Desire (Determination Trilogy 3)

by Lesli Richardson

  Can’t do this for us at the White House, because SOP is only staff buys and cooks for the First Family, unless the First Family is cooking their own food upstairs in the family kitchen. It’s a security issue.

  I check the laundry to make sure he didn’t forget anything in the washer and find the dryer standing open with a mixed load of jeans, underwear, and other items in there. Meaning he’s been fishing stuff out right from there and wearing them.

  He’s barely existing right now,

  With a sigh, I grab a basket, empty the dryer, take the laundry out to the couch, and fold it for him.

  What? You think Dominants don’t do shit like this? That it’s beneath them?

  I lived alone for twenty-plus fucking years. How do you think I got clean briefs?

  I take care of my boy, and my girl. And now our kids. I’m still trying to find my footing in that last role, because I was used to being the fun older uncle, and now I’m the caretaker and the disciplinarian. I try to schedule my time so I’m home as much as possible, I sit and do homework with them nearly every day, and I have them help me cook dinner and do the dishes with me.

  Shae and Kev set her schedule so she’s eating dinner with them almost every day, when she’s home. Kev joins us, too. He’s Uncle Kev to them.

  We’ve already discussed, the three of us, that there needs to be a conversation about that, too. They’re young, the girls just turned eight and Hudson’s five. We need to instill in them the need to maintain our privacy, not talking about us and our relationship, and that we have an unusual dynamic.

  Because once Shae’s out of office, whether it’s in a few weeks or four more years, the three of us are together for life.

  There’s only so much I can do for him at the townhouse. I’m sure he’ll wake up, see it, and feel guilty, and I don’t care. I’ll talk him out of feeling that way later.

  He’s my boy.

  If I can’t publicly claim him right now, at least I can show him how I feel, my language of love to him.

  I send a text to the head of my detail to give them a five-minute heads-up that I’m almost ready to leave. I would stay all night and all day, if I could, except I have a schedule to keep tomorrow, I have to think of the kids, and Prophet would never forgive me for totally ignoring the optics of the press catching me leaving the townhouse in the morning when Shae’s at the White House and not here. The deaths of my brother and Lauren have given us a brief PR respite so there’s not wild-assed conjecture swirling around us. We’re friends, it’s a trying time, and of course we’re going to comfort each other.

  But it can’t last, and one careless optic could bring it all down.

  In the kitchen, I leave Kev a sticky note on the counter, where I lay out his favorite mug and a spoon next to the coffeemaker.

  LU,b

  S.

  We have lots of shorthand codes we’ve come up with over the past several years, which we use in text and in writing. This way, if someone ever gets their hands on something, they’re left with nothing they can use against us because they have no clue what it even means. Or if they have a clue, they have no proof.

  Love you, boy.

  Sir.

  After prowling through the townhouse one last time to check doors and windows, I set the alarm, let myself out, and lock up. Agents are standing there, waiting for me, and escort Priest back to Stagecoach, and off we go.

  I look back as we pass through the gates of the small, secure development and wish there was more I could do for my boy in this moment, because I haaate feeling helpless like this.

  If I’d known in that moment that there’s a bottomless well to helplessness, I might have stayed the whole night.

  Chapter Three

  Past

  October, two years before the presidential election.

  I meet Shae’s flight at Tallahassee International that Tuesday afternoon. I’m not alone, though. Another agent is with me today, a noob from the Orlando field office who’s only two months into his first assignment.

  New guy gets to be the driver. I leave him waiting with the car and head into the terminal to await Shae’s arrival. Kid has hopes of one day making PPD, so today I’m giving him a taste, a mini trial run. Shae’s not officially under protection, so it’s a real-world simulation with little to no danger, and will allow me to gauge the kid’s readiness and give him constructive criticism.

