I parsed through the phone book in my computer, reading all of the many names of the team. I hadn’t hired a single one of them. I wondered who had. I had been hired after all of them, I knew; only after the person in my role had stepped down. I bit my lip and finally found the girls’ names. Monica and Tiffany. I bit my lip and brought my phone to my chin, dialing the numbers slowly. I made sure that everyone in the surrounding desks were paying attention only to their computers, their work. And then, I allowed the phones to ring.
The first girl I rang answered the phone after three solid rings. She sounded annoyed, surely recognizing the office number. But I explained to her the situation.
“Hi, Rachel,” I stated into the phone. “This is Amanda Martin. I wondered if I could ask you and your friend, Monica—who I will be calling here shortly—if you would like your positions back at the campaign team. Both of you ladies have such enormous potential. You belong to this place, to this creative, energetic zone. Won’t you consider?”
“Um.” The girl on the other line was clearly surprised. I hadn’t taken a single speck of interest in her in the previous few months, and now I was calling her personal line. “Monica and I will have to talk it over.”
“I understand!” I interjected. “Of course. Just please understand that one woman losing her cool should not be enough to pummel you out of this business. I’m trying to keep you on track.” I swallowed, closing my eyes. Already, I felt like some formation of my mother. I felt like I was bowing to them, ready to please them with anything.
Rachel paused for a moment. “What the heck, Miss Martin,” she stated, then. I heard her smack her gum. “I want that job back. God, I do. I’ll convince Monica to come back, as well.”
“I can expect you back tomorrow morning?” I asked her, my voice nearly quivering. I wanted to make her seem strong, powerful. We couldn’t have any more fear mongering in this place.
“Yes. Both of us,” Rachel said, assuring me. “I look forward to it!”
“Me, too, Rachel,” I whispered. I clicked the phone closed and peered around me, a sense of pride entering back into my soul. This was what I was meant to do: to create opportunities for these women, to fuel a growth in the woman’s population at the White House.
I got up, then, and walked toward the desk at which the young girls would be sitting. I arranged the papers, the folders. I spun back around and found myself face to face with Jason, then. My pleasure in my actions shattered at the look on Jason’s face. It was a look of malice.
“What are you up to?” he asked me, leaning against his desk. He brought me closer to him by tugging at my sleeve, and I could feel his breath on my cheek.
“What do you mean?” I swallowed, shaking my head.
“All this sneaking around, behind my back. You have to remember that I’m on your side, in many ways, Amanda.” He blared an evil smile toward me.
“It’s not that, Jason,” I said, shaking my body from his hands, so oily, they slipped right off me, leaving a sweat patch. “I’ve just been really ill. You have to understand that.” I smiled at him half-heartedly, moving toward my desk once more. I spun around and swerved into my desk, peering down at the messy papers beneath me. My face burned, and I dared him to approach me once more, to tell me what to do. I dared him to try to ruin me.
Suddenly, Dimitri appeared at my side. His burly self took up so much space. He crossed his arms and leaned close to me, a disapproving expression lingering over his lips. “The president would like to speak with you for your lunch hour.”
“I’ll be there straight away, Dimitri,” I said, smiling up at him, shaking myself from my anger toward Jason.
But Dimitri didn’t move. “I’m sorry, Amanda. This is a confidential location, and I must take you myself. You understand?”
My heart quickened. I stood up hurriedly, nodding. A fearful expression waffled across my face. I knew I needed to appear strong in front of him; I knew I needed to show him that I could be his campaign manager and even his girlfriend, if I wanted to be. I couldn’t let things phase me in the same ways, anymore.
I followed Dimitri down the steps. I expected him to take me back toward the side room, offered only through a separate door, at the base of the White House. But he led me just a few floors down, closer to the East Wing. I peered at him curiously, my eyebrows furrowed. He opened the door.
“Here?” I whispered, my voice scratchy.
He nodded disdainfully toward me, his eyes still searching beyond me. He wouldn’t be friendly toward me again, I knew.
I entered the room. It was small, brought together with floral, blue wallpaper. Several gold mirrors glittered around the room, reflecting my fine, feathery brunette hair and my small waist. I twirled in the mirror as Dimitri shut the door behind him, leaving me in peace.
