Closer Than Cousins

Author's Note: the "Closer than Cousins" story is a sequel to "The Neglected Son, Chapters 1-5," set eighteen years later.

Outside the mansion, he watched from his hiding place in the shadows. His eyes burned with a long-smoldering hate.

Pinewood.

It hadn't changed. Places like this rarely did. Behind the ivy-covered walls was a world frozen in time. Pinewood had been the same a hundred years ago as it was today, and would likely be the same a hundred years in the future.

Polished oak paneling and silver. Crystal chandeliers and antique furniture. Discreet servants. Money. Murder. Madness.

Family secrets.

**

Swan's lips glided like wet satin up and down the stiff length of Kit's erection. She rolled her tongue around him, relishing the salty taste of his arousal. He moaned soft and low, in time with her movements.

Maybe today would finally be the day.

As much as she loved to do this, and as much as she loved to feel his fingers and mouth doing such deliciously wonderful things to her body, she was tired of waiting.

She eased his cock out of her mouth and rubbed it along her cheek. "Kit," she murmured.

His eyelids fluttered open, revealing the stunning turquoise of his eyes, a color that made her think of tropical beaches. He was flushed, his dark hair glued to his brow in sweaty curls.

"Please," she said.

He knew what she meant. She saw that in the sudden change in his behavior, the pleasure turning to wary distress.

"Please, Kit!" she said, kneeling there between his splayed legs. "We've waited long enough."

"It … it isn't a … a matter of waiting long enough," he panted. "Swan, we

can't

!"

"Yes, we can! It'd be so easy, Kit, so easy! All you have to do is lie back and let me …"

"Stop, Swan. What we do already is bad enough. If we … if we actually …"

"Fuck," she breathed, not meaning it as a curse word at all. "Yes. Yes, that's what I want. I want us to fuck, want you in me, all the way in me. Why is that so bad?"

"Because you're my –"

"Cousin, I know, I know!" she said for what had to be the thousandth time. "And I don't care. You don't care. Not really."

"Yes, I do."

"If you really cared," Swan said, "you wouldn't let me suck you. You wouldn't lick me. You wouldn't let me come into your room at night when Uncle Chet and Mrs. Reilly and everyone else is asleep, and spend the night naked in your bed."

Kit covered his eyes and groaned. "I know I shouldn't."

"But you do."

"I can't help it. You're so beautiful … and … and I love you!"

"I love you, too," she said, sealing it with a tender kiss to the tip of his cock, which still rested against her cheek. His guilt had begun to make him droop, but the kiss got him swelling and twitching again. "That's why I want us to do it."

"I want it, too," he said. "God, I want to … but we can't!"

"Why not? And don't say because it's wrong. What we're doing already is wrong, and we don't let that stop us. Would it be so much more wrong?"

"If anyone found out –"

"If anyone found out about

this

," she said, running her tongue up the underside of his shaft in a firm stroke that made him shiver, "what would happen? It's a silly argument, Kit. Either we can't do anything, or we can do everything."

"What are you saying, Swan?"

What

was

she saying? She didn't want to hold him hostage with threats, not her beloved Kit. They had been together all their lives, orphans growing up in this big house, their mothers dead, their unknown fathers gone. Uncle Chet had been too busy with managing the Hollister fortune to ever be more than a guardian, and the staff weren't family. They really only had each other.

She had grown up loving Kit like a brother. A few months ago, that had changed, and now she loved him in ways she had never thought possible. She loved him as she loved music and dance, the ballet that was the center of her life.

"I just want us to be happy," she said. "I don't care what's wrong or right. I don't care that our mothers were sisters. I

certainly

don't care what people think. You know that. I've never cared much what other people think."

"Neither do I," he said, but she knew that was a lie.

"What do you think would happen?" she asked again. "What if someone found out? The servants wouldn't dare say anything, not if they wanted to keep their jobs. Most of them aren't even here today, so how would they know? And it's not like you or I would go to jail. We're almost nineteen. We're adults. There's no law against it."

"I think there is."

"Only if we wanted to get married." She pouted. "Which is a shame, because if you married me, you'd

have

to fuck me. That

is

the law. But it might not apply. We're only cousins. That's allowed."

"I wish I could marry you," Kit said. "But we have to face reality one of these days."