  I’ll admit Shae’s request for this trip has left me a little…confused. After picking her up, we’re heading directly over to the Capitol Complex to speak with Governor Owen Taylor. I already know where we’re going, and have confirmed the governor is in his office all afternoon, but from what I understand, Shae doesn’t have an appointment and wants it kept that way.

  She wants this visit to remain off the books, for some reason.

  When the senator steps into the main terminal, she heads right for me. It’s easy for me to remain professional with her in public. Kind of my job. Besides, while she’d probably be okay politically if our relationship came to light at this juncture, I might not. Not right now. Just because I’m third in command of PPD doesn’t mean I can’t be fired, or reassigned to Alaska, or some bullshit like that.

  I can’t afford that at this time in my life or in my career. Not with my retirement so close I can taste it. I plan on retiring after the next presidential election. Go out with a bang, so to speak. I’ll be over my twenty-five years at that point, and will have hit fifty that previous April, meaning full pension, here I come. I already have feelers out at a couple of private security firms, who are salivating at the thought of courting someone like me to join their ranks. Surviving another presidential election will be an excellent addition to my resume.

  “Feel like clarifying our errand today, Senator?” I ask while we await her suitcase in baggage claim.

  She smiles. “I don’t know if today will pay out or not, but I’ve been doing some digging. Susa Evans was an unpaid intern for my mother back in high school. Her father, State Senator Benchley Evans, was a friend and coworker of Momma’s. He’s actually my godfather, but time and distance and all that. I haven’t been close to them since grade school. Benchley’s a ball-buster, but old-school. GOP, but knows how to reach across the aisle to get shit done. Doesn’t shock me Susa’s running for governor.”

  “That why you endorsed her?” It’s only four weeks until the general, and Susa Evans is running for a job promotion from lieutenant governor to the big G.

  “One of many reasons. The first being I really think she’s the best candidate. Most qualified, definitely. By far.”

  I glance around, well aware of our surroundings. So far, no one’s publicly recognized Shae, even though she is one of Florida’s two US Senators, and has been for sixteen years, at this point.

  Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the failings of our education system on full display.

  Or if they have recognized her, then they’re put off by the huge Secret Service guy with her.

  That would be me.

  “Taylor as VP?” I whisper.

  She nods, also glancing around. “Yep. And Susa’s husband, Carter Wilson. I’d love to have that man leading my war room. He’s a fucking genius.” A wicked smile appears, one I usually only see when she’s begging to suck my cock. “That’s where I’ve been digging. I could use someone like Wilson as my campaign manager and chief of staff.”

  I haven’t had time for deep background research on either man. I know they’re close friends, all three of them. It’s common knowledge they were roommates in college, and Taylor’s a perennial third-wheel to the Evans-Wilson power couple.

  Personally, I strongly suspect they’re a deeply closeted poly triad. I remember reading about Wilson’s response to an active shooting at a school he and Taylor were at eight years ago, during Taylor’s first gubernatorial campaign. But mostly what I remember is Kev’s painfully bungled interview with Taylor about the events the following Sunday morning.

  It
came on the heels of Kev’s mother’s death, and it killed me that I couldn’t be there for him.

  Wilson is a combat-hardened veteran and handled himself with distinction that day at the school. Possibly saved a number of lives by risking his own to track down and kill the shooter before law enforcement could even respond to the scene.

  A smile plays across her lips. “Don’t worry, Sir,” she whispers. “No competition for you.”

  “I fucking hope not,” I mutter just loudly enough she can hear me.

  I get it—this nameless thing she and I have could end at any time, maybe not even by our choice, if it ever leaked to the media. But while we’re doing it, I won’t lie and say I’m not enjoying it.

  Getting strings-free sex and able to spank a senator’s ass when I want to?

  Uh, yes, please, thank you very much.

  Part of our deal is I’m the only person she’s with, and she’s the only person I’m with. Might as well do this, because it’s not like I have any better offers. Besides, I’ve never exorcised Kevin Markos from my heart.

  Believe me, I’ve tried.

