I nodded. “Yeah, but she grew up in Virginia.” I held her gaze. “To avoid you busting my balls over it all night, yes, I’m filthy rich. Yes, I was born with the proverbial silver spoon in my mouth, and yes, my mother is probably a little too involved in my life. But I like my mother, and I’m her only son, so occasionally I do things like let her decorate because it makes her happy and—”
She kissed me.
Her lips were cool, hesitant at first, then bolder. She pressed against my mouth, her tongue darting out, grazing mine. She sucked on my bottom lip with her teeth, running her tongue against it. We stood apart, our mouths the only part where our bodies touched.
I just stood there while Jackie kissed me, caught off guard, powerless to do anything expect drown in the sensation of her mouth on mine. And then I couldn’t take it anymore and I reached out, wrapping my arms around her waist, pulling her against my body. Hard.
Jackie
Whoa.
There was something to be said for playing lacrosse. A lot to be said for playing lacrosse.
His body was all muscle—hard, lean, a little bulkier than I normally would have liked, but the kind of bulky that made you feel small, and feminine, and you were too fucking turned on to care if that was a good or bad thing. He wasn’t my type, not by a long shot, but he was definitely going to be the best sex I’d ever had.
There had been a moment when I was in control, a moment when he let me kiss him, but then it was gone, erased by the pressure of his mouth against mine, his hands molding my curves, his hard body leaning into mine, giving me a preview of what it would be like when he was inside me.
His touch wasn’t gentle or light, not at all what I expected after his earlier embarrassment and awkwardness. He held me and touched me like a man who knew exactly what to do with his hands, exactly what his body needed. He caressed me like a man who was going to give me an orgasm I’d never forget.
I’d felt in control the whole night—well, most of the night—but when he touched me, everything changed.
Will broke away for a minute, his hands fumbling with my jacket buttons. He pushed the fabric from my shoulders, pulling it down until it fell to the floor. Underneath I wore a low-cut ivory silk shirt. He stared down at my breasts, his gaze penetrating.
My nipples were hard points, visible through my lacy bra and thin silk top. I flushed, warmth flooding my body. There was something about the way he looked at me. I was used to quick sex, fun and fast. But no one had ever stared at me before. Not like this. Not like they were memorizing the shape of my body. I felt a ridiculous urge to cross my arms over my chest, to move away. I felt shy, and that was definitely a first.
He reached out, his fingertip grazing my nipple through the silk. It was the lightest touch and yet it was enough to have me biting back a moan as I pushed my breast into his hand. Who knew gentleness could be the hottest thing of all?
He groaned as he palmed my nipple, fisting his free hand into my hair, tugging on my long, blonde locks. His touch was so many contrasts—gentle and almost reverent, hard and dirty—and I liked them all.
He cupped my breast with his hand, brushing his thumb over my nipple, his gaze intent. My nipples pebbled beneath his touch as he rubbed the silk between his fingers, the soft glide of the fabric against me turning my body into a series of throbbing points, dying for more. He tugged on one and then the other, drawing a direct connection between his hands and the moan they tore from my mouth. And then he lowered his head and captured the bud between his lips and sucked hard, the friction of his hot mouth—his teeth—and the silk, driving me mad.
“You’re really good at this,” I hissed.
He laughed, the sound vibrating against my breast.
Boys that looked like he did weren’t supposed to be this good at it. Boys who wore suits and ties, and let their mothers decorate their homes, were supposed to be into missionary. This was all kinds of freaky naughty, and I so wanted more.
I reached down, running my hands through his hair, stroking his neck, pulling him closer to my body, rubbing up against every inch of his big, hard cock. I wanted him to devour me. I wanted him to never, ever stop touching me.
His mouth left my breast, the cool air hitting me like a shock after the warmth of his mouth. He moved to my waist, tugging at the silk, pulling it out from my skirt. His hand dipped under the fabric, and his knuckles grazed my bare stomach, sending another pull of lust through me. I moaned again, the sound loud and raw, filling the quiet hallway.
“Christ. I want to take my time, but I’m going to lose it if I’m not inside you now.”
I gasped, struggling to form words. “Good, because I can’t take much more foreplay.”
My hands drifted down his neck, running over his shoulders, molding the muscles there, loving the strength and power beneath my hands. I wanted him inside me, hot and hard, filling me, giving me the release I craved. And then I wanted to do it again, all fucking night.
He moved out of my reach, pulling my top up, over my bra, over my head. My hip bumped against the entryway table, knocking over a vase. It hit the floor with a loud crash.
“Shit.”
Will ignored it, his gaze riveted to my cleavage. His hands reached out and slipped my bra straps down, off my shoulders, my breasts spilling over the sheer cups.
“I broke your vase,” I mumbled.
“It’s fine.” He reached out, his tongue grazing the sharp line of my collarbone, moving lower. His hands curved under my bra, his head bent as he cupped my breasts, lifting them, his mouth, warm and wet, coming down on me.
“Ohmigod.”
My head lolled back, his palm moving to the small of my back, arching me forward, cradling my body in his embrace. My gaze drifted to the ruined vase, the shattered glass on the floor amid a pile of papers that had suffered a similar fate. Pictures of Will in a business suit lay on the floor staring back at me . . . pictures of Will and . . . my gaze narrowed . . . you had to be kidding me . . .
