I hope he knows what a gift you are. I hope he makes you smile and makes your heart sing, sweetheart.
I hope he never takes you for granted.
I hope he protects you.
I hope he loves you, the way you deserve to be loved, and that he makes you feel that love.
I will settle for being your friend, for being your girl, for always watching you watch him. I think I can really like her because while I don’t know (and don’t want to know!) what “the deal” is with her and him, maybe there is a parallel.
Maybe she really loves him the way I love you.
But his heart is yours every bit as much as yours is his.
That’s sweet, too. Over, what, twenty-two years now you’ve had this love? Held this torch? Both of you?
You are a kick-ass chief of staff. I can say that now, because you were a kick-ass campaign manager. I’m blessed to call you my bestie. I’m even more blessed to know I’m your girl, even if it’s just as friends.
Because maybe I don’t have someone to love me back the way he loves you, but maybe, one day, I’ll find that person. If I do, I’ll make sure you sign off on them first, because obviously you know what true love is and how to make it last, even when decades and miles and life keep you apart.
Love,
L.
* * * *
Dear Kev,
Tonight I got to sit on a riser behind several former presidents and watch my new boss get sworn in.
All through today, as I watched you and him, I saw nothing but love and pride, no jealousy on your part, and blatant, barely constrained need on his.
Someone’s getting fucked over the Resolute desk tonight, I bet.
Enjoy, sweetie. :)
These past few weeks have been a whirlwind. When I went home to Mom and Dad’s for Thanksgiving and was talking to them, they asked about you. They asked how you were doing, if there was any chance for us to reconcile.
I finally had to hint to them—no, I didn’t give away all your secrets—that we are still and always will be besties, but it turns out that it never would have worked between us, and I’m okay, but that you need your privacy.
Mom outright asked if you were gay.
I told her there were secrets not mine to tell, but that you have someone, and are happy, and that it’s okay that the press and other people still think you and I might be an item in secret.
That I’d rather everyone thinks that than to think poorly of you, because you’re a good man, and you’re doing good work for a good person.
Tonight, you saved a dance for me at all three balls, and I got to pretend the world outside doesn’t exist.
For tonight, I got to dress up for you, be your girl, and I was happy.
But you know what? It’s okay. I’m okay.
Because I do have a dream job—holy crap, I’m PRESS SECRETARY!
And I have you to thank for that.
I hope I’ve never let you down, but I needed you to know that I am forever grateful to you and awed by the trust you have in me to come to me first for this job.
You had no intention of leaving before I said yes that night, did you? I think about it in retrospect, and you had that look. That sneaky little commanding way you used to get at work with me, where you knew damn well I’d do just about anything for you.
I meant it that day I said you’re different now. That side of you comes out at work more, and it’s hotter than fuck on you, honey. Like you won’t take no for an answer. Command and control, right?
Don’t ever change, Kev.
Love you,
L.
* * * *
I read through the other letters, but the last one, dated that past February, not long after Charles and Tory died, guts me.
Dear Kev,
God, this has been a fucking shitty month, but it opened my eyes.
We buried Charles and Tory and while my heart bled for their family, and for the kids, it shattered for you.
I watched you unable to step in, unable to take over, unable to fix this.
I know you hurt most of all for him, for his pain, for being unable to flank him, drape your arm around him, and hold him through his tears.
You are the strongest man I know, Kev. Never let anyone tell you otherwise.
Why do I write these and tuck them away?
Because I know life is short. I know from talking to your mom before she died that I should never leave things unsaid.
I see how you love those kids as if they’re your own—because they are. They just don’t know it.
They’re your kids because they’re his kids now, and you need no other reason to love them besides that.
Maybe that’s why you took this job, because he asked it of you and you take on that which you love for their sake to the very detriment of yourself.
I realized maybe that’s why you married me and stayed married to me for so long despite knowing I wasn’t the love of your life.
And that’s okay, sweetie. Really, it is.
I know I said yes to you for this job not just because you would have talked me into it anyway, but because it was you. I stay long after most administrations have had two or three press-secs by now—because of you.
If you’re here, I’m here, even though I know I serve at the pleasure, yadda-yadda.
If you leave, I walk with you.
I love the kids, too, and realize that loving them is easy, because you love them. I can close my eyes and pretend they’re our kids, the kids we never had, even though I never really wanted kids before.
How stupid am I?
I wish we’d had kids. They would have had your eyes, I hope, and your kind, beautiful heart. And they would have always tied me to you, at least in some small way, so you’d always be in my life.
Because I’ll stay as long as you stay, but I worry. Those two years of the campaign were miserable as fuck for me, because even though I had your old office, I didn’t have you. I couldn’t drop in on you. I couldn’t watch you when I got home.
You weren’t there.
I said yes to stay in your life, to see you almost daily again, and I’m lying if I say otherwise.
Life is short. Love is hard. Losing is even harder.
I know you’ll be here setting some sort of masochistic COS service record for your reasons, likely because he asked it of you. I’ll be here with you.
Where we go from there? I’m afraid to think that far.