  * * * *

  I don’t join Shae in Owen Taylor’s office, where he and Carter Wilson are already talking when we arrive unexpectedly. I did enjoy the vague terror Taylor’s receptionist displayed as Shae asked for a few minutes of the governor’s time while I stood there with a dark and stony glare on my face. I didn’t have to say a word, because I’m obviously Secret Service.

  Not my fault if she assumes I’m Shae’s personal protection.

  I wait outside during their chat and throw off scary-guy vibes while they have their conversation.

  What I wasn’t thrilled with was how hot the two guys are.

  As in, I’d do either of them.

  Or both of them.

  When Shae emerges from Taylor’s office, I find myself face-to-face with those two hunks and I’ll admit I see them as competition.

  Competition I don’t want. I like what is currently an uncomplicated relationship with Shae.

  I’m not going to admit I love her. Not yet. That’s how people get their hearts broken, by admitting stuff too soon.

  Besides, I reserve love for Kevin, and look where that got me.

  As we’re leaving, I call down to the kid to have the car waiting for us at the front entrance. Technically, this little errand today is stretching a few regs, but I can explain it all away.

  Training the kid, duh. Also, I was already in Florida doing threat assessment. Shae gets dozens of crazy e-mails and letters every week, and some of those we have to follow up on. Meaning I need face-time with her to discuss them, and a little precaution never hurt anyone.

  Thus everything is easily explained away.

  I’m interested in talking with her about her quick meeting, but I know we can’t with the kid in the car, or with ears in the capitol. “Townhouse, six?” she softly asks while we’re alone in the elevator on the way downstairs.

  “Yep,” I say without even looking at her.

  I direct the kid to Shae’s townhouse. While I’m no bellboy, I do have manners and get her bag from the trunk for her and walk her up to her door, where I wait until she’s disarmed her alarm before I return to the car.

  At five ’til six I’m back, letting myself in with my own key, and she’s got something almost ready for dinner, because the place smells great.

  I drop my bag on the couch and walk to the kitchen, where I wrap my arms around her and nibble on the back of her neck.

  She laughs and tips her head back for a proper kiss. “Is that your gun, Special Agent Bruunt, or are you happy to see me?”

  “Yes, Senator.” Okay, it’s corny, but it never gets old and always makes me smile. “So what happened?”

  The smile flees, replaced by a scowl. “No-go. Taylor isn’t interested in being VP, and Wilson says he’s basically retiring to raise their kids.”

  “Ah.” I mentally check my relief. “So the search continues?”

  “Yeah.”

  I’ve been vetting people for her on the sly. Nothing that would break regs—mostly—but I’ve helped her eliminate several potentials who have down-low scandals that could set her campaign back by a lot were they to come to light as her running mate.

  “I really don’t want to run for Senate again,” she says, “but I guess that’s what I’m doing if I don’t nail down a campaign manager before New Year’s. I can find someone to run that. Hell, I can bring back the deputy campaign manager from my last run, if necessary, but I really don’t think he’s POTUS-run material.” The guy she used for her previous Senate campaigns is now chief of staff to the governor of Georgia. He isn’t interested in climbing back into the national political mosh pit, either.

  “Four terms in the Senate isn’t a bad cred to have.”

  She turns in my arms. “It’s getting too close to my PR expiration date, and like hell am I going through plastic surgery. That’s just stupid. Guys can get away with looking all craggy and weathered. Women? Not so much.”

  She’s got a point, unfortunately. Shae is a beautiful woman, with her long, black hair and piercing grey eyes. She’s switched from her contacts to glasses since we dropped her off, and right now she’s wearing a Lightning hockey jersey and a pair of shorts. For forty-five, she looks damn good, although coloring her hair to keep the grey out definitely helps.

  “I’m going to go change,” I tell her. I brush one more kiss over her lips and head upstairs with my bag. She really needs a house so we can do everything we want to do and not worry about being overheard. It’s on her to-do list, but I have to admit, finding a campaign manager is pretty important.