The table had already been set. A large, golden slow cooker was sitting in the center, closed and sealing the heat for our fantastic meal. I eased toward it and opened it, finding myself braced with the elaborate smell of spiced and herbed chicken, potatoes, Brussels sprouts. I closed it quickly and felt my stomach rattling. So empty.
I twirled once more, feeling the anxiety filter away from me. It was like I could suddenly pretend like the previous few weeks of anger, of sadness had never happened. In my reverie of lost thought, I couldn’t hear anything; I held my eyes closed. I was alone in my little world.
Suddenly, I felt his hands at my waist. I stopped short and leaned into his warm body, feeling the fineness of his suit between my fingers. I kept my eyes closed as he brought his hands more tightly around my waist, wrapping me into an embrace.
“You’re a beautiful dancer,” he breathed into my ear, making me feel so sensual. My brain dove into sexual thought immediately. I imagined myself overtop of him, humping him. Making his eyes close with passion.
“Thank you,” I breathed instead, rearing my face up toward his. We hadn’t had our talk yet, I reminded myself. I took a step back, shaking my head and trying to root myself back in reality. “This looks like a fine meal. The location is a bit—“
But Xavier just waved his hand. “It’s fine. Please. Sit down.” He gestured, and I sat across from him, placing the napkin over my lap. The tension between us hadn’t dissipated. I wanted to calm myself down, to find the proper words to say.
“Would you like some wine?” he asked. He reached toward the bottle and poured it for both he and I. I listened to the glug glug glug of the liquid as it escalated into the glass.
We clinked our glasses together, our eyes meeting across the table. I was trying to quell my sexual appetite. I turned my eyes back toward the chicken. “So. We meet again,” I said, my voice a bit jocular.
“So we do,” he murmured. His eyes were fueled with a sense of knowledge. “How is your first real day back?”
I nodded. “It’s good. I hired a few girls back. Girls I unjustly fired last week.”
Xavier nodded, not faltering. “Good. It’s good to stick with our own. We’re a team, after all.”
I blinked toward him, knowing that he was speaking about me.
“And what about Jason?” he asked then. “Has he given you any grief?”
I nodded briefly. “He’s always lurking around the corner, ready to do anything, to say anything to me to make me feel this small.” I held an air’s inch between my thumb and forefinger. “But I’m growing used to it.”
“We still need to do something about it,” Xavier murmured.
I nodded. “That we do.” A pause hung between us. I ripped at the chicken and brought the warm meat to my mouth, chewing. So glad to have something to do with my hands, my mouth.
Finally, I spoke. “We have a great deal to discuss about us, as well.” Our eyes met in this moment, and I felt that drive once more. My throat caught. I wanted to kiss him, to laugh with him. Why were we struggling like this?
Xavier placed his fork on his plate, upside down. He brought his fingers together and laced them. He peered at me closel
y. “What do you suppose we do?”
I shrugged my shoulders lightly. “Anything we want, I suppose.”
Xavier’s voice came in husky syllables. “You know I love you, don’t you?” he asked.
I nodded, biting my lip. “I do. I do know.” I peered down at my plate. “I think I love you, too.”
“I fucked up. You know I fucked up. I just—“
I held up my hand. “You were under so much pressure. And I came at you with too much. I won’t—I won’t do it again.”
“You better not,” he said, his eyes glinting with humor. His eyes gestured toward the floor beside us, where I’d been dancing only a few moments before. “You want to dance again? With a partner?”
My eyebrows rose high on my forehead. “I’m not sure. Does our chemistry really go that strong?”
He leaned toward me, his fingers brushing against mine on the table. “I think we have something here, Amanda. Something physical, something chemical. Something that was surely meant to be.”
I felt my heart beating faster, harder in my chest. I stood suddenly and found myself face to face with him in the center of the floor. The plates still steamed with food, but I had forgotten my hunger. I brought my hand through his; I felt his hand at my back. We began to dance to no music, to complete silence. He twirled me, his eyes continually on mine. I felt the heat of his body; I felt the sexual need from him—his need for me.
“I think about you constantly,” he murmured. “Your body. Your mind. Everything about you.”
I didn’t dare turn away from him, to reduce my eye contact. This was our time together—our long-lost moment. I didn’t even have the words for him. I came closer to him and propped my breasts on his chest, closing my eyes.
