Diligence (Determination Trilogy 2)

by Lesli Richardson

  But there’s something I want to do first.

  Two somethings, actually. The second something includes a certain two someones.

  Even though I’ve crossed this portal literally dozens of times during my eighteen-year Senate career, this is the first time I’ve been here as the official occupant.

  I hesitate, pausing, savoring it.

  Neither of them speak, knowing I need a moment. When I finally take a deep breath and open the door, it truly hits me and starts to sink in that this is my office now.

  I walk inside, Chris and Kev stopping just inside the door as I continue for a few steps. I stand there, deeply inhaling the scent of success and savoring it before I motion for Kev to close the door behind us. They still hold back as I walk over to the desk and round it. I know it’s my chair, because I specifically asked them to bring over the one I’d used in my Senate office. Dammit, I paid for the thing out of my own pocket. It’s mine.

  Better, I know Fullmer hasn’t parked his smarmy ass in it. The swap of furnishings happened while we were all at the official transfer of power, my swearing in, the luncheon, the parade. I’d picked out the new office treatments a couple of weeks ago from the provided catalog and went back to the dark blue drapes that were hung in here for previous presidents.

  No, the taxpayers didn’t have to buy “new” stuff, although I do have a $100k budget to buy things or pay for renovations, and that’s the standard budget all incoming presidents receive. The furnishings I’ve selected for my office were already owned by the government, and they usually sit in storage. By “catalog” I mean the official inventory of everything that can be selected from to use in here, and in the rest of the White House, including the residence. The only new thing we’ve purchased so far is a brand-new king-sized four poster bed for our bedroom, and I did that with my own money.

  It’ll comfortably sleep three, and wouldn’t you just know it, the sturdy metal frame is perfect for restraints.

  Yeah, none of us felt right about getting jiggy in a bed one of the founding fathers might have slept in, or possibly marring a priceless national antique with our play.

  For outfitting the rest of the White House, including the residence, and the East Wing, Chris took over that job. He hired a talented young interior design student from FSU, Jordan Walsh, to come in and help make those decisions. Using a designer is a standard practice, although our choice of an unknown student is somewhat different.

  Chris reached out to the school in Tallahassee, since it’s our home turf, so to speak. He knew that not only would we pay less to hire a student versus a pricey professional, the boost Jordan’s future career receives as a result of adding this experience to his resume will be incalculable. Chris and Jordan coordinate with the Chief Usher to handle the moving day logistics. Kev handled overseeing the West Wing, also with Jordan’s help.

  I only oversaw the selections for the Oval Office and my private study just off it, where I’ll be doing the bulk of my work. I kept it simple, swapping out some art on the walls, the couches, and a bust of JFK that I wanted in here, a different rug. No painting or anything else required. They came in, stripped the rooms bare, cleaned the Oval Office, the private study, and my new private bathroom from top to bottom, and then installed the furnishings and treatments I’d picked. In fact, this was the first room completed in the move. We couldn’t start the moving-in process until noon.

  I’d asked for the drapes to be left pulled closed after the completion, and you know what’s nice about that?

  Because I’m the damn president, and it’s my damn office, I didn’t have to explain myself.

  I settle into my chair, smiling, remembering just a fraction of the accomplishments I achieved with my ass planted in it.

  And some of the blowjobs I’ve given Chris and Kev while they sat in it.

  I requested the Resolute Desk, even though Fullmer used it, too. He wasn’t the first, and I won’t be the last. Kennedy, Carter, Bush 43, Obama, and others of both parties have used it. It has a proud heritage I’m blessed enough to now be a part of. I also know the staff has thoroughly cleaned and dusted it. It’s pristine, inside and out, and should only contain memories and one other thing, if tradition holds.

  When I open the top drawer, sure enough, I find a sealed envelope with my name printed on it in a shaky script I recognize as Fullmer’s. I look at Cris and Kev as I hold it up.

  Chris smiles. “Well?”