  Honestly? While she has good, strong poll numbers, I don’t think she can win a POTUS run this time around. She’ll have some pretty stiff competition from not just Fullmer, our current president, but a large and disorganized Democratic field that seems to sprout a new candidate every day.

  She’d be better off running for Senate one more time—because she’s kicked her opponents’ asses every time—and then declaring. It’d give her more time to put together PACs and a campaign structure, find some wunderkind for a strategist, and yeah, she’d likely be unstoppable.

  When we sit on her couch to eat, I take over the remote and switch the TV to FNB, where The Daily Readout With Kevin Markos is about to start.

  She groans. “Really?”

  Sir arches an eyebrow at her, and she grumbles, but falls silent. “I like his show,” I tell her. “He’s not like the others.”

  She has noooo idea in what ways.

  “What is it about his show you like so much? Aren’t you a Democrat, too? We’re supposed to be allergic to that network’s flavor of bullshit.”

  I shrug. “He’s not trying to shove an agenda down my throat. Hey, he’s the only show I like on that network, okay? And he’s not bad on the eyes.”

  Shae knows I’m bi. “Well, I’ll give you that. He is cute.” She smiles. “He’s interviewed me before.”

  I know, because I’ve seen the shows.

  I’ve seen alll his shows.

  “Yeah?” I say. She doesn’t know I know him, much less how I know him.

  “Yeah. Seems like a nice guy. Some of those newscasters, they pretend they’re nice on the air, but once the camera’s off them, they’re real stuck-up shitheads. He was nice before and after the interview.”

  I clench my jaw to literally hold back the questions. Asking her how he smelled and if his hair is still as soft as it used to feel would be hard to explain.

  Especially since I’ve never told her about him.

  I’ve never told anyone about him.

  The secret of my boy, and a hotel room in Daytona, and tiramisu, all set to a soundtrack of Queen, is something only two people know—me, and Kevin Markos.

  And I don’t even know if Kevin Markos remembers who I am.

  * * * *

  We finish eating and I remain on the couch to watch the rest of Kevin’s show whi
le Shae takes care of the dishes. I feel her slowly transitioning into “girl” mode, meaning she’s looking for the sadist tonight.

  I can and will give her that, but not until after Kevin’s show is over.

  She probably thinks I’m just doing this to be a sadist right now.

  Duh.

  But also because no, I’m not missing his show. I’ll be heading overseas for three weeks for a protection trip, and this is literally my last chance to really relax and unwind for several weeks.

  I need this.

  Once she finishes the dishes, there’s still ten minutes left in Kevin’s show. I grab her by the hair, jerk her down to her knees, and force her to swallow my cock to the root.

  “Don’t make me come, girl, or you won’t come tonight. Just get Sir nice and hard.”

  She moans around my cock, and that nearly does make me come. I sit there with my hand fisting the hair of a three-term US Senator from the great state of Florida while she unknowingly helps me relive fantasies about the blue-eyed news journalist currently filling her TV.

  They say you never forget your first.

  I was his first man, ever.

  He was my first heartbreak.

  Once he signs off, I switch off the TV, pull her off my cock, and stand. She’s forced to scramble to her feet or get dragged, because I’ve dragged her before.

  Sadist in the house.

  Upstairs, I use a couple of thick, thuddy implements on her ass that don’t make a lot of noise and give me and her maximum impact. Then I put her on her hands and knees and fuck her, just to find her dripping already.

  I reach around her. “Make it fast or you don’t get any joy.”

  She’s coming seconds after my fingers find her clit. I take a little pity on her and give her plenty of time to get off like that before I start fucking her.

  This is for me. She’ll probably come at least once or twice more now that I’ve primed her pump, but that’s not the point.

  She likes it when the sadist takes, not gives.

  So that’s what I do. I close my eyes and ride her, reliving that week in my mind and driving my cock into her as hard and deep as I can.