"I don't like reality," Swan said, still pouting. "Reality is about school, and work, and misery. Reality belongs out there, outside Pinewood's walls. In here, we have our own world and it should be the way

we

want it."

She turned from him, giving him the long line of her back as she sat on the edge of the bed. They were in his room, the walls covered with bookshelves and framed photographs of exotic places where Kit had never gone, and with his chronic ill health, might never have the chance to go. Paris. Ireland. Australia. Japan.

"I wish it could be the way we want it," he said.

"Then quit wishing, and

let

it be."

"And what? Forget the rest of the world?"

"Yes," she said. "To hell with the rest of the world. I love you. I know you love me, too. We want to be together, always. So why shouldn't we be?"

Kit sighed. The mattress dipped as he moved to the edge of the bed beside her, and put an arm around her. She leaned into him, her head fitting so naturally into the cradle of his neck and shoulders that she refused to believe it could be wrong.

"You deserve more," he said in a voice so quiet it was almost a whisper. "Remember what the doctors always said, Swan? That I'd be lucky to see thirty?"

"That was a long time ago," she said. "You're better now. You're not sick anymore."

"But I might get sick again."

"And I might break my neck doing a

jeté

," Swan said. "Or I might choke on a bite of apple, or fall down the stairs, or drown in the swimming pool. Or a meteor might flatten Pinewood. To hell with all that! What matters is right now!"

"Oh, Swan …" He sighed again, and rested his head against hers.

"You know," she said with sudden gaiety, "I have never heard of a man arguing so much to get out of sex."

"I don't –"

She put her finger over his lips. "No, Kit. Shut up, Kit. We've had this same silly argument over and over, for months and months. I'm bored with the argument."

"All right," he said.

"It's ultimatum time."

"Oh, no," Kit said. "What are you doing?"

Swan rose and pirouetted nude in front of him, her long fawn-brown hair swirling down her back. She danced prettily in a patch of daylight filtered green by the ivy at the window, loving the way he adored her with his eyes.

She stopped in front of him, took his wrists, and brought his hands to her breasts, which were small but perky and upswept, raspberries and cream. He cupped them, gently rubbing his thumbs over her nipples in the way they both knew she liked.

"Either we do it now," she said, "or we never do this again."

His breath rasped. "Swan …"

"I mean it, Kit. If it's too wrong for fucking, it's too wrong for anything."

"You

know

how much I want you!" He let go of her and rose, standing in front of her, and if she hadn't already known, the rigid length poking at her navel would have been a good clue.

"Then prove it." She wrapped her fingers around his cock. "With this. Right now."

"But it's wrong!"

"I don't care."

It hurt her to be so cruel to him, but she could think of no other way. Goodness knows, she had tried to be subtle about it before. Had tried to be tricky.

A few times, they'd been embracing, legs entwined, and his cock had been right against her, and she'd squirmed and worked her hips, thinking that if it happened to slip inside, then it'd be too late and they might as well take advantage of such a happy accident. But Kit had always caught on and pulled away before more than the barest inch could penetrate.

On other occasions, she had foregone subtlety and just tried to take him, by straddling him in a swift motion after she'd been sucking, so that his cock was standing up straight and tall and slick with her saliva. It should have worked. She was quick and lithe, fitter and stronger. Just … up and over with the leg, and sink down, and she should have had him all the way up inside before he realized what she was doing.

Yet this, too, he had always sensed in time to prevent her. For a while, she'd viewed it as a game, a challenge. Now it was a source of exasperation. And she desperately feared that if she didn't do something about it

now

, exasperation would become irritation. Then anger. She never wanted to be irritated with Kit, or angry at him.

He looked at her with a vaguely wounded little-boy expression. Like she had offered him a plate of cupcakes, but then whisked it away before he could taste more than the frosting. Which was the exact opposite of what she was doing … he had already sampled the frosting and now it was time for the entire sweet treat.

"You really mean it, don't you?" he asked.

"Yes! What else do I have to do to convince you? Honestly, Kit! Fuck me already!"

She threw herself across the bed, bouncing the mattress. With her knees up and apart, her dancer's belly flat and taut, she opened her arms to him.

Kit stood over her, his gaze traveling slowly from her face down her body. When he reached the fine silky triangle of her pubic hair, and the pearl-pink labia peeking out, she saw his throat move in a convulsive swallow.

