“Where are you from?” she asked.
“Connecticut.”
She grinned. “I figured. You have the northeastern preppy vibe going on.”
Awesome. My campaign staff was working on erasing that.
“Let me guess, Yale? And you played lacrosse?”
I winced. There was something in her tone, something fairly mocking. Maybe I was predictable, what-you-see-is-what-you-get. But there was nothing wrong with predictable. Predictable was dependable, and it was going to get me elected. Some perverse part of me wanted to tell her I went to a state school in the Midwest and played football.
“Harvard, actually.”
I’d always been honest to a fault.
She grinned. “Was I right about the lacrosse? What position did you play? Center?”
The bartender set my martini on the bar in front of me, sending me a pitying look before walking away. I was beginning to think this wasn’t the first time he’d watched this happen.
I took a long swig of my drink before setting it down, needing the burst of liquid courage. Today had been a bitch, and this girl needling me wasn’t doing a ton for my ego. And yet some masochistic part of me liked her screwing with me. It wasn’t a game I got to play very often . . . ever.
“Midfielder.”
Her gaze traveled down my body, a mischievous glint in her eye, and my dick responded instantly, not giving a shit about my humiliation.
“You look like an athlete.”
“Really?” I drawled.
“I figured it would be a sport with a stick.” Her tone faintly purred with sex and innuendo.
I choked on my martini, the alcohol burning its way down my throat. Jesus. I couldn’t remember the last time a girl made a dirty joke—albeit a terrible one—to me. College, maybe? Years ago.
“That’s a horrible line,” I sputtered.
Her grin widened. “True, but you’d be surprised how often it works.”
“No, I wouldn’t.” I let my gaze roam down her body leisurely, taking in the tight little curves and the long legs. I needed to get the upper hand here. Somehow. My voice dropped, my tone husky. “I think we both know you could have any man in this bar.”
“Even you?” Her tone was teasing, but there was a dare behind her words.
And fuck if I could ever back away from a challenge.
I leaned forward, invading some of her space, much as she’d done to me. I was close enough to make out a hint of her perfume—floral and spicy. Close enough that if I’d leaned forward an inch farther I could have captured her full, pink, fuck-me lips. Some girls might have blushed or backed away, but she did neither. Her stare was unblinking, the same challenge in her voice evident in her gaze.
Her eyes looked like they’d seen too much, lived too much, and yet underneath the hard edge she was younger than I’d originally thought—all barely contained exuberance and energy. Yet another reason this had the potential to be a spectacularly bad idea.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
Shit. She was young.
“Are you still in college?”
She nodded. “You?”
“I graduated ages ago.”
Her smile deepened, a hint of a dimple flashing at the corner of her mouth. “How old are you, Harvard?”
“Twenty-six.”
Twenty-one-year-old girls who looked like she did were pretty much kryptonite for soon-to-be state senators. If my brain were in charge I would have thrown some money on the bar for my drink and gotten the hell out of there. But I didn’t. There was something about her, something that felt like a burst of color in a sea of gray.
And then she leaned forward, her arm brushing against me. Her fingers curled around the edge of the pick of olives in my martini. I watched, mesmerized, as one by one, she slipped the martini olives into her mouth, her eyes on mine the entire time.
Fuck me.
Jackie
I wasn’t sure what possessed me to go for the olive trick. Maybe it was the Jack; maybe it was the fact that he was hot and I desperately needed a distraction. Or maybe it was just that he looked a little uptight, sitting there in his three-thousand-dollar suit, and I couldn’t resist the urge to rumple him a bit.
At first glance he seemed like your average rich, preppy boy. Cute in an All-American way. Vanilla. I tended toward motorcycles, lean muscles, and tats, as far from vanilla as you could get. But this guy—this guy had “nice guy” written all over him. He was the kind of guy you would bring home to mom and dad—well mannered, classy, definitely not my type. But he took the shit I handed out with a grace that impressed me. I was in full-on bitch mode and he wasn’t backing away. So I upped the stakes a bit, waiting to see his reaction.
Silence hung between us as anticipation filled my body. I was playing with him; he knew it, and I knew it, and I fucking loved the game. His move.
But he didn’t make a move. He didn’t do anything. He just sat there, his gaze intent, speculative almost. His smile had been blinding, but his stare was equally unsettling. He looked at me like he was trying to make out all of my secrets, and for a girl like me that was a dangerous game to play.
I’d had just enough Jack to put this evening firmly into the category of not one of my best ideas. I didn’t do one-night stands. I didn’t do relationships, either, but stranger sex was so not on the menu. He could be an ax-murderer, or a pervert, or really bad in bed. It was time to call it a day.
I reached for my bag, pulled out a twenty, and slid it across the bar top.
“Well, it was nice meeting you, Harvard—”
He moved forward, just an inch, but enough that his hand reached out, circling my wrist. We both froze the instant he touched me. His eyes widened, almost as if he were surprised by his own actions.
We both looked down at the same time, our gazes glued to the spot where our flesh met.
