by Aubrey Irons
Jesus fucking Christ, she’s perfect.
Okay, she’s glowering at me, and still ridiculously trying to hide behind the damned bedpost, but all at once, it clicks.
Yeah, that’s why I slept with this girl, because she’s a fucking knockout.
She is wearing black lingerie; this crazy hot lacy black bra that has no business being in a place as formal as the damned White House, and this black skirt-slip thing that barely covers her ass.
And stockings. Jesus Christ, the girl is wearing thigh-high black stockings.
And right then, every iota of self-professed professionalism goes out the fucking window. Right there, the badge, the oath, duty, and all that shit can go right ahead and fuck itself. At that moment there is one singular thought searing across my brain.
That I want to bend her over that bed, lift up that slip, and bury every inch of my cock deep inside of her.
I want to hear her moan like she did before. I want to feel her nails on my skin, feel her teeth against my neck, her hair in my hands and her breath across my lips. I want to feel her come like she did that night.
It all hits me like a freight train, like a sense of need like something an addict might feel. I’m standing there, alone, behind closed doors, with the first daughter of the United States, and I want to fuck the shit out of her.
“Um, stare much?”
“Huh?”
She’s blushing as she meets my hungry stare with her own gaze, her eyes wide and wild, her lips parted, and her cheeks flushed pink. My eyes drop to her legs — specifically at the lacy tops of those fucking sinfully hot thigh-highs — and I all but growl out loud.
“I hate pantyhose, they’re always so itchy,” She says quietly, like she’s apologizing for the stockings.
Believe me, she has nothing to apologize for.
“You shouldn’t be in here, you know.” Her voice is whispered, hushed, and it’s just enough sass to snap me out of it. I quickly shake my head and tear my eyes away from her legs.
I clear my throat. “Well, time’s a-wastin’, princess. We have a schedule you know.”
She rolls her eyes as she crosses her arms across those perfect, lace-wrapped tits. “Like I’m going anywhere without clothes on?”
I sigh as I check my watch. “Okay, what are you wearing?”
“Excuse me?”
She’s still half behind the bedpost, and still scowling at me. Which, granted, she has every right to do since I literally just walked in on her in her underwear in her own room.
Doesn’t mean I’m not hard as fucking stone in my suit pants.
“Wearing; tonight. What are you planning on wearing to your mom’s thing.”
She nods at the navy-blue garment draped across the bed. “That dress, obviously.” She gasps and takes a step back as I march across the room, snatching the dress up as I move around the bed towards her. “Are you kidding me?”
I smirk. “Arms up.”
“What?”
I sigh and glance at my watch again before I plaster a big fake smile on my face. “Arms. Up. Let’s go, princess.”
“You dick, you can’t just waltz in here and dress me like I’m some sort of-”
“Arms. Up. Maddie”
I realize as soon as it comes out of my mouth that voice suddenly has the same edge of dominance she’s heard from me before, from that time. The edgy, dark confidence and demanding voice that a girl who says “Guess you’ll just have to tell me and see if I behave” apparently elicits from me.
And I know she remembers it too, because suddenly it’s like it triggers something in her. She’s biting her lip quite suddenly, her eyes are flashing wide at me as she blushes and slowly turns away from me.
She raises her arms up high, and I almost want to groan out loud.
Fuck, is she perfect. Like utterly fucking flawlessly perfect. The black lace of her bra straps cross across her back, and her long dark hair tumbles over one shoulder. That tiny little skirt slip is barely covering that sweet little ass of hers, and I clench my jaw as I imagine the thong beneath, since there’s no line.
Or maybe no panties at all. Little miss First Daughter isn’t as sweet and all-American wholesome as she always looked during the campaign with her mother, or on the steps of the Capitol building during the inauguration. She might put on the perfect, clean-cut and elegant outfit, and wear the perfect hair to debates and stump speeches, and have that perfect little winning good-girl smile for the papers, but I know her other side.