We have to win in November. We need four more years.
Because I’m not ready to let you go, and losing you like this will crush me. I hate admitting that, but there it is.
Where is there a place for me, however small, in your life once this ends?
I’m not ready to face that.
Thus I plan to work my ass off to help her get re-elected, because then I can defer that fear for four more years.
Because I’m not sure how to watch you walk away from me again and know you won’t look back because you’re too busy looking at him.
Love you,
L.
Chapter Nine
I don’t sleep.
At one point, I get up, quietly gather all the papers and neatly stack them on our dresser, turn off the lights, strip, set my phone alarm to let me know when we need to get up, and return to bed to hold him.
I knew Lauren still loved him, but I thought it was deep friendship. His best friend.
She obviously didn’t know the truth about Shae.
Optics.
Prophet is a genius.
I’m not sure if he should go into work today. Work is a salve for him, and maybe in an unhealthy way. Perhaps I should clear my schedule and stay here with him today.
Except time is short, and yes, we do have a campaign to win. Poll numbers are excellent—thanks in no small part to the sympathy factor—but that’s not a guaranteed win.
He stirs in my arms at some point before the alarm goes off, realizes I’m holding him, and nuzzles his f
ace against my shoulder.
That’s when he bites me. Not a playful nip, but latching on to the inside of my upper pec in a way I recognize.
I run my hand down his back, to his ass, and grab a handful of flesh and dig my nails in, hard. The muffled gasping cry hardens my cock—and his.
My other hand settles on the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair and holding him in place so I don’t accidentally dislodge him. I roll onto my back and he comes with me. I rake my nails up his back, likely close to breaking the skin and making him softly growl.
When my boy’s emotional pain is deepest, sometimes he needs a reminder that I’m here and not going anywhere. Not the full-on sadist Shae needs, but the softer version.
I blindly grope for the nightstand, finally get my hand on the drawer to pull it open, and find the lube. One-handed, I flick the cap open and squeeze it over the seam of his ass. Discarding the bottle, I run my fingers down to his rim, pressing two in and making him grunt against my pec, where he’s still biting down.
I reach between us, find my cock, and he spreads his thighs and angles himself. While I hold the base of my cock he wiggles his hips and then shoves himself onto me with another grunt that nearly makes me come just like that. We don’t usually fuck bare like this without a little prep first, but just like Shae needed her Sir to mark her the other night, I think Kev needs me to mark him.
I kiss his temple. “That’s my good boy,” I whisper. “Take what you need, baby. It’s yours.”
He finally releases his bite and rises up to kiss me, his hands braced on my shoulders as he rides me like a man possessed. I run my hands up and down his thighs, pinching, scratching, tugging his nipples and leaving marks on his sides.
Kev pants, gasps for breath but doesn’t break our kiss. I don’t know exactly what he needs right now, what this is for him, but I meant it—it’s his. It’s all his, everything I am and have, I will give it to him.
Maybe I screwed up. Maybe I should have approached him instead of waiting and then, later, seething. I was young and stupid and thought he needed to put forth the effort.
I never knew his true level of fear.
Had I done that, he would have been mine, Lauren would have been free to find someone, and he wouldn’t be saddled with guilt and pain and loss.
We wouldn’t have to hide who we are to each other.
He slows his thrusts, a different rhythm, and I realize what he’s trying to do. He’s short-stroking, trying to find the sweet spot, but he’s never managed it like this, in this position. Like this, he always needs an assist.
We’ll need to wash the sheets in the morning, and I don’t even fucking care. I flip him over onto his back without pulling out. He wraps himself around me as I brace myself on the bed and basically start over, holding myself back and working to build him up.
I kiss him while I do, biting, sucking, our faces rasping together. We might end up with swollen lips by morning and I really don’t give a shit about that optic.
I care about my boy’s heart, his soul.
About taking away his bad pain.
I lift my head and stare into his eyes. “My sweet, perfect boy,” I softly coo. “I want to feel you come for me, baby.” I say that and more, every trick in my book to drive him hard and deep into subspace, where it’s easiest for him to let go to me like this.
It takes a while. To the point I’m not sure I’m even going to make it, because I’m exhausted. Who needs a fucking workout—this is damned cardio.
Then I feel him tensing, the change in the sweet sounds he’s making, and I know he’s close. I focus only on him, on reading him, on that one exact spot and the perfect damn angle to glide across it.
He lifts his head and bites down on my shoulder, screaming as his ass grabs me and throbs. I feel him spill and it slicks between us as I realize I’m there, too, now, and I fuck him hard, deep, marking him in secret just as everything else between us is secret right now.
Catching my breath, I cup the back of his head again and roll to our sides while he screams, and screams, and screams.
* * * *
Kev had dozed off again when my alarm goes off. I reach over and silence it. He winces as he sits up and our bodies part.
“Shower first,” I tell him.
He nods and staggers out of bed.
We use the bathroom and end up under the spray, where I hold him for a moment before we get started. I shave him, he shaves me, and with that done, I get out first, text the detail an ETA that we’ll be leaving, and strip the sheets to get the load started. We’ll have time to put them in the dryer before we leave.
