hugged her leg, nuzzling against her. Just like when he was a boy, she thought, feeling a lump forming in her throat. Nick used to cling to her when he was small with the possessive affection of a feral dog. As if nobody had ever hugged him before in his life.

  Knowing what she knew about him now, it was possible that nobody ever had.

  She wanted to feel nothing. She wanted to feel unmoved. Instead, she felt everything. It was as if her heart had been opened up and everything was pouring out.

  Damon came home a few minutes later, halting at the edge of the checkerboard tiling where it yielded to the white carpet of the den. Jay saw him take in the scene: Nick asleep, with his face pressed against her knee, the TV on low. It wasn't exactly indecent but for some reason, the way he looked at her made it feel like it might be.

  “Aren't you two cozy?” he said, in a way that made her feel cold. Like he'd caught them fucking instead of whatever this was. “Didn't you just come to me with wild, hysterical accusations about my son, Justine? Saying that he was touching you—inappropriately?”

  “I . . .” Words froze in her throat like barbed shards of ice. It's not what it looks like, she almost said, but that, in and of itself, implied guilt.

  You will do no such thing if you want to keep that pretty face.

  Her heart began to beat harder as he set down his briefcase. Freeing his hands. To hurt her? She glanced uncertainly at Nick, somehow still asleep. “W-we're just watching television,” she said in a strained voice. “He fell asleep.”

  “I used to find the two of you on this couch all the time.” The hairs on her arms prickled in alarm as he s
tepped into the room. “He looked up to you. There was a time when he refused to believe that you could do any wrong.”

  He's behind me.

  She felt a tug on a strand of her hair. “What did you say to him?” she asked, hugging the throw to her chest. How did you turn him against me?

  “I simply told him the truth. Women always disappoint—even you, Justine.” She saw him step into her periphery, still twisting that captive strand of hair in his fingers. “A simple reminder to be grateful goes a long way towards correction.”

  Correction. “You mean you—” Jay couldn't bring herself to say the words in her head, afraid that giving voice to them would make them real.

  Being an adult means you pay for it.

  “What a disappointment you were,” he said, tugging on her hair sharply enough to make her eyes water. “Such a beautiful girl, and you squandered it all on ambition.”

  Jay drew in an unsteady breath. “You can't keep me here.”

  “Perhaps not. But I can make it very difficult and very painful for you to leave. And so can Nicholas, who sees things much more clearly than you, with your short-sightedness, ever could.”

  He leaned down and Jay began to tremble hard enough that Nick frowned and began to stir.

  “Let me give you some advice.” The strand of hair fell harmlessly to her shoulder as he tilted his head towards Nick, so that his mouth was level with her ear. “If you're going to lie to me about fucking my son under my own roof, don't mark him up first, little bird.”

  Chapter Thirty

  2008

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  If you're going to lie to me about fucking my son under my own roof, don't mark him up first. Jay went rigid, feeling as if she could no longer draw in enough air to breathe as Damon followed that up with other comments. Ones that made her throat burn hot with bile.

  She wasn't sure when the documentary had ended, but when she found herself looking at the screen again, it was ink-blank. She could see her reflection in it, thin and distorted in a world filled with murky shadows. She was in so much trouble.