I know the side that was wild enough to go to that place on that night for one specific reason. I know the side that fucks like a woman possessed and comes like a firework going off on the Fourth of July.
Which is why I’m suddenly wondering if I’m inches away from Madison fucking Adams without any panties on.
“Well?” She says it quietly, and I realize I’m just hulking behind her, staring at her with the dress in my hands. I grin, so close to just asking what she’s got on under that slip, before I decide that’s crossing a line.
Right, and helping your lingerie-clad stepsister get dressed is totally within the bounds of normalcy.
I clear my throat and just find myself nodding and raising the dress up, up over her outstretched arms, and down over her head. I give it a tug over her slender shoulders, and I watch as her breath hitches just a fraction as my fingers barely graze over the skin at the backs of her arms. And then I’m pulling it down, and she shivers as my finger brush against her back for a moment.
I’m in a trance as I pull the dress slowly down her body, taking far more time than I normally would. I realize I’m holding my breath as I linger with my fingers on the hem, almost like I’m stalling, before I give it a tug down over the swell of her hips.
She steps away then, quickly pulling her dress down over that tiny black slip and over the lace tops of her stockings as she shoots me a furtive look, her eyes wild.
“So, uh-”
It’s a moment. This is a moment, and for a half second, we’re frozen like that; motionless, eyes locked, and breathing heavy in the heat of the room.
The room with the closed door, no cameras, a big bed, and just her and me, with no one else in the world coming to worry about her so long as I’m here.
You keep thinking like that and you’re going to have a VERY bad time with this job.
It can’t happen, and it’s not like it's going to happen either, it’s just my overactive libido and the effect this girl seems to have on it. This isn’t some conquest, or some rich sorority girl I can flash my war wound to and have her panties around her ankles in a second.
This is the job; the job I’ve wanted for a long fucking time. The Secret Service is hard. Period. And even if it's all going to end when I’m barely through the gate thanks to my dad’s pick in women, that doesn’t mean I’m going to give up yet. The job is supposed to be a challenge. Okay, sure, it’s supposed to be a challenge in the sense of watching for outside threats, being vigilant, and keeping weird hours, not telling your cock to shut the fuck up about wanting to go balls deep in your charge.
Or your stepsister, for that matter.
But there she is, standing not three feet away in that navy blue dress. Just like the cream one from the other day, this one is doing a shit job of looking demure, or conservatively elegant.
It just looks plain hot on her. It looks like it was tailored for her exact figure, and yeah, it probably was, but that ain’t helping things one bit. It hugs the swell of her tits perfectly — almost too perfectly to be appropriate if you ask me — and it grips the curve of her hips in the exact way my hands are dying to.
But really, it’s that I know what’s on underneath — or maybe what’s not — that has me gritting my teeth and thinking all manner of dirty, dirty sinful thoughts about her and that four post bed beside us.
The beast inside of me roars as I take a step towards her, and before I can stop myself, my hand is on her hip, sliding around and pulling her towards me
. She gasps, and those big green eyes go wide, but she doesn’t stop me. She doesn’t stop me as I slowly pull her against me, or when my other hand slides up to cup her jaw, tilting her head up to mine.
“We-” She swallows thickly, blinking rapidly at me as the pink flush creeps up her neck. “We should go,” she whispers.
And just like that, the spell and the momentary insanity is broken, and I quickly drop my hands and move away from her, blinking in the reality of the moment.
“Yeah, yep.” I nod quickly, frowning as I jerk my wrist up and glance at my watch. “Yeah, lets go.”
7.
The tent is gorgeous, all lit up like a crystal ball sitting on the lawn of the White House. It’s surreal to say that, and truth be told, I don’t think it's ever going to not be surreal saying that. The White House; I live at the White House.
Hunter was grumbling about security stuff earlier, but after the close call — the encounter — in my room, he’s silent as he leads me out the side door and across the lawn to the tent.