Then coffee.
In the bedroom we get dressed, and I tie his tie for him, then he ties mine. He still hasn’t spoken, but I know from what he’s doing that, yes, he’s going to do this.
Once we’re downstairs and he’s hunting for his glasses, keys, wallet, and name badge, I finally speak.
“If you can’t handle it, you’re to go upstairs and text me immediately. Got it?”
He nods, but I can see it—Prophet feels he’s failed.
I pull him into my arms and hold him. “It’s okay, baby, I whisper. You’re not alone. Feel it, let it happen, and breathe. Keep breathing.”
“We have to win,” he says, his voice ruined for now.
“I know. We will.”
“We have to win for her.”
He doesn’t mean Shae, and I know it.
“I know.” I kiss his forehead. “Focus on that. On election night, we’ll toast her.”
“I didn’t know,” Kev hoarsely says. “I mean, I knew she loved me, but…” He sucks in a breath like he’s trying not to cry.
I cup his face in my hands. “Tonight, you and I will pack her office. Okay?”
He nods.
“Today, Prophet gets his feet back under him. Because tomorrow starts kick-ass final crunch time, right?”
He nods.
I pull him in for another hug. “My good boy. I love you so much, and you can do this. I know you can.”
“I love you, too, Sir.”
On the way to the White House through the darkened streets, I have him sit next to me, leaning against me, my arm around his shoulder. I don’t let him worry about optics—the windows are tinted anyway.
As we slow for the turn into the driveway, I kiss him. “Deep breaths, Prophet. You’ve got this. Lean on me.”
“Yes, Sir.”
By the time the doors open, Prophet—or a damn good imitation of him—is in the house. He follows me out of the limo and inside. It’s barely dawn, so no one to watch us. We head upstairs, where Yaz and Shea are in the kitchen pouring themselves some coffee. Shae’s in her bathrobe and looks exhausted, but she brightens when she sees Kev.
She walks over to him and hugs him, nods when he whispers something in her ear, then kisses the top of her head even as he’s looking at me and I’m nodding.
We get the kids up and moving, and they’re happy to see Uncle Kev. I can see he’s happy to see them, too. I’d hoped this would help him, reminding him these kids love him.
His strength comes not from within, but knowing someone else needs him. If he wants to make it through the next couple of weeks, he’ll have to take that to heart.
While he’s sitting with the kids for breakfast, I follow Shae into the bedroom, and into the large, walk-in closet area.
I grab her by the throat and slam her against the wall almost hard enough to drive the wind out of her.
She’s shocked, stunned, not expecting the sadist right now, but I need to jumpstart this process or we’re all fucked, and especially poor Kev. “Do you really love that man out there?”
“Y-yes, Sir,” she whispers.
“Do you want to win?” I growl in her face.
“Yes, Sir!”
“Then get your head out of your fucking ass and into the game, girl. If you lose this election, it’ll break Prophet’s heart. Do you want to do that?”
> Her eyes widen. “N-no, Sir!”
“Okay, then. Fake it until you make it, girl. Day after the election, we can all chill out and have a long cry together, but don’t you dare fucking let that man down. This is an order from me. Do you understand?”
Mega asshole dick move?
Check.
Do I care?
Nope.
“Yes, Sir.”
In this case, the means totally justify the ends. I will do whatever I fucking have to for my boy. I will kill and die for him.
I will break out every psychological dirty trick in my book.
I would divorce my wife, if need be. And yes, I do love her, am in love with her.
But I will not let my boy down.
Failure is not an option.
Stick…
Meet carrot.
I lean in and kiss her, hard, the sadist still in residence. “He needs a win, sweetheart. You’re the only one who can give it to him. I know you won’t let him down.”
I see the fire finally return to her eyes.
Thank god.
I release her throat and pull her into my arms. “You got this, baby. It’s yours. Reach out and take it.”
She hugs me, hard, then steps out of my embrace to start getting ready.
I return to the dining room, where the kids are finishing up breakfast. “Come on, gang. Let’s move it,” I tell them.
“If Aunt Shae loses,” Hudson asks, “will we still be able to put up the Christmas trees?”
Before I can even process that question, Kev leans in, his placid smile in place.
Prophet’s smile. “Aunt Shae won’t lose, honey. Even if she did, yes, we’d still be able to put up the trees.”
“Okay.”
My boy’s back. Maybe not all the way, but just like Shae, the fire’s still there, it just needs some careful stoking and tending to become a bonfire again.
Shae makes it out in time to say goodbye to the kids as Yasmine gets them moving downstairs to the awaiting car. She spends the day in school with them, usually in Hudson’s class as a helper, but sometimes in Myla and Ivy’s class.
Once we’re alone again, Prophet clears his throat and crooks a finger at Shae.
She goes to him and he pulls her in for a long, strong hug. “That’s my girl,” he softly says. “Ready to win an election?”
Desire (Determination Trilogy 3) Page 8