"Oh, God, Swan," he whispered.

"Don't think about it," she said.

He knelt on the bed, between her legs. His mouth worked, as if he sorely wanted to say all the same old things he had already said, the same old things that didn't make a bit of difference.

Swan tingled all over with anticipation. She was more than ready for him, she

ached

for him. A smooth flex of her lower body lifted her hips, presenting herself to his ready cock.

"Do it, Kit," she said.

The tip made the barest brushing contact, and it was as if the last of Kit's resolve finally crumbled away. As if he realized that it was no use fighting her, that it was

stupid

to fight her when they both wanted and needed it so much. He surrendered with a loud cry, falling on her and plunging deep.

"Yes!" Swan shouted. "Ooh, Kit, yes!"

There was of course no pain, her hymen having been lost through ballet exercises long ago. Instead, she felt only a wonderful slick and slippery fullness. She crossed her legs at the small of his back and threw her arms around his neck, holding him trapped in case he was shocked back to his earlier objections and tried to withdraw.

For a moment, Kit didn't move. He lay atop her, blinking those lovely turquoise eyes in hazy, blissful astonishment. Then he rocked back, but not as if he meant to pull out, and thrust into her again. He called her name over and over, raining kisses on her face, pumping his hips.

Swan clung to him, meeting each thrust, hurtling toward orgasm. It was the fact of it – Kit was finally fucking her! – almost as much as the feel of it … though the feel of it was nothing short of exquisite.

But then Kit's entire body stiffened, not just the part of him buried so deliciously within her but every muscle. Swan voiced a wordless, cheated protest, thinking that he must have been too excited, must have come already, while she was still on the verge. Except Kit didn't come … she still felt him thick and hard and pulsing.

From outside came the revving snarl of an engine, a sound they both knew. Uncle Chet's car. He had left after breakfast, planning to spend the day in the city on a variety of errands, and hadn't been expected back for hours yet.

Kit looked horrified. He started to lever himself up, but Swan held him tight.

"He won't catch us," she said.

"He will!"

"Don't stop, Kit, please! I'm so close." She writhed, grinding her hips up at him.

"If he sees us like this –" But he thrust again, despite his agonized expression of fear. "Oh. Oh, God."

"When has he ever barged in on you? Mmm, yes, faster … Kit, yes, just like that!"

The engine stopped. A car door swung shut. Footsteps grated on the gravel driveway.

"He'll disown us," Kit said, sliding his hands under her buttocks to pull her more firmly into each stroke. "Swan, oh, you feel so good!"

Swan arched her back, gasping. "He … won't … ooh, yes, I'm going to … ooh …"

Distantly, the echoing hollow boom of Pinewood's great front door closing …

Kit drove into her harder than ever. She muffled her ecstatic howl against his shoulder as the throes of her orgasm picked her up and tossed her like a skiff on a stormy sea. She bucked wildly up at her cousin as he pounded in and out, both of them frantic.

The bedsprings creaked and the headboard rattled on the wall, and Kit was moaning her name again and again. He came explosively, crushing her against him so hard that it almost hurt, but Swan welcomed it, straining to get every last sensation, every last moment of pleasure and passion.

Then it was over and Kit lay sprawled on top of her, their bodies soaked with cooling sweat. She could feel his heart thundering behind his ribs.

He raised his head and looked at her with numb incredulity, the realization now settling in on him of what they had done. Before he could start in with the remorse, Swan kissed him.

"I love you," she said, and nipped the end of his nose. "No going back now."

"We shouldn't have –"

"I said no going back!"

"All right," Kit said. "If that's what you want."

"Of course it is, silly. It's all I've ever wanted."

They kissed again, and began the process of disentangling their limbs and moist flesh. Kit stood shakily, clinging to one of the bedposts for support, as Swan, feeling revitalized and fresh, sprang from the bed.

"Oh, shit!" Kit said, abruptly remembering. "Uncle Chet!"

"He

would

come home early," Swan said. "But maybe we should just get it over with."

"Get what over with?"

"Telling him."

Kit gaped at her.

"Well," Swan said, "don't you think we should? What can he do? Kick us out? I don't think so. You've read our grandparents' will. Uncle Chet's really only our half-uncle. Sort of. How does it work again?"

"Uncle Chet is Grandfather's son by his first wife," Kit said. "But his first wife was Grandmother's younger sister. So that makes him a little more than a half-uncle."