I want to forget what just happened; a lapse in judgment, another moment of temporary insanity where I let him get too close and let myself be taken in again. But it’s hard. It’s impossible, actually, because he’s there, physically, right next to me the whole night.
I’m trying to forget it, and trying to pretend the lingering feeling of his hand on my hip, his lips so close to mine for one brief second, the heat of him surrounding me, isn’t everything I’m thinking about as I smile for reporters, and Congressmen, and Senators. But it’s impossible.
It’s his touch on my arm for half a second as he leads me. It’s his voice in my ear when we move from the house to the lawn tent. It’s his hand at the small of my back, helping me through the crowd and into the glittering lights of the tent past the throngs of people there to smile and shake my hand.
And it's how damn wet I am, and how it won’t go away. From that moment in my room, to the silent walk through the house, to the move across the lawn to the tent. Even as he sits me at the banquet table at the front of the room, I’m utterly, completely, and hopelessly turned on.
And it’s because of him. I want to deny it; I mean I really want to deny it, but there’s no avoiding the wicked thoughts going through my head or the raw heat between my legs.
You’re sick, or feverish or something. You should go lie down.
Except the thought is immediately followed by who exactly would be taking me back to my room, and back to my bed, and the heat immediately flashes in my face.
It’s like this horrible thing, and I want to ignore it or push it away but there’s no ignoring this. There’s no escaping the effect this man has on me; an effect no one else has ever had over me.
I can still picture him that night, the way he moved me, the way he invaded every facet of me, and the way he dominated me. I feel my face burn as I bite my lip at the memory. He was both nothing and everything I was looking for there in that dark room, if I even know what it was I was looking for that crazy night. Meaningless, casual fun sex, I guess. One night of freedom before everything changed; one night of escape before there was no escape.
Except no sex I’ve ever had had been like that. No one had ever talked to me like that, and moved me like that, or made me feel like that, and that’s the worst part. I want the memory of that night to be average, or fine, not fucking mind-blowing.
The situation we’re in is bad enough, and horribly scandalous as it is, without also having to remember that time with him as, by far and away, the most memorable, powerful sex I’ve ever had. The way he growled, the way he demanded, the way he held me down and fucked me like I’d never been fucked before.
I can feel the heat in my cheeks creep down my neck, and over my chest in that embarrassingly splotchy way I know I get. And then I realize I’m staring right at him, and what’s worse, he’s looking right at me, and grinning, like he’s reading my thoughts; like he knows exactly what dirty little thoughts were just roaring through my head.
Yeah it's thoughts like that make it so I can barely talk straight all night. It’s why I only barely manage to get through a conversation with Angela, Vice President Reed’s wife who’s sitting next to me at the dinner, with no recollection of what we even discussed. It’s why I’m barely cognizant of walking around the room later, smiling and dishing out the canned “Oh, I’m here to explore opportunities in Washington the semester” response to the CNN correspondent asking me why I’m not still in Chicago getting my law degree.
It’s thoughts like that that have me shivering when I feel his hand at the small of my back, guiding me back through the crowd. Dirty, wicked thoughts like the ones about Hunter Ryan running through my mind are why I can practically hear my heart beating in the silence of the elevator with him, back up the living quarters of the house. And it’s why I basically blurt out the world's quickest “goodnight” before I’m pushing him away and shutting myself away in my room.
It’s thoughts like that why I don’t even get my dress off before I’m hiking it up and laying back on my giant, cream-white, four post bed, and moaning as my fingers find me wet and ready. I’m sliding a finger inside, moaning at the fantasy as I lay sprawled on the bed; my regal, decent, D.C.-formal dress very indecently pushed up around my waist with my legs spread wide and my breath coming in gasps. I want to pretend it’s anything else in the world but him that I’m thinking about, but I can’t fool my body or the sinful thoughts rushing through me. I’m writhing as my fingers seek release — sweet, aching release from the horrible spell this man has on me.