I stared down at my father’s face.
Fuck me.
Will
One minute she was trembling in my arms, her body responding to my touch, the next she . . . wasn’t.
I froze, pulling back. Jackie was against the wall in nothing but a bra, her skirt, and heels. Her skin was flushed in all the places my hands and mouth had just been. Her face was pale, the remnants of desire still evident. But her eyes—gone was the light I’d seen at the bar, the mischief that had attracted me in the first place. And all I could think was what the fuck did I do to make that light disappear? I was pretty sure I’d do anything to get it back.
Her eyes opened a bit wider, running over my appearance, focusing on my face, and it was all I could do to not feel like I’d been judged and found wanting.
“Who are you?”
I flinched, stepping back from her. This wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have. Will was a safe name. Will was a guy who could afford to take a pretty—okay, stunning—girl home for a night. Will could flirt. Will could joke. William Andrew Clayton, running for the Virginia Senate, couldn’t do any of those things. I didn’t need a sex scandal on my hands, not this late in the game. But then I’d created this problem myself, hadn’t I? And I didn’t want to lie to her.
“What do you do for a living?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.
“I’m in politics,” I hedged, wondering why I even bothered. There was something in her gaze now, something that had nothing to do with sexual desire. She wanted answers, and for some inexplicable reason, I felt an obligation to give them to her.
She didn’t respond, she just continued staring at me with unblinking eyes.
“I’m sort of running for the state legislature,” I muttered, weighing the odds of throwing a, have I got your vote? joke in there. She was half-naked in my hallway, I didn’t know her last name, and my dick was the hardest it had ever been. We were a late-night comedian’s wet dream.
Her gaze sharpened, and I watched the exact moment when she
figured out who I was. Horror flashed across her face, and for the first time, I realized that running for a state senate seat might be a huge hindrance to me getting laid.
“Virginia.”
I nodded.
“William Clayton.”
“Afraid so.”
She shook her head, tearing her gaze away from me. I thought I heard the word unfuckingbelievable, but the blood rushing in my ears made it tough to hear anything over the sound of my own need.
“I have to go,” she announced, reaching down and picking up her crumpled top.
I’d sort of figured this was coming since she’d stopped responding to my touch, but I couldn’t figure out why. Had I done something wrong? Had I offended her? Did she disagree with my political views?
I just stood there like an idiot, watching her dress, trying to figure out what the hell had gone wrong.
“What happened?”
“I don’t do politicians.”
Once again, I was four steps behind. “But you live in D.C. You can’t throw a stone without hitting a politician. It’s the city of politicians. You were at the Hay-Adams. It’s like the home of the power lunch.” I was perilously close to begging. I blamed my dick and my apparently absent brain.
“I have to go.”
“Let me call you a cab, at least.”
She shook her head. “It’s still early. I’ll take the Metro.”
I wanted to ask her what was wrong, wanted to understand how we’d gone from naked up against the wall, to her leaving me with a raging hard-on, but I couldn’t get the words out. So I stood in my hallway, watching her walk away, wondering what I’d done to make her leave.
Jackie
There was a special place in hell for people like me.
The evening kept running through my mind on a horrific loop I couldn’t seem to turn off. Guilt and loathing filled me as I headed toward the Metro, the sweltering August heat sending a trickle of sweat down my spine.
This was why I didn’t do boyfriends. I was a bull in a china shop, a human wrecking ball. He’d been a nice guy, a genuinely nice guy. And the second I saw my father’s picture, I’d just freaked.
I could have asked him about his relationship with my father, but that would have highlighted the fact that there was a connection there. My entire life I’d kept the secret I’d almost spilled that day at brunch.
No one was to ever know that I was the illegitimate child of Senator Edward Reynolds.
My strides lengthened as I cut through Old Town. It wouldn’t be long before I was in the comfort of my little apartment, back where I belonged. That was the trouble with guys like Will, they made you want things you had no business wanting, things you could never have.
I wished I could go back to the beginning of the night, never should have let things get so out of hand. Never should have picked someone up at the Hay-Adams of all places. Will was totally right—what did I expect? I knew better than to let my political life intersect with my personal life.
My internship at Price, Matthews, and Anderson was pretty much the single greatest achievement of my academic career. They were the political consulting firm in D.C. Most of their hires came from Ivy League schools, some were even grad students. I’d gotten unbelievably lucky to even get an interview, much less hired. I couldn’t afford to screw it up.
Having sex with a candidate in a major state senatorial race would definitely qualify as screwing it up. It didn’t matter how amazing his mouth was.
Chapter Four
Washington has been surprisingly quiet lately . . . makes you wonder what scandal will break next. I can promise you one thing, you’ll hear about it here first.
—Capital Confessions blog
Jackie
“James wants to see you in his office.”
Shit. This was the moment I’d feared. Yesterday, before my colossal lapse of judgment at the Hay-Adams, I was tasked with working on a new database Price was developing for the coming election season. And I’d fucked it up. Not in a big way, but when competition was fierce, every mistake counted.