"Whatever," Swan said, unconcerned. She perched naked on the corner of the bed, watching as Kit scrambled around for his clothes. "But the estate – Pinewood – belonged to Grandmother. So it's ours. He's only our guardian, right?"

"Until we're twenty-one," Kit agreed.

She smiled as he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and realized that clothes alone weren't going to hide the rumpled flush, let alone the musky scent of sex that surrounded both of them like an aura.

"So," continued Swan, "doesn't that mean we can do what we want?"

"But …

tell

him?" Kit hurried into the adjoining bathroom, and water began to hiss from the showerhead.

"We could just ask for his blessing," Swan said. She stretched, feeling sated and luxurious … but not so sated that she would have passed up more.

"Let's not rush this," Kit said. She heard him get into the shower. "I need to think."

"Oh, no you don't," Swan said. She followed him, stepping into the clouds of billowing steam. "Whenever you think, you get feeling all guilty and don't want to love me anymore."

"Nothing could make me stop loving you," Kit said, embracing her under the hot spray.

**

If looks could have killed, Chet Hollister would have been dead the moment he emerged from his sleek little sports car. The eyes of the man watching from the shadows would have been twin sniper rifles, dropping him in his tracks.

But looks alone could not kill, and the gun that the man

did

have might not be accurate at such a range.

So the man had waited, and watched, and hated, as Chet Hollister strolled toward the front steps as if he hadn't a care in the world.

Hollister was in his early forties but could have passed for half that age, disgustingly fit and tanned, gleaming with country club good health. He was dressed in clothes expensively styled to look casual.

It was, the man thought, like looking at Dorian-fucking-Gray. The soul inside that athletic frame was black and rotten, teeming with corruption. If Hollister's sins had been reflected outwardly, people would have run screaming from his haggard, hellish visage.

The only screams that mattered, though, were Hollister's own.

**

"There you two are," Uncle Chet said. He glanced at their damp hair. "Been swimming?"

"You're back early," Kit said.

Swan crossed the breakfast room, which was on the sunniest side of the house, and chose a tangerine from a bowl of fruit. She was ravenous. Digging into the peel with her fingernails released a fine mist of citrus droplets that only further inflamed her appetite.

"Forgot my wallet, and by the time I got home to retrieve it, I'd decided that it was too nice a day to spend in the crowded, smelly city."

Sectioning the fruit and popping a wedge into her mouth, Swan gazed idly out the window at Pinewood's lush grounds. She could just see the roof of the detached dance studio that had been her mother's and was now hers.

She saw a man out there. A stranger. Standing in the bushes behind the studio, staring at the house. Swan didn't recognize him. Not one of the usual gardeners. All she could tell of him was that he was tall, and had the saggy look of someone who had once been well-built, but who had lost a great deal of weight and muscle tone. As she watched, he started walking purposefully toward the house.

"Uncle Chet," she said, turning from the window and sucking the sweet juice from another wedge of tangerine, "Kit and I want to get married."

Kit dropped into a chair as if someone had kicked him in the solar plexus. Uncle Chet choked on a bite of croissant and had to hammer his chest with his fist before he could cough up the offending piece of pastry.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked, eyebrows arched high.

"We're in love," Swan said.

"Swan!" Kit shot her a panicked, pleading look.

"Well, we are," she said, daintily licking her fingers.

"Kit?" asked Uncle Chet, eyebrows still high. "Is this true?"

With a deep breath, and a sort of fatal resignation, Kit said, "Uncle Chet, I know what you're going to say. I know all the objections you're going to have. I've had them myself. But it is true. I love Swan."

Uncle Chet carefully folded his newspaper and set it aside. He took a sip of coffee while he studied them both. Kit squirmed under that scalpel-sharp scrutiny, while Swan ate another bit of tangerine.

"Oh, my God," muttered Uncle Chet. He passed a hand over his eyes. "I should have known."

"I can explain," Kit said.

"How long has this been going on?" he demanded.

"A … a few months," Kit admitted. "But not what you think! We …"

"Made love for the first time today," Swan finished brightly. "So you see, Uncle Chet, we're sure that we want to be married. I could be pregnant already."

If Kit hadn't already been sitting, that would have knocked him off his feet. His jaw came unhinged and the color drained from his face.