The terrible, wicked, and disastrously horrible spell that my stepbrother somehow has on me.
And it’s inappropriate, scandalous, and wicked thoughts of Hunter Ryan, and all the things he did to me that night, that I’m thinking about as I go crashing over the edge, screaming my climax into the pillows as my whole body explodes.
8.
“Hunter, your cell phone.”
I glance up from my coffee to see my dad nodding at my phone pinging on the kitchen counter. He frowns and gives me a look. “Pretty sure you’re not supposed to have that on active duty, son.”
“Huh, strange, I thought we were just having a little family breakfast,” I say with fake smile, mimicking his words from earlier when he marshaled Dexter and me over here from our apartment quarters in the other wing.
Dex snorts as my dad gives me another glare. “Watch it, Hunt.”
The phone pings again and I rise to snatch it off the counter. I glance down at the screen and groan.
I was wondering how long it’d take her to manage to weasel my new number off of some poor sap. “Her” being Anya, the ex. Ex with a capital E and the attitude to match. Anya the total psycho. Anya the poor little rich girl from the same circle of idiocy and shitheads I left behind when I joined the Marines.
I lied before, when I made the offhand comment to Maddie about “military family, dad served, I served”, because really, that's all bullshit. Well, yeah, my dad is obviously who he is, but where I come from, kids basically ride their parent’s coattails until that trust fund starts kicking back. I didn’t have to join the Marines at all. In fact, dad was actively against it the day I made the announcement just a week after we’d buried mom.
But fuck that, and fuck being one of the douchebags I went to private school with. Fuck being just one more rich kid son of a public figure, free to piss away my life doing whatever. And so I joined, and I did my tour.
But Anya is a throwback to those days before. Just one more daddy’s girl whose father works in the political machine of D.C. That whole privileged class of kids whose parents run things; the untouchables, the carefree.
Like I said, fuck that; I need direction and something good to hang on to. Except Anya is anything but “direction” and pretty much the opposite of “something good”. Party girl, rich girl, all around disaster.
That all said, I’m more tempted to call her back now than I ever have been since
the break-up. Extremely tempted after last night and the near constant hard-on I’ve had ever since I walked in on Maddie in those fucking stockings.
There’s a mumbled “good morning” from the kitchen doorway, and the temptation roars like a fucking lion inside of me as I look up to see her shuffle into the kitchen, pajamas, bathrobe and all.
I mean, shit, that's how hard-up and pent up I am right now. A girl in a fucking bathrobe has my cock fully at attention in my suit. Yeah, I should definitely call Anya back, if for nothing else than to fuck tempting, untouchable, and totally off-limits Madison Adams out of my Goddamn system.
Except…shit. Except I know she’d be nothing like Madison. I know what that particular forbidden fruit tastes like — literally, actually, I think with a wicked grin — and everything else pales to it. I know Anya would be fun, but ultimately a ridiculous waste of my time.
‘Course, it's not like I can fuck Maddie either, so I guess I’m up shit creek right now.
Madison ignores me as she brushes past me without so much as a second look. She’s irritable looking, in wildly adorable way as she pours coffee and then starts poking through cupboards and slamming drawers.
Her mother sharply puts down her Post and pointedly clears her throat. “Looking for something, dear,” she says sharply.
Maddie sighs dramatically as she slams drawer shut. “Yeah, where is the sugar?”
“The table,” I say, grinning at her as I lean back against the counter across the kitchen from her. She shoots me a quick sneering look before she stomps over to the breakfast table.
“I apologize for my daughter’s behavior, boys,” Eleanor says, arching a brow at her scowling daughter before turning to smile at me.
“I’d say she’s in good company,” I grin, nodding at Dexter, who’s got his head down on his arms on the table and who very well might actually be sleeping right now. This time it’s my parent who clears his throat and kicks at Dexter’s feet with his polished shoe.