  I sit back in my chair. “Do we want to take bets?”

  Kev shrugs. “He adhered to protocol pretty strictly, despite what an asshole he could be. It’s probably a good-luck and godspeed kind of note.”

  I look at Chris. “What do you think?”

  Chris seems to ponder it for a moment. “I think Kev’s right. You won’t know until you open it.”

  I finally slip my finger under the flap and ease it open. From this point forward, any piece of paper that crosses my desk as President is officially now part of historical record, and I have to remain cognizant of that. While I am eager to see what it says, I know this moment and the Easter Egg Rolls will be the two lightest moments of the next four years—or eight, if I’m lucky.

  Easter Egg Rolls aside, this job is soul-sucking and part of the trade you make to do it. It’s not for the faint of heart, that’s for damn sure.

  I don’t bother skimming ahead—I read it out loud for them.

  “Dear President Samuels.” A little shiver rolls through me as I say that. “Congratulations on your new job. I have no magic wisdom to impart to you, other than to surround yourself with good people, who will be honest with you, and listen to their advice. I failed to heed my wise men at my peril. Wishing you and your administration success, because your success means American succeeds. With warmest regards, Andrew Fullmer.”

  “Well, he kept it short,” Chris says, walking around behind the Resolute desk to stand next to me.

  I’m vaguely aware of Kev walking around the other end of the desk, and now I’m penned in by them on either side.

  When I look up into Chris’ green eyes, I feel myself grow wet. When I look up at Kev, I grow even wetter.

  Kev smiles down at me. “Know what else I think should happen, girl?”

  “What, Sir?” I whisper.

  There are Secret Service agents stationed outside, but unless they’re ordered to by me, or hear something like gunshots, they won’t enter my office without orders.

  Now you know why I asked them to leave the curtains closed. I wonder how many people have fucked or been fucked over the Resolute desk?

  All I know is I’m about to add to those silent ranks. I’m sure that, over the next four years, Chris and Kev will both fuck me, and each other, over this desk.

  But right now, they’re both about to fuck me.

  I can’t say I mind, either, because I’m not allowed to lie to them.

  The delicious dichotomy of this situation isn’t lost on me. I’m Kev’s boss and leader of the free world, and I love when he takes over and takes me in hand when Chris isn’t around.

  Maybe even more than how I love the way Chris takes me in hand.

  In these two men, I have the perfect blend of everything I’ve ever needed and wanted in a partner. The brutally sadistic Dom who shares my bed every night, and the more sensual and ironically more strict Sir who loves to tease me in the most dangerous of situations.

  Somehow, that’s even hotter, and I wonder if it’s why I fell so hard for him.

  One man never would have been enough for me, let’s be honest. I never realized it at the time, but it’s a truth I can’t deny.

  There isn’t a luckier woman in the world than I am at this moment, and don’t think I don’t know that, either.

  I want to remember this for the rest of my life. It’ll be a moment, like so many countless other moments, forever lost to history once the three of us pass on.

  For tonight, it is our world.

  My men reach down, grab my hands, and pul
l me up and out of the chair. Then Chris sits, unfastens his slacks, and frees his cock. I kick off my shoes and shimmy out of my tights and panties and climb aboard.

  Kev reaches down, hikes my dress up even higher, and squeezes my ass cheeks. “Hang on, baby.” He unfastens his slacks and with a smile produces a condom.

  Oh, boy. Now I know why, after lunch, Chris whispered there was a little surprise in my purse when he handed it to me before I headed to the bathroom.

  Inside, I found a small tube of lube, and I knew exactly what I was supposed to do with it, too.

  Thank god they allowed me panties today.

  I relax and rest my head on Chris’ shoulder as Kev’s cock slowly fills my ass. I’m no stranger to this configuration—it’s one of my favorites. The three of us joined as one for a few minutes.

  Kev reaches around me and plays with my clit once he’s buried all the way inside me, my ass tightly fisting his cock. “Be a good girl for us, baby. Hard and fast, just like you like it.”