Suddenly, he twirled me into the sidewall, between two mirrors. In the yonder mirror, I could see myself, the back of Xavier’s head. He moved his hand around to unzip my dress and drag it down my body, toward the ground. In the mirror, I could see his mouth form around my nipple. I could see my hand mold over his head, guiding him, needing him. I closed my eyes as he removed my tights, tossing them to the ground. For a moment, I remembered that we needed to get to a meeting in just ten minutes—that they’d be expecting us: the president and the campaign manager. But as he descended his tongue over my hot pussy; as he placed his fingers at my G-spot; as I felt my body give way to feeling, I couldn’t care about that fucking meeting. Not for a single moment.
I brought my fingers toward his buttons and undid them in a mad rip, bringing the shirt back behind his shoulders. His chest gleamed with sweat, with desire. As he continued rubbing at my clit, making me go crazy, I moved his pants and boxers from his waist and found my hand around his pulsing cock. I started giving him a hand job, feeling the pulsing blood, the desire, the need behind it. It was so hard in my hand, and I wanted it inside me, ramming into that G-spot he always hit so well, taking me to my climax.
He wrapped his lips around mine, bringing his hand around my ass and cupping it safely. I felt like a part of him, like he was molding my body into his. I caught my legs around his waist and pushed his dick into my pussy, becoming one with him. He shoved himself—hard—into me, and I felt the wall of mirrors around me shake. I watched in the mirror as he fucked me, pound-pound-pound, into the wall. With each thrust, I could see his ass clench; I could see my eyes fill with pleasure. I called into the room, not even caring about being quiet. After all: this moment was safe from all the others. I had lost any comprehension about why we shouldn’t be together.
“Yeah, baby,” Xavier began. “I love you. I love your body, your mind. I love your ass.” He slapped it, then, sending vibes of pleasure through my spine, through my pussy. I called into the room, bringing my foot up as he fucked me. As he thrust further, deeper, I found that I lost control. My foot erupted too close to one of the table’s plates, and the chicken fell to the floor. The plate crashed into a thousand small pieces. I screamed lightly, and Xavier placed his hand over my mouth, making me be quiet. Feeling taken advantage of, feeling like he had control over me, made the pleasure more tactile, more real. I cried out, feeling tears fall from my eyes.
“Fuck me. Fuck me harder,” I murmured, shaking and allowing my breasts to bounce—boom, boom, boom, against his chest. He caught one of them in his mouth and brought his tongue over the hard, revving nipple.
Suddenly, Xavier spun me around. “Touch your toes,” he murmured into my ear. His breath was so hot. I leaned down and touched them, and then, all at once, I felt him enter my pussy from behind. He brought his fingers around my pussy. He caught my G-spot with his dick and revved into it, making my body fuel with pleasure. I wanted to start crying, to tell him that my body was his forever.
He whispered, then, that he was going to come—that he was moments away. “I love you, Amanda,” he whispered, a bit of desperation coursing through his words. “I love you. Know that.”
And suddenly, his thrust caught me into a wave of euphoria, of pleasure. I felt the orgasm course through my spine, through my breasts, and burn with such passion at my pussy. I heard him as he came, as well. The orgasm rattled through us both, making us seem like a single organism, a single monster of sexual drive and passion.
Finally, he pulled away from me. He turned me around and kissed me with such drive. Our naked bodies were dripping with sweat. “Don’t leave me again,” he whispered.
“I won’t,” I murmured back. He brought his hand to my chin and stroked it, shaking his head.
“I can’t believe how lucky I am to have you.”
I felt the same. But I knew, then, that we were already ten minutes late to the meeting. As usual, my mind dove back into practicalities. I shook my head and blinked into his eyes. “Baby. We have that meeting. Ten minutes ago.” I bit my lip and watched as his own face erupted into that realization. “Shit.”
He reached toward his clothes and started hurrying them on. I grabbed my tights and bounced into them. As they wrapped around my waist, leaving my breasts still bare, I heard someone at the door. Someone arguing. I froze and turned toward Xavier, my eyes wide. The fear was rattling through me. The voice was familiar. But the fear in Xavier’s face forced me to panic. He stood in his boxers, his chest still sweating. The smell of sex was in the air.
And then, the door opened. In the doorway, stood Camille, Xavier’s wife. She brought her slim hands to her thin waist and gazed at his, nearly raping my naked frame with her snake-like eyes. “Well, well, well,” she murmured. “What do we have here?”
Power #5 comes out April 16th
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 Claire Adams
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