My Sister-in-Law Used an Excuse to Get into My Bed

Lucía had arrived at the house at the beginning of summer, when her parents set off on a cruise that would last three months. Damián and Carolina took her in without thinking too much about it: she was Carolina’s younger sister, just turned twenty, and needed somewhere to stay while she finished some university paperwork.

What none of the three of them imagined was what that living arrangement would awaken under the roof of the apartment in Rosario.

Carolina left early. She worked in management at a bank downtown and came back after seven, exhausted, with no desire for anything but bed. Damián, on the other hand, set his own hours: he was an electrician and spent many afternoons at home, waiting for the next job. Those afternoons alone, with Lucía wandering around the living room in minimal clothes, became a silent torture.

Because Lucía knew exactly what she was doing. Of that he was sure. The way she bent over to reach something, the thin T-shirt with nothing underneath, the looks she held on him a second too long when her sister wasn’t there. He kept telling himself it was his imagination, that she was his wife’s sister, that he shouldn’t even be thinking about it. And yet it crossed his mind all the time.

***

It was an afternoon in January, with the heavy, humid air clinging to the skin. Damián was sprawled on the sofa with a beer, pretending to care about a match. Lucía appeared from the kitchen in denim shorts so short they barely covered her thighs and dropped down beside him with a long sigh.

—Brother-in-law —she said, biting her lip—, you have to help me with something. I don’t know what to do.

—What happened? —Damián turned the volume down, not quite knowing why.

—Everything itches… down there. Since last night. I don’t know if a bug bit me or what. —She scratched over the fabric, shamelessly, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye—. I’m embarrassed to go to the doctor. Couldn’t you take a look?

He choked on his last swallow. This is not happening. But his body was already reacting before his head could: an uncomfortable pressure against his pants, his pulse pounding at his temples.

—Lucía, I don’t think…

—Just look. One second. If it’s a bug, you tell me and that’s it.

He never knew at what point he said yes. Maybe he didn’t say it with words. Lucía got up just enough from the sofa, yanked her shorts down —she wasn’t wearing anything underneath— and sat back down, spreading her legs toward him.

His breath caught in his throat. She was shaved, her skin a little reddened in the folds, and there was a wet sheen that had nothing to do with any itching. The smell of heat and skin hit him head-on.

—Here —she whispered, pointing with one finger—. Do you see anything?

Damián leaned in. He made the gesture of examining her, as if he were really looking for a bug bite, but his hand was no longer obeying the excuse. He rested two fingers on the inside of her thigh and felt the skin pucker.

—I don’t see any bug —he said in a voice deeper than he intended—. It’s just a little irritated, that’s all.

When his fingers brushed her parted lips, Lucía let out a low sound and pushed her hips forward. She didn’t pull away. On the contrary.

—Touch a little more —she begged—. That’s where it burns.

***

What came next had nothing medical about it. Damián parted the folds with his thumb and found her already slick, ready. He started to work her slowly, from bottom to top, until his finger slid in without any effort. She arched her back against the sofa and dug her nails into his forearm.

—Like that, brother-in-law, like that…

He worked her with his hand, in and out with his finger, his thumb drawing slow circles above. Lucía breathed through her mouth, cheeks flushed, hips following the rhythm he set. When he thought she was close, Damián stopped.

—You have to help me too —he murmured.

He unbuckled his pants. Lucía slid to the floor, knelt between his legs and took him in both hands before lowering her head. Her mouth was hot, her tongue running all over him, her free hand lost between her own legs. Damián gathered her hair in a fist, not to force her, but to see her face.

—Look at me while you do it —he asked, and she lifted her eyes without stopping sucking him.

When he felt himself getting too close, he pulled her up. He sat her astride him, yanked her T-shirt up and took her breasts in both hands. Lucía lowered herself slowly, guiding him inside herself, and they both let out the breath at the same time when he slid all the way in.

She started moving on top of him, slow at first, then deeper, her hands braced on his shoulders for leverage. Damián bit her neck, slid his hands down to her waist and matched her, lifting his hips to meet hers. The sofa creaked. Outside, the sound of the match continued, ignored by both of them.

—Don’t stop —she panted into his ear—. Please, don’t stop now.

