One Good Woman

by Knox, Abby

  When you pretend you recognize someone on the street, it’s amazing how many of them will go along with it.

  The sex worker who probably was not named Jake looked surprised, but surprise quickly gave way to fake enthusiasm. A guy like that meets a lot of people, and probably uses a fake name half the time anyway. He fell for it hook, line and sinker.

  “Hey…” he said, flashing a curious smile. “How are you.”

  “Awesome, are you volunteering today too? I can take you to meet Shawn right now,” I said.

  I nervously glanced to the side and saw the Runner watching us from the driver seat. I nodded at him; he nodded back and squinted at me suspiciously.

  “Thanks for dropping him off, Shawn is really looking forward to meeting him,” I said. “Shawn and Stacy are inside having some take-out biryani if you would like to join us.”

  I used the code word, which I had overheard at the speech earlier today. The Runner seemed satisfied, handed me a briefcase and said, “Documents for Shawn to file when our friend here has completed his contract work.”

  As soon as the Runner’s car was out of sight, I peeked into the briefcase. Holy shit, all the money was right there. I could have made a break for it then. On the other hand, I didn’t want to get anyone killed, not even Shawn. And I definitely still wanted to meet Ms. Featherstone, even if it meant bringing her lofty campaign down a peg or two. I hurried the two of us into an alley to talk.

  “OK, for real, what's your name?”

  The sex worker had looked confused and said, “Tristan.”

  “Listen, Tristan. You can stay or go, it’s up to you. But I’ll give you half of what’s in here if you let me do the job instead.”

  Tristan had looked me up and down. “This isn’t going to get me in trouble is it?”

  “Absolutely not. All you have to do is take this money now and maybe leave town for a few days while everything shakes out.”

  It didn’t take long for him to decide. Next, it only took that simple code word to convince Shawn of who I was supposed to be. He didn’t even bother to look into the briefcase to count the money.

  And that’s how I ended up here, on this campaign bus, staring at a braless, unsuspecting Daphne Featherstone, and suddenly realizing I’m in way over my head.

  I had thought this was going to be easy. And there is the added bonus of doing a deed not just for money but to help the other guy win. Two birds, one stone.

  But right now, I am seeing the extremely human side of the Stone Angel, and now I don’t know what to think.

  “Call me Daphne.” Her smile reaches her soulful brown eyes when we shake hands, and right away I can tell she is the real deal. Not because she’s gorgeous—she is, in fact, the most drop-dead-gorgeous creature I’ve ever been this close to—but because her handshake is firm and she shows her teeth when she smiles.

  And now as she sits near me on the sofa on her campaign motor-coach and I’m drinking her wine, I also know I have a second problem. I have to have her for myself.

  I see the way her cheeks pink up when we make eye contact. She must know her nipples have been saying hello to me through her blue oxford button-down since the second she opened the door.

  But instead of addressing this heat between us, we discuss strategy. Daphne explains to me how much work it will take to reach out to overseas military personnel from our home state.

  I like her enthusiasm and her unique ideas, and I throw in a few of my own.

  After what seems like 30 minutes but is really more like a couple of hours, the two of us have brainstormed a great plan of action that I’m down to start implementing first thing in the morning. Which I know is total bullshit on my part, but then again … maybe I don’t want this to be bullshit?

  I’m so impressed by her that I find myself forgetting I’m not here to volunteer. I’m here as a paid sex worker to set her up for a public scandal.

  Thing is, this feels more like a date. A date with a really hot boss.

  I reach over and pick up the wine bottle, laughing. “We killed that pinot right quick, didn’t we, Daph?”

  I hold my breath for a beat and wait for the reprimand from her for addressing her so informally. But it never comes.

  Daphne laughs, “Well, next time you can bring your own bottle and we can spend all night solving the rest of the problems of the world.”

  She teasingly swipes my shoulder.

  At this simple, friendly touch, my blood runs hot.

