Chapter 4: The Study, the Scotch, and the Stepmonster
The rain had started sometime after midnight and hadn't stopped since.
Jack stood on his father's porch, water dripping from the eaves in a steady rhythm, the golf clubs he'd borrowed six months ago heavy in his hands. The house was dark except for a single light burning in the study window—that warm amber glow that meant someone was home, someone was awake, someone was waiting.
He should have called first.
He knew he should have called first.
But Emma had been on him about returning the clubs for weeks now—your father's going to think you stole them, Jack, just drop them off, it'll take five minutes—and he'd finally run out of excuses. So here he was, at nine o'clock on a Thursday night, rain soaking through his jacket, standing on his father's doorstep like a prodigal son who'd forgotten the script.
The door was unlocked.
It was always unlocked. His father believed in open doors and open arms and the kind of trust that came from having enough money to replace anything that got stolen. Jack pushed inside, dripping onto the marble floor of the foyer, and called out a hello that echoed through the empty house.
No answer.
He checked the kitchen first. Empty. The living room. Empty. The dining room, the library, the sunroom—all empty, all dark, all silent except for the rain drumming against the windows.
Then he saw the light spilling from beneath the study door.
---
Priscilla was curled in his father's leather armchair.
She had her legs tucked beneath her, a crystal glass of scotch balanced on the armrest, and she was wearing one of his father's dress shirts—white, starched, expensive—and nothing else. The shirt was unbuttoned to her sternum, revealing the curve of her breasts and the smooth expanse of her stomach. Her hair was loose, falling in dark waves over her shoulders. Her feet were bare.
She looked up when he entered, and her smile was slow and knowing and absolutely terrifying.
"Jack," she said. "What a surprise."
He stopped in the doorway. The golf clubs hung from his hand like an afterthought. "I—sorry. I didn't know anyone was home. I just came to drop these off."
"Those old things?" She waved a hand dismissively. "Your father hasn't touched them in years. He won't miss them."
"He asked for them back."
"Did he?" She took a sip of her scotch. "I don't remember that."
Jack shifted his weight. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting long shadows across the oak paneling, and the rain hammered against the windows like it was trying to get inside. The room smelled like whiskey and woodsmoke and something else—something floral and expensive that he recognized as Priscilla's perfume.
"Where's my dad?" he asked.
"Tokyo." She stretched, and the shirt rode up, revealing more of her thighs. "Left Monday. Doesn't get back until Sunday."
"Three days?"
"Three days." She tilted her head, studying him. "I've been bored out of my mind."
There was something in the way she said it—bored—that made Jack's stomach tighten. He'd known Priscilla for five years now, ever since his father had brought her home from a business trip in Singapore and announced they were getting married. She was thirty-nine, twelve years younger than his father, and she had the kind of beauty that made men forget their own names.
Jack had spent those five years carefully not looking at her.
"Do you want a drink?" She was already on her feet, moving toward the sideboard where his father kept the good scotch. "You look like you could use one."
"I shouldn't—"
"Sit down, Jack." Her voice was soft but firm, the kind of voice that didn't expect to be disobeyed. "You're dripping on the carpet."
He looked down. She was right—a puddle was forming at his feet, rainwater pooling on the Persian rug. He set the golf clubs against the wall and sat in the chair across from the fire, the leather creaking beneath him.
Priscilla poured two fingers of scotch into a fresh glass and handed it to him. Their fingers brushed. Hers were warm, soft, and she didn't pull away.
"Drink," she said. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
He drank. The scotch burned going down, but it was good—smooth and smoky and expensive—and he felt some of the tension in his shoulders start to ease.
"Better?" she asked.
"Better."
She sat back down in his father's chair, curling her legs beneath her again. The shirt gaped open, and Jack forced himself to look at the fire instead of the shadow between her breasts.
"How's Emma?" she asked.
"Good. She's good."
"Still planning the wedding?"
"Yeah. It's—" He took another sip of scotch. "It's a lot. But she's happy."
"And you?"
"What about me?"
"Are you happy?"
The question hung in the air between them. Jack stared at the fire, at the flames licking up the chimney, and tried to remember the last time someone had asked him that.
"Of course I'm happy," he said. "I'm marrying the woman I love."
Priscilla smiled. It wasn't a kind smile. "That's what your father said about me."
Jack didn't have a response to that.
---
The second glass of scotch went down easier than the first.
Priscilla had moved to the floor by then, sitting on the rug with her back against the armchair, the shirt riding up to reveal the tops of her thighs. Jack was still in his chair, but he'd loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar, and the room had grown warmer—or maybe that was just the whiskey.
"Tell me something," Priscilla said. "Something true."
"Like what?"
"Anything." She tilted her head back to look at him. "Something you've never told anyone."
Jack considered this. The rain kept falling. The fire kept burning. And somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice was telling him to leave—to stand up, grab the clubs, walk out the door before this went any further. But his legs felt heavy, and the scotch was warm in his belly, and Priscilla was looking at him with those dark eyes that seemed to see right through him.
"I'm not sure I'm ready to get married," he said.
The words came out before he could stop them. They hung in the air like a confession, and Priscilla's smile widened.
"Go on."
"I love Emma. I do. But sometimes I think—" He rubbed his face with both hands. "I think I'm not the man she thinks I am."
"What kind of man is that?"
"Someone good. Someone faithful. Someone who doesn't—" He stopped.
"Who doesn't what?"
He looked at her. She was watching him with an expression he couldn't read—part curiosity, part hunger, part something else entirely.