I nodded, trying to calm my racing heart as I stood up from my desk. They stuck all of the interns in a massive bullpen in the middle of the room. We each had our own cubicle—a little half wall I was ridiculously proud of. There were twenty of us in the internship program. Five of us would get job offers if we were lucky.
I tried to ignore the stares as I left my desk, my cheeks flushed. Given the competitive nature of the internship, it hadn’t exactly lent itself to making friends. Most people were polite, but no one was overly nice. Besides, most days we worked too much to have a social life. Yesterday’s bar visit had been a onetime thing.
I walked toward my boss’s office, trying desperately to think of something I could say to keep my job. Nothing came to mind. An excuse wasn’t going to fly in the land of we-piss-excellence.
I stopped in front of his door and knocked. Please don’t fire me, please don’t fire me.
“Come in.”
I walked into his office, still struggling to come up with a speech. It won’t happen again, sounded too trite, too expected. And I couldn’t exactly make that promise because the database was a labyrinthine mess I despised. I’ll fix it, was equally shitty since I had no clue how to fix it, and that was what had gotten me into this mess in the first place.
“Good morning, Jacqueline.”
I struggled not to grimace. I hated being called Jacqueline. Only my mother called me that, and honestly, I thought she did it more to annoy me than anything else.
“Good morning, Mr. Morgan.”
James Morgan might’ve only been a handful of years older than me, but in the world of political consulting he was pretty much a god. He was also kind of an ass, but when you got your hands as dirty as he did, that was to be expected. For the most part he wasn’t a bad guy, just a little slimy. He was also in charge of the interns.
He began speaking, and suddenly nothing he said made any sense. Because sitting behind him in a chair, his ankle propped against his knee, perfect suit, perfect hair, perfect smile, was the man who’d had me moaning in his hallway last night.
Son of a bitch.
Will
I hated this political consulting shit. Hated it with the fire of a thousand suns. But apparently I was polling low, and according to my campaign manager, Mitch, this firm was the best. They advised on campaigns that needed “fixing,” or in my case, a popularity boost and higher polling numbers. James Morgan was also a classmate from Harvard, so that helped a bit. But still.
He droned on and on about image and branding, and all I could think was that it was way too early for this. It didn’t help that I’d been up half the night with a raging hard-on and a mountain of questions.
“It’s a little late in the season and we’re pretty full, but I’m going to assign one of our interns to you permanently. She can help out with whatever you need on the campaign and be a liaison between our office and yours. She’s young, but she’s sharp. Killer instinct. Even better legs.” The last line was accompanied by a wink.
And now I remembered why I’d never really liked him at Harvard. He was a smart guy, but there was something seedy about him. I felt bad for the intern. He was too smart to get caught, but too much of an ass to avoid skirting the line.
“Ah, here she is now. Good morning, Jacqueline.”
I looked up and my jaw dropped.
In the bar last night, she’d exuded raw sex appeal; here in the office, she could have been a different person.
Her long blonde hair was bound in a tight knot. It should have made her look severe, but instead it highlighted her sharp blue eyes, her high cheekbones. She was dressed conservatively in a pair of black pants, white shirt, and gray sweater-thing. Her cheeks were red.
Our gazes locked before she looked down at the floor.
James shot me a look that clearly said, hot, right?
“Jacqueline Gardner, this is William Clayton. He’s hi
red the firm to help out with his campaign. He’s running for a seat in the Virginia Senate, representing the thirtieth district.”
She looked up at me, panic in her gorgeous blue eyes. I sat there frozen for a moment, and then I stood quickly, determined to take charge of the situation.
I crossed the room, reaching her in a couple strides. I held out my hand, my gaze solemn and hopefully reassuring.
“It’s nice to meet you, Jacqueline.”
In a way it felt like I was meeting her for the first time. This girl—Jacqueline—wasn’t the same girl I’d met last night. She was more self-possessed, more buttoned-up. I got it, respected her ability to compartmentalize work and personal life, but for some reason, it just made me want to know more.
She closed her eyes, and I watched as she fought for composure, my body shielding her from James’s gaze.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, as well.”
Her words were polite; there was nothing at all that would have given her away as anything but professional. And yet there was something in her voice that seemed to linger over the word, pleasure. Or maybe that was just my own stupid hope.
She grasped my hand in hers as we shook, and I was instantly reminded of last night, of stroking her soft skin and watching her come alive with my touch. Her hand slipped through mine, but I couldn’t resist the urge to let my fingers graze the inside of her wrist, the exact spot I’d caressed before.
Her eyes widened, her lips parted slightly, and I felt the familiar instant punch of lust.
I stepped away, struggling to get myself under control. This had disaster written all over it. Campaign-ending disaster.
I was young and I was inexperienced, just a few years of working at my father’s venture capital firm under my belt, but the one thing I had was my reputation. I was blissfully scandal free—no ex-wives, or angry ex-girlfriends, or history of reckless sexual behavior. Some premonition told me that was about to change.
Behind me, James droned on about the campaign. I alternated between struggling to listen to him and trying to not look at her. And still she consumed my thoughts.
Flirting With Scandal Page 3