  She does something to me. Somehow I knew it when I had first seen her giving her speech that morning, but I’d been denying it in favor of focusing on the money and what she did to Senator Cutler.

  Right here and now, there’s no denying it. We’re as comfortable as old friends, yet it also feels like I’m running into a long-lost lover who sparks memories of dark and dirty deeds.

  I should tell her the truth right now. This is wrong. She deserves to know the truth. But then, Cutler and his henchmen are not to be fucked over. What if they kill me? What if they kill Shawn? What if they go after Tristan? What if they physically attack her?

  Maybe I don’t have to tell her anything. Maybe I can just leave and not collect my money. No harm, no foul.

  Yeah, that’s the only answer at this point.

  I take her hand and stroke the back of it with my thumb. She bats her eyelashes and flashes me a shy smile.

  I say, “I should probably go before I get you drunk. Wouldn’t want you to think I’m trying to take advantage of you.” I stand to leave. I know it all sounds like a line, but really, I would leave immediately if she wanted me to leave.

  Daphne stands with me and I’m still holding her hand. It hurts to touch her and resist the desire to pull her in toward me. The wine has gone to my head and my blood has gone to my cock.

  She looks sleepy, and all I want to do is spoon up behind her on her bed—there’s gotta be a bed somewhere on this behemoth—and smell her hair as she goes to sleep.

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  “So nice to meet you, Buckley. I don’t know when I’ll be back in D.C., but I do hope our paths cross again. Thank you for your service and thank you for volunteering. You’re a good egg, my friend.”

  I hold on to her hand and my voice drops an octave without my even trying. “You know, I can be your man for more than just helping you get votes. I have many, many talents.”

  Chapter Five

  Daphne

  I know what I should do, and I know what I want to do.

  Buckley is without a doubt hitting on me.

  I’ve just met him. He’s a volunteer. Maybe we could just…one night.

  But no, it would be totally inappropriate. I text for a car to come pick him up before I change my mind. My body may think I want a one-night stand, but my rational brain knows I’m just not built for this. I was made for commitment. This is new territory and I don’t have the brain space for the emotional fallout.

  “Maybe not tonight, but here.” I give him my phone number on a campaign logo sticky note.

  He takes it with a smirk that is setting my panties on fire. “How about I just text you and we can use less paper? That way I won’t lose your number and you’ll have me inside your phone,” he says.

  The way he says “inside your phone” makes me think he’s really saying he wants to be inside me in an entirely more interesting way.

  But I’m making the right decision by letting him go home, right? I watch him text me and I look at my phone.

  I salivate—actually salivate—when I see what he’s sent me.

  The words, “Does the taste match the scent?”

  I grin and shoot him a look as I hear car tires come to a stop outside. “Naughty. Your Lyft is here. You should go and hope I don’t fire you for hitting on me.”

  He winks before he walks out and says, “Can’t fire a volunteer.”

  I watch in the window as the Lyft turns around in the lot and makes its way to the street.

&n
bsp; I wait until they’ve disappeared before I text him back. “Probably. What do I smell like?”

  It takes him less than a second to text back: “I really love your peaches, wanna shake your tree.”

  What the fuck am I thinking? Wasn’t I just last night nearly crying about how horny I was? And here is a perfectly willing—not to mention astoundingly hot—man, ready for a one-night stand. Not just ready, but throwing himself at me? And the bus driver will be here in a couple of hours to drive all night back to my home state, and I might never have a chance like this again?

  My logical brain reminds me that all of this is highly inappropriate. And, am I really going to fall for that cheesy line from a Steve Miller Band song?

  Yes. Yes, I am.

  Fuck propriety. Emotional fallout can eat shit. I got a campaign to run.

  I text him back: “Get your ass back here.”

  He doesn’t reply, but it only takes a minute before he appears again. This time, he’s running down the street toward the bus.

  “Where’s the Lyft?” I ask as he approaches.

  I take a step down and Buckley comes up right into my face. With me on the step, our faces are at the same height.