  Doesn’t matter that I now control the nuclear launch codes—these two men will always control me.

  I’m happy to be there, under them.

  Or, between them, as the case may be.

  Chris’ hands grip my hips as he leans back in my chair, pulling me with him. “Can’t wait to fuck you over her desk one day soon, boy.”

  Kev chuckles in my ear. “Yes, Sir. I can’t wait, either.”

  I think my men have a plan to fuck me in every room in the White House. Not sure how we’re going to accomplish that with all the Secret Service agents around, but where there’s a will, they’ll find a way.

  They always do.

  In the past two-plus years, with one or both of them, we’ve fucked in airplanes and limos and busses and cars. We’ve defiled hotel rooms, conference rooms, and one time even a classroom.

  That was at a college, though, so not like we were putting innocent kiddies at risk.

  Of course we’re eyeing the big one—Air Force One.

  That one will be the three of us, of course. We’re going to leave our DNA from one end of that fricking airplane to the other.

  Chris kisses me as Kev’s fingers drive me close to the edge. They aren’t kidding tonight—they want me to come fast. We don’t have a lot of time to do this.

  With both of their cocks inside me and with Kevin’s hand for the assist, it doesn’t take me long before I feel my release start. Chris senses it and grabs the back of my head with one hand to keep my lips firmly pressed against his so he can swallow my moans.

  Behind me, Kev lets out a low groan. “Oh, baby,” he hoarsely says. “That’s what I’m talking about.” He starts to fuck me, and it only takes him a few thrusts before he’s there.

  That leaves Chris, who grinds his cock into me with an evil grin on his face. “Just think how wet you’re going to be when you sit here tomorrow and try to do any work.”

  “Going to have to fuck her in here at least once a week,” Kev adds. “Those couches.”

  “The private study,” Chris says.

  “The bathroom,” Kev adds.

  A smaller orgasm I wasn’t expecting slams into me, and that’s what finishes off Chris. Kev pulls out and produces a small travel pack of wipes from his blazer pocket, with which he quickly cleans me up.

  “You guys were prepared,” I snark.

  “Of course,” they say in unison, then freeze, look at each other, and start laughing.

  Kev disappears into my private bathroom—he uses it before I ever get to, the rat bastard—to clean up.

  Chris helps me up and lets me put my panties on. “Only because it’s a special occasion,” he teases.

  “You’re too kind to me, Sir.”

  He grins. “Love you, baby.”

  “Love you, too, Sir.”

  “What about me?” Kev jokes as he returns.

  Chris holds out an arm for him, kisses him, then pulls his head down to his lap, where his spent cock is still out.

  Kev knows what to do, and quickly has the sadist groaning again.

  “You were supposed to tidy me up,” he gasps, “not get me hard again.”

  Kev’s wearing a grin as he sits up and carefully tucks Chris in and zips him before giving him a kiss. “Tonight, Sir, you can fuck my ass and I’ll make it up to you.”

  “Mmm. You’d better.”

  Damn, I love these two sexy men.

  I duck into the bathroom to check my makeup and hair. I’m not too mussed. When we emerge from the Oval Office to find a frantic-looking Leo heading toward us—probably wondering what’s taking us so long—the three of us look at each other and burst into laughter.

  I don’t know what the next four years has in store for us, but with these two guys by my side, I know I can handle anything life throws at me.

  At least, that’s what I thought.

  Chapter Eight

  Everyone holds secrets that no one else knows.

  Everyone’s done something that no one else knows.

  We all have things we hope never see the light of day, sometimes small, sometimes big.

  Whether it’s stealing a candy bar, or peeing in your work enemy’s iced tea, or sabotaging another student’s science project because they dry-humped your boyfriend.

  Me? What’d I do?

  Oh, none of those examples.

  All I did was keep a promise.

  And I’m pretty sure if I believed in a hereafter it would mean my soul is damned for it.