He didn’t stop. He turned her over onto the cushions, spread her legs and drove into her until he felt her tense all over, trembling, her mouth open in a scream that she muffled herself with the back of her hand. Damián held out for two more thrusts and came inside her, emptying himself with his forehead pressed to her shoulder.

They stayed still, pressed together with sweat, until reality came crashing back. Carolina would be home in a couple of hours.

—Thanks for checking my itch —Lucía said with a smile that was anything but innocent.

Damián didn’t answer. He knew he had just crossed a line with no way back.

***

The itching, of course, didn’t get better. The next morning, as soon as Carolina shut the door, Lucía appeared in the kitchen wearing an oversized T-shirt and nothing else.

—It’s still bothering me, brother-in-law —she said, leaning against the counter—. Can you take another look?

This time they didn’t even pretend. Damián set down his coffee, sat her on the counter and spread her legs. He lowered his head and tasted her, unhurried, attentive to everything that made her shiver: the rubbing just above, the pressure when he sank a finger into her, the hair-pulling when he stayed too long in the same spot. Lucía moaned without caring about the neighbors, her heels dug into his back.

When she came, she got down from the counter, shoved him against the fridge and took over with her mouth until the end.

That was how the routine settled in. Every morning, as soon as Carolina left, there was a new excuse. That her back hurt and she needed a massage. That she didn’t understand how the water heater worked. That she was cold, that she was hot, that she was bored. Any pretext was enough to end up tangled on the sofa, in the kitchen, on the bathroom floor.

***

She made the next move. One afternoon she took him by the hand to the bedroom Damián shared with Carolina and threw herself onto the double bed.

—Here —she said, patting the mattress—. My sister sleeps right on this side, doesn’t she?

—Lucía…

—Fuck me while thinking of her. Imagine she’s watching.

He should have told her no. Instead he climbed on top of her. And it was worse, because the idea set him on fire: the betrayal on the very same sheets, his wife’s perfume on the pillow while he sank into her sister. He took her slowly, savoring every inch, until the rhythm became impossible to contain.

That afternoon Lucía wanted more. She got on all fours, looked over her shoulder and asked him, with a mix of shame and desire, to try it from behind. Damián prepared her patiently, with spit and his fingers, attentive to every gesture of hers, easing in little by little, stopping every time he felt her tense. When she finally accepted him all the way, Lucía buried her face in the pillow and asked him not to stop for anything.

They ended up collapsed, breathless, on the rumpled bed. Damián fixed it afterward with almost ridiculous care, smoothing the sheets, turning the pillow over, erasing any trace like a neat-handed thief.

***

The risk became part of the game. At Sunday dinners, when Carolina cooked for the three of them, Lucía would slide her foot up his leg under the table, slowly, looking him in the eye while talking about anything with her sister. Damián learned to hold his wife’s gaze without a muscle moving in his face.

Until they almost got caught.

One afternoon Carolina got back from the bank early, with a headache. They heard her come in when they were on the sofa, Lucía sitting on top of him. They had ten seconds to get dressed, disheveled, hearts pounding, pretending to be watching television when Carolina crossed the living room.

—It’s so hot —she said, unsuspecting, setting her purse on the table.

That night, while he was with his wife, Damián closed his eyes and thought of Lucía. He hated himself for it. And still it was the most intense sex he’d had with Carolina in months.

***

The living arrangement ended when Lucía’s parents returned from the cruise and she moved back in with them. Damián thought that was the end of it, that distance and sanity would do the work he hadn’t been able to do.

He was wrong.

Lucía started showing up with any excuse. That she’d come to pick up something she’d forgotten. That she was stopping by to say hi. That she wanted to see her sister, and stayed until Carolina went out shopping. Each visit found its stolen minute: the bathroom during a family dinner, the car parked in the garage, an empty room in her parents’ house while the table filled with people on the other side of the door.

—You know the worst part? —she told him one of those afternoons, still flushed, adjusting her clothes—. That I don’t regret a thing.

Damián didn’t either. He knew it was a disaster waiting to explode, that sooner or later someone would put the pieces together, that he was playing with the only stable thing he had. He knew it every time, and every time he went back.

Because in the end, he realized, it had all started with a stupid lie on a summer afternoon. An invented itch, an excuse neither of them believed. And from there there was no way to scratch the desire without going back to looking for each other.