  He says, “I had him let me out. No point in making him wait around, ’cause this ain’t gonna be a quickie, Peaches.”

  Before I can even stop to care that this is happening outside, in public, Buckley’s soft lips are kissing mine. It’s been so long since I’ve been properly kissed by a man, and he’s not wrong about taking his time.

  Everything about the way his lips move over mine tells me he has every intention of going slow.

  The door is open behind me, and I grip the front of his tee-shirt and drag him backward up the stairs into the motor-coach.

  He keeps his lips on me as he slams the door shut behind him with his foot.

  It’s then that his arms hug me close and my hands go into his hair. His arms caress my back and it sends electric sparks all over my skin.

  We’re so close I can feel his erection against me through his jeans.

  As if he’s reading my mind, he says, “Feel what you do to me? I’ve had this hard-on since I saw you on the Capitol steps this morning. Touch it.”

  My breath catches, but I do as I’m told. I spread my hand over his length. Noticing how big it seems to be is making my pussy drip with need.

  “I have to tell you something. I need you to be the boss of me.”

  Buckley’s hands go over my ass and he hitches me up so tight my feet leave the floor and my thighs wrap around his hips.

  He murmurs as he kisses both my cheeks, my nose, my forehead, my chin, my neck. “I’m already the boss of you, sweetheart.”

  This makes me squeak out a moan that surprises both of us and arouses him some more. He claims my mouth with the deepest, wettest, warmest of kisses.

  “You’re a really good kisser,” I say. “They teach you that in the Army?”

  He laughs, “Natural talent.”

  “Cocky,” I say, tugging at the curls on the back of his head with my other hand.

  “You bring out the cocky in me.”

  “Shut up and kiss me some more, Buckley. It’s been way too long.”

  I feel a growl building in his chest that’s pressed against mine as his mouth takes me again. This time, a little harder, a little more passionate. His hands pull my shirt tails out of my slacks and immediately start stroking my bare skin underneath.

  A man’s hands on my skin, rough hands having their way with me, is such a turn on.

  Tim is the last person I want to think about in a moment like this, but the truth is, his kisses never felt this good. He enjoyed sex—we did have a child together after all—but he never really pawed at me with this much need. He was very controlled and reserved.

  Buckley, on the other hand, touches me—with his hands, his arms, his chest, his abs, his pelvis, his erection, his mouth—very differently. Somehow every movement feels like he needs me in order to survive.

  And it’s waking up a wild woman inside that I never knew existed.

  Chapter Six

  Buckley

  I slide my tongue inside her sweet mouth and I feel her breath catch, her hand pressing on my cock and the other petting my neck and stroking my hair.

  I feel so surrounded by her skin and her scent already; I can barely imagine what it will do to me when I make her pussy mine.

  My hands running all over her back and her ribs under her shirt, I find she’s not wearing a bra, which I’d suspected all along. Lucky break for me, I think, as I cup one bare breast.

  She emits a little moan for me as I pet her. I want to squeeze her tit and get her all riled up by playing with her nipple, but the skin of her breast is so inviting I have to slow myself down to enjoy it for a minute.

  “Your skin is so soft, Peaches. I could pet you like this all night.”

  She breathes, “My driver will be here in about two hours.”

  “Then get naked for me so I can keep petting you.”

  Her gaze locks on mine while she unbuttons her shirt and tosses it aside. The sight of her beautiful breasts filling up both my hands is urging me to delve my cock into her. What was I thinking, promising her I’d go slow?

  She’s so damn beautiful I might explode right here in my pants.

  I run my thumbs over her pink nipples; they grow tight, begging to be sucked. The tightening of her little buds makes her moan again and she hoarsely says my name as her eyes flutter closed.

  “Sensitive little breasts. That’ll give me something to play with when I take you from behind.”