"Who doesn't want things he shouldn't want," he said.
Priscilla set her glass on the floor. Then she rose to her feet, slow and deliberate, and crossed the space between them. She didn't stop until she was standing directly in front of his chair, looking down at him with those dark, knowing eyes.
"Jack," she said. "Do you know why I married your father?"
"Because you love him?"
She laughed—a low, throaty sound that made the hair on his arms stand up. "No. I married him because he was rich and I was tired of being poor. I married him because he promised me a life of comfort and security and all the things I'd never had." She reached down and touched his face, her fingers cool against his flushed skin. "But I don't love him. I never have."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I see the way you look at me." She traced her thumb along his jaw. "And I want you to know that the feeling is mutual."
He should have stopped her. He should have stood up, pushed her away, walked out the door. But he didn't. He sat there, frozen, as she lowered herself onto his lap, her knees bracketing his hips, the shirt riding up to reveal the dark triangle of hair between her legs.
"I've wanted you since the moment we met," she whispered. "Do you know how hard it's been, watching you with that little girlfriend of yours? Watching you pretend you don't want me?"
"I—"
"Don't lie to me, Jack." She ground her hips against him, and he felt himself harden beneath her, his body betraying him the way it always did. "I can feel how much you want this."
She kissed him.
Her mouth was hot and demanding, tasting of scotch and cigarettes and something darker underneath. Jack's hands came up automatically, gripping her hips, and she moaned against his lips and deepened the kiss.
His shirt was open before he knew what was happening.
Priscilla's fingers worked the buttons with practiced speed, pushing the fabric aside, her nails raking lightly across his chest. She broke the kiss to look at him—really look at him—and her smile was the smile of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted.
"Bedroom's too far," she said. "I've waited long enough."
She slid off his lap and pulled him to his feet, then pushed him back down into the chair. Her hands went to his belt, unbuckling it with quick, efficient movements, then to his zipper, pulling it down, reaching inside.
He gasped when her fingers closed around his cock.
"Shh," she said. "Just relax."
She stroked him slowly, her thumb circling the head, spreading the wetness that had already gathered there. Jack gripped the arms of the chair, his knuckles white, and tried to remember how to breathe.
"Tell me what you want," she said.
"I—"
"Say it."
"You." The word came out rough, broken. "I want you."
She smiled. "Good boy."
She climbed back onto his lap, positioning herself above him, and Jack watched—transfixed—as she reached down between them, guiding him to her entrance. She was hot and wet and slick, and when she sank down onto him, they both groaned.
"Fuck," he whispered.
"Mm." She began to move, slow and deliberate, her hips rolling in a rhythm that made his vision blur. "That's it. Just like that."
The chair creaked beneath them. The fire popped and crackled. The rain kept hammering against the windows, a rhythmic taunt that matched the pace of her movements. Jack's hands found her breasts, cupping them through the shirt, and she threw her head back and rode him harder.
"You're so much more fun than your father," she breathed. "He can't keep it up for more than five minutes. But you—" She clenched around him, and he groaned. "You feel like you could go all night."
He couldn't think. Couldn't speak. All he could do was hold on as she fucked him in his father's chair, her teeth grazing his ear, her breath hot against his neck.
"This is what you've been missing," she whispered. "This is what you need. Someone who doesn't expect you to be good. Someone who knows exactly what you are."
Her words should have cut him. Should have made him stop, push her away, run out the door and never look back. But they didn't. They only made him harder, made him want her more, made him grip her hips and thrust up into her with a desperation that bordered on violence.
"Fuck," she gasped. "Yes. Just like that."
The chair groaned. The fire blazed. And Jack came with a broken cry, spilling himself inside her, his body shaking with the force of it.
Priscilla didn't stop.
She kept moving, grinding down on him, chasing her own release. Her fingers found her clit and she rubbed it in fast, tight circles, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. And when she came, she bit down on his shoulder to muffle her scream, her cunt clenching around him in waves that seemed to go on forever.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then Priscilla slid off him, her feet landing softly on the rug, and walked to the sideboard to pour herself another drink. She didn't look at him. Didn't say a word. Just stood there with her back to him, the shirt hanging open, his come dripping down her thigh.
Jack sat in the chair, his jeans still open, his shirt still unbuttoned, and stared at the fire.
"I should go," he said.
"You should." She took a sip of scotch. "Emma will be wondering where you are."
He stood up. Buttoned his shirt with shaking fingers. Tucked himself back into his jeans. He grabbed the golf clubs and headed for the door, and he didn't look back—couldn't look back—because if he did, he might not leave at all.
"Jack."
He stopped. His hand was on the doorknob.
"See you next Sunday?" she asked. "Your father's having a dinner party. Emma's invited."
He didn't answer. He just walked out the door, into the rain, and drove home with the taste of scotch on his tongue and the smell of her perfume on his skin.
---
Emma was asleep when he got home.
She was curled up on the couch, a wedding magazine open on her chest, the TV playing infomercials at low volume. Jack stood in the doorway and watched her breathe, watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest, watched the way her lips curved into a small smile even in sleep.
She was beautiful. She was good. She was everything he'd ever wanted, and he'd just fucked his stepmother in his father's study.
He went to the bathroom and showered. Scrubbed himself raw. Brushed his teeth three times. When he finally crawled into bed beside Emma, she stirred and reached for him, her hand finding his in the dark.
"You're home," she murmured.
"I'm home."
"I missed you."
"I missed you too."
She smiled and drifted back to sleep. And Jack lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, wondering how long it would be before he destroyed her.
Wondering if he already had.