His hand was tanner than mine. It was easy to imagine him outdoors—sailing, maybe. Maybe he still played lacrosse. He looked so masculine, and physical, and something about the sight of his hand—long, tapered fingers, neatly trimmed nails—was enough to make my breath catch. His hands, like everything else about his body, were big. With him arched over my chair, it was impossible to not feel like he dominated me.
We didn’t look at each other, instead we both watched as he turned my hand over, palm up. For a second I forgot to breathe. Everything around us, the sounds of glasses clinking and deals being made, fell away. I forgot that I was at the Hay-Adams, forgot everything but the image of his hand, so male, so strong, so capable, encircling mine.
I waited. It must have been only seconds, and yet it felt like an eternity. Waited until I felt it, the brush of his finger, featherlight, on the inside of my wrist—stroking, teasing, tempting—unraveling me with the slightest touch.
I went completely still, my body anchored by his. The fire alarm could have gone off and I wouldn’t have moved an inch. My eyes closed, savoring the feel of his hand on my bare skin.
It was the kind of touch that was nothing and everything at the same time. It was an invitation, a proposition, a claiming, possession. With one finger, the power completely shifted.
My eyes fluttered open, unable to resist the urge to watch. His fingers stroked the inside of my wrist, lazy patterns and swirls that somehow looked like art. Each touch sent a shiver through me, my nipples tightening, heat flooding my body. I’d never been so turned on in my life, and all he’d touched was the inside of my wrist.
Will
I thought I knew my fair share about sex. Lust. Desire. Ever since I lost my virginity to Allison Daniels in the eleventh grade, I’d enjoyed sex. But as soon as I touched this girl, I realized—
I hadn’t been doing it right.
Somehow stroking this girl’s wrist felt like the most sexual thing I’d ever done, which was both sad and electrifying, and made me want to touch a whole lot more than just her wrist. There was something about her. Something
that made you stop what you were doing and stare. She looked like trouble—the kind you couldn’t wait to get into.
She closed her eyes, her lips parting, and I knew I wanted those lips—on me, around me, covering me in her warmth. I wanted to see her face when she came, to hear the moans that would escape from her mouth. Somewhere between the martini olives and my fingers teasing her flesh, I’d stopped caring about my reputation.
I moved forward, my arm brushing against hers, our bodies just barely touching. I had to fight the urge to not press against her. I was drowning in her scent, in the feel of her skin against mine. I was drowning, and I held on to her like she was my lifeline, when ironically she would be my undoing.
My mouth hovered against her ear, just barely grazing the sensitive flesh. She shivered, a soft sigh escaping her lips. Whatever tenuous grip I had on my sanity fled.
“I want you.”
I pulled back, waiting to see her reaction, lust and need pumping through my veins. I felt like the first time I’d asked a girl out on a date—nervous, edgy, afraid she was going to turn me down flat. I could just see it now in Capital Confessions—which state senate candidate was turned down by a mysterious blonde?
Her eyes fluttered open, a shocking blue framed by a fan of lashes. Her head tilted to the side, her expression inscrutable as she studied me. I prayed that whatever she saw in my face and in my eyes met with her approval.
Did I look the way I felt? Tired, a little strung out from too much caffeine and too many months of celibacy, a little worn-out from the Washington machine. She was so vibrant, and I couldn’t help but feel like I was old and boring, and standing here with my dick in my hands thinking, please pick me.
She stood up from her chair, my hand still wrapped around her wrist. For a moment we just stared at each other, and then she tugged me forward, and god help me, I let her.
Jackie
I didn’t know what I was doing. I walked through the bar at the Hay-Adams, Will trailing behind me. He released my hand as we made our way through the crowd, which was fine with me. I didn’t need people gossiping about me, assuming I was just like my mother, looking for the next wealthy man to take care of me. I needed this to be completely unremarkable, especially when it felt like it was anything but.
He followed me through the lobby, silent. His head was ducked, and it occurred to me that I knew next-to-nothing about him. What if he was married? I hadn’t seen a ring on his hand at the bar, and yet I was living proof of how many men failed to keep their marital vows.
“Are you married?”
He blinked. “No. Are you?”
“No.”
I studied him, searching his eyes. He had a trustworthy face, but I’d been around politicians enough to know how little that meant.
I grabbed his left hand, staring at his ring finger, looking for a tan line, something to prove he was lying.
He shook his head, his tone wry. “I’m not married. No girlfriend. I haven’t had a girlfriend in months, almost a year. You?”
“I don’t have a girlfriend, either,” I joked.
“I’m serious. Boyfriend?”
“No boyfriend.”
“Not recently?”
“Not ever.”
His jaw dropped. “You’ve never had a boyfriend?”
I didn’t know why people had this reaction. I was twenty-one, hardly a spinster. Their reaction was even more comical when I explained I didn’t want one.
“Are you a virgin?” The word came out in a strangled gasp.
I laughed. “No.” My voice dropped to a mock whisper. “Are you?”
He shot me a look.
I shrugged. “That settles it then. Neither one of us is a virgin.”
“Wait a second.” He tugged on my hand, bringing me against his side.
I stared up at him. “What’s wrong?”