  Her eyes fly open in surprise, and she’s about to protest, but I shush her with another demanding kiss. My tongue claims all of her mouth, and we’re both breathless when we break apart. “Relax, Peaches. I ain’t gonna bend you over just yet. That comes later.”

  In another second her slacks and panties are off and kicked to the side. I know I shouldn’t look right away—the intensity in my pants is entering the danger zone—but I can’t help but peek at her naked pussy. I shouldn’t be surprised she’s completely waxed, everything about her is orderly and put together.

  My eyes drift all over and I realize my Daphne looks like a carved statue of an ancient goddess.

  “My god,” I say, “Michelangelo couldn’t have done it better.”

  She speaks with a voice that trembles with need. “I’m not a statue, Buckley. I’m a flesh and blood woman who hasn’t felt a man’s touch in three years and I’m ready to get fucked. Are you going to be the one to fuck me like I’m a real woman? A woman who needs to get slammed?”

  It’s then I realize I’m coming in my pants.

  Yep.

  No warning, no buildup.

  The sight, the sound and the touch of this woman is so powerful I am jizzing all over the inside of my khakis. The feeling overtakes me so hard I crush my body into hers.

  “I’m coming already…fuck me…Daphne, what the fuck are you doing to me…”

  Her hands between us, she grinds her pussy against my leg while unfastening my pants so she can feel the head of my cock spurting into her hand.

  “Buckley that’s so fucking hot. I hope you have plenty to spare.”

  “Baby, when it comes to you I can go all night. Fuck…me,” I continue to curse as the last of my orgasm rips through me.

  I kiss her down her neck and across her chest, my breath heavy.

  “Lemme get cleaned up,” she whispers.

  “Fuck that,” I heave. “Bedroom. Now.”

  Her flashing eyes tell me she’s taken aback by my commanding tone, but also turned on. Oh yeah, she needs to be told what to do, in the best possible way. She craves it.

  The bedroom of the motor-coach is all the way in the back, but it has a decent-size bed with lots of throw pillows. I make a mental note to ask her who’s footing the bill for all these extra luxuries, but at the moment I’m pretty fucking grateful for it.

  I tell Da
phne to lie back on the bed. “Now, let your knees fall open and let me look at you.”

  I let my trousers fall part of the way down, and I see her eyes fall to my cock. “Eyes up here,” I instruct.

  She licks her lips but doesn’t take her eyes off my shaft.

  “Daphne. I said: eyes. Up. Here.”

  She defiantly meets my gaze.

  I pull a condom out of my pants pocket and toss it on the bed, then drop what’s left of my clothes all the way down, and her eyes fall to my legs.

  “Oh,” she says, noticing the prosthesis. “I didn’t know…”

  “Does it bother you?”

  “Of course not,” she says. “Do you need to remove it…? I’m sorry, is it OK to ask that?”

  I don’t respond except to remove the prosthesis and watch her reaction. But all she seems to care about is staring at my cock.

  “If I didn’t know you to be a goody-two-shoes in the paper and on TV, I’d say you’re a little harlot in the sack,” I growl, lowering myself onto the bed and gazing down at her soaking wet pussy.

  She half whispers, “I spend my whole life being what other people need me to be I almost forget who I am sometimes. Maybe I am a harlot.”

  “Daphne, what is it that you want to be? Right here, right now, in your bed?”

  “I want to be your plaything.”

  Some sound escapes me that’s halfway between a moan and an animalistic grunt as I hover over her on the bed. On her back she looks like nothing more than a vulnerable, horny little vixen that wants my cock, that wants my mouth on her pussy.

  And I’m glad to oblige.

  I reach down between us and I run my finger through her wet folds and bring them to her lips. Damn if my cock isn’t leaking even more.

  She sucks my finger into her mouth and tastes the juice that’s all over it.

  I repeat my exploration of her swollen lower lips and then taste my fingers for myself while she watches me, wide eyed and breasts heaving with need. “Goddamn. Peaches and cream, just like I thought.”

  “Take as much as you want, but eat everything you take,” she teases.