  As I settle into my role, it’s impossible for me to shake the quiet, ever-present clicks deep in my brain that won’t let me forget. When I can get a full night’s sleep not interrupted by nightmares, these clicks sometimes keep me awake and wondering if tomorrow will be the day someone finally points a finger at me and rightfully accuses me.

  Leaving me unable to believe I made it through another day without being discovered.

  I wish that I could honestly say being President is the most difficult thing I’ve ever undertaken in my life. My first couple of months, the “hundred days” that are a fixation of every news anchor, aren’t any bumpier than average. I don’t have to start any wars—military or trade—and I have one minor natural disaster to deal with when a blizzard hits the Northeast the second week of February and shuts down the New York City area and all surrounding airports for three days with record-breaking amounts of snow and ice.

  I throw myself into my role because there is no other option. My first year is spent verbally jousting with outliers on both extremes of the political spectrum who try to hijack their parties’ respective attempts to find middle-ground with me to get along. A hurricane hits Texas and causes widespread flooding, and FEMA responds. Is it a perfect response? No, but no response ever is. We do the best we can, we learn from it, and we implement changes.

  We don’t have any domestic terror attacks by foreign-inspired agents despite an uptick of them on the African continent, so yay.

  We do have two mass shootings, however.

  White Christian men.

  It leads to yet another serious discussion about gun safety and universal background checks—and loonies insisting I’m going to ban guns although no, I’m not, even if I had that power—and while I’m on the phone calling survivors and the families of victims, there’s a lot of hand-wringing on both sides of the political aisle for different reasons.

  I only half-joke about getting the NRA declared a terrorist organization, and Kev reminds me not to joke about that anywhere else, because it’s a horrible optic even if it is a pretty good idea. We’ve worked too hard to court GOP voters who are tired of the bullshit their party’s extremists try to shove down everyone’s throats, and we’re not interested in courting the extreme leftist members of the Democrats, because some of their talking points are just as toxic to our country as the far right.

  We work our asses off to revamp the Voting Rights Act and the Equal Rights Amendment—the second of which covers nonbinary and transfolks, and include
s protections based on orientation—and get new and improved versions of them passed with a heavy bipartisan vote.

  We do a lot of good.

  As I give my first State of the Union Address, I look out on the assembled lawmakers and realize this year has gone by damned fast.

  Almost too fast.

  I feel like I haven’t even scratched the surface of our agenda. I know presidents are supposed to pick a couple of key issues and focus on those or risk getting nothing done, but it’s hard not to reach for everything.

  To want to do it all.

  I grew up with an unstoppable mother as my role model. I always envied and felt desperate to emulate her passion, her drive. She never made me feel like I was a disappointment, or that I wasn’t good enough.

  I’ve done a pretty good job of that myself, though. I’ve noticed with age and wisdom and experience also come my self-doubts and recriminations. The farther I am from the point the woman who was my mother finally left this planet long before her actual body followed, the more garbage I pile on myself.

  Have I lived up to expectations?

  Have I made her proud?

  Have I redeemed myself, even though all I did was keep a promise?

  My mother was, in every way, the polar opposite of Kevin’s father.

  Who still gets fucking re-elected despite a squeaker of a primary and general.

  I mean, what the actual fuck, West Virginia?

  Edwin Markos’ re-election, despite his terrible margins, invigorates him. He gets louder, more obnoxious, looking for every opportunity he can get to score what he perceives as a hit against us, all while basically trying to do as much as possible to fuck over the voters in his state while lining his pockets thanks to PACs and special interests.

  He’s a shitstain.

  How he managed to birth a human being as smart, funny, good-looking, and empathetic as Kev is a complete mystery to everyone, and frequently leaves Kev the subject of good-natured ribbing by his former colleagues.

  Chris jokes with me in private that maybe Kev’s mother cheated on his father, and Kev really isn’t related to the congressman by blood, but we don’t say that around him.