He shook his head. “I need a minute. I came here for a drink, and it’s like we went from zero-to-sixty in no time at all.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“I don’t do this. Ever. I don’t pick up girls in bars. I don’t have one-night stands.”
I met his gaze, my playfulness erased with his words. “Neither do I.”
“And yet here we are.”
I closed my eyes. “And yet here we are.”
“This is crazy.”
It was crazy—totally, utterly, crazy. And it felt too good to resist.
I stood up on my toes, leaning my body into his. I wanted to kiss him, but something held me back. I was starting to think his would be the sort of kiss best done in private, in the darkness, where he could strip me bare. So instead I settled for brushing my mouth against the base of his throat, leaving a swift kiss there, inhaling his scent, reveling in the feel of his body against mine. I wanted this more than the reasons why I should talk myself out of it.
I pulled back, but Will caught me, his hands holding me still against his body. His mouth hovered near my ear, his touch sending a thrill down my spine.
“I want to fuck you all night.”
My jaw dropped. He said the words casually, releasing me as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just said the single hottest thing I’d ever heard. It was a promise, and a challenge, and a dare all rolled into one heart-stopping sentence that made me want to collect on every single word.
There had been three guys before tonight. My first was my best friend in high school. He’d been sweet, and funny, and by senior year neither one of us had done it, and we’d both wondered what we were missing, so we’d said “what the hell,” which in hindsight had probably not been the most earth-shattering way to lose my virginity, but it had been comfortable, and my experience could have likely been a lot worse.
Two and three had been repeats in college, artistic types who played the guitar afterward and doodled on my skin with a pen. They’d been nice guys, and the sex had been fine, but that was it—it had just been fine.
No one had ever made me feel like they had to have me. No one had ever told me they wanted to fuck me. No one had ever made me believe it. Of course, I’d never been this reckless, either.
Now that we were out on the street, swallowed up in the hustle and bustle of D.C., I held his hand. I was afraid if I let go, one or both of us would wake up and question what we were doing. My brain warned me none of this was a good idea, but my body told my head to shut up and go along for the ride.
“So where are we headed?” he asked.
I struggled to think over the pounding of my heart. “Well, we could go back to my place, but I have a roommate.”
He hesitated, and for a minute I felt really young. “I have a town house in Alexandria. If you’re not comfortable, I understand.”
My lips twitched. I loved that the guy who just said he would fuck me was now unfailingly polite.
“You mean if you’re a serial killer or something?”
“Something like that.”
“Hank vouched for you.”
“Hank?”
“The bartender.”
His eyes narrowed. “When did he do that?”
I grinned. “He wouldn’t have let me leave with you if he didn’t know you were a good guy. Hank knows everyone.”
“And how do you know Hank?”
“He served me my first Shirley Temple. He’s known me my whole life. Trust me, if you’d been a bad bet, Hank would have told me.”
A cab pulled up behind us, and Will stared down at me, his hand on my elbow holding me back.
“Why me?” His voice was quiet, but I saw the question in his eyes, could hear the confusion in his voice.
I could have given him a lot of answers. I could have teased him, flattered him. I could have evaded his question with little to no effort. Instead, I settled for honesty.
“Because when you touched me, I had to have more.”
I turned around and got into the cab.
Chapter Three
Senator Reynolds seems to have taken young
Mr. Clayton under his wing. What’s that saying about “the company you keep?”
—Capital Confessions blog
Will
I hadn’t even kissed her.
The thought kept running through my mind as I sat next to her in the cab, her leg grazing mine. Her hands were folded in her lap, her gaze trained out the window. Part of me wanted to tell the cab driver to turn around and take us back to the hotel. Part of me was wondering if this was turning out to be the stupidest decision of my life. And part of me was too far gone to care.
This was risky. On one hand I was single, so having sex shouldn’t exactly be front-page news. But the Capital Confessions mention this morning made me nervous. I was young to be running for the Virginia Senate and I needed to keep my nose clean.
We turned, the familiar sight of trees and cobblestone streets greeting me. I wondered which part of town she lived in, where she went to school. I knew very little about her, and yet I felt like I knew her intimately. Or at least I would know her intimately.
The cab came to a stop in front of my town house. “We’re here.”
I paid the driver quickly, hoping she wasn’t going to argue over the bill. I followed her out of the cab and led her to my front door, the pounding in my chest intensifying with each step.
I’d thought about taking her to a hotel, booking a room at the Hay-Adams, preserving the anonymity of tonight. But it felt rude, and seedy, and tacky. And ever since I’d seen her, the image of all that long, blonde hair laid out on my navy pillows had imprinted on my brain. So here we were.
Jackie was silent while I unlocked the door and punched in the alarm code. She followed me in, her gaze traveling around the town house, taking in the décor.
“Nice place for a single guy.”
I actually felt myself blushing. “My mom decorated it.”
She shot me an incredulous look.
“She likes decorating.” Maybe my voice sounded a touch defensive . . . whatever.
“And your mom’s in Connecticut? Let me guess, Greenwich?”
Flirting With Scandal Page 2
