Campaign For Seduction

by Ann Christopher

  So she’d heard him. Expected him. Knew why he’d come.

  Good.

  Maybe she still wasn’t quite ready and would need a little more convincing, but she would give him everything tonight. With his urging, she would happily surrender, and surrender over and over again. Before the night was out, he fully intended to have her commitment to a relationship with him, and he wanted to hear her say that she loved him. He thought she did—he’d seen glimpses of it in her eyes—but he needed to hear the words.

  Their wait was almost over—but not quite.

  Liza unclasped her hands—they were still shaking—put them on the arms of the chair and stood looking none too steady. Then she took a small step toward him and hitched her chin up.

  “Please leave, Senator.”

  While her courage was one of the many things John admired about her, she had no idea what she was up against tonight.

  “No.”

  She blinked, her defiance wobbling and her voice fading. “What do you want? I told you I wouldn’t have an affair with you. I warned you.”

  Maybe he should ease her into it, start with the easy things first. “I want you to tell me,” he said nice and slow, “why your hands were shaking earlier.”

  Panic flared behind her eyes and she shook her head. Edging around him, looking as if she planned to run if given half a chance, Liza mustered her bravado, pivoted on those sky-high heels and marched past him to the front door, where she put her hand on the knob.

  “Please leave.”

  John gaped after her—did she really think she was throwing him out?—until his brain came up to speed and he reacted.

  Uh-uh, Liza. Not tonight.

  Moving with sharp reflexes honed on the soccer field, he lunged and caught her from behind.

  She cried out, struggling.

  Too bad, darlin’. There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in the Bahamas that he’d let her go, especially when she felt so hot in his arms, so sweet, so unbelievably perfect.

  Tightening his hold, he restrained his hands and kept them firmly around her middle, roaming neither higher nor lower even though he would have gladly sacrificed five years of his life to do so.

  Shoving his nose deep into that shiny, fragrant black hair, he inhaled her, throwing caution to the wind and getting higher than a runaway kite.

  “Shh,” he told her.

  She writhed against him, her body rigid and stronger than he’d remembered.

  “Please let me go.”

  “John.”

  “What?”

  “John.” Maybe it was twisted to derive such immense satisfaction from ruffling the unflappable Liza Wilson with her cool eyes and nose-in-the-air haughtiness, but he did. “You should say, ‘Please let me go, John.’”

  After a last shudder she went so still he could no longer feel the rise and fall of her ribs beneath his fingers. Finally, she moved again, but her body was softer now, pliant. The obligatory struggle with still there, but it was more of an undulation—a feeble test of her will against his when the bottom line was that they both wanted the same thing.

  With the obvious weakening of her resistance to encourage him, he let his lips slide down the sleek column of her neck and nearly died from the thrill.

  Heaven.

  “Please let me go…John.”

  “No.”

  She groaned. While there was some despair in it, there was much more excitement and need. Feeling the need himself, weak with it, he inched his hips forward until they just brushed the lush curve of her butt and he experienced more heaven with a healthy dose of torture.

  Stifling his gasp, he waited.

  Slowly, by degrees, her body loosened. The fight went out of her, bit by bit, and that was almost enough for John, but then she did something even better. Arcing against him, she turned her face toward his lips and rubbed that big butt against his erection.

  The contact almost sent him over the top. His hard length jerked against the zipper of his trousers, well beyond his control. Sweat broke out across his brow and beaded at his temples. The trembling in his hands had long since spread to his entire body.

  He wanted her. Wanted…wanted…wanted.

  His desperation was so strong he felt as though he would kill for it or die from it, but it wasn’t time. Not quite yet. First he had to bring her just a little bit further. Leaving behind the tender skin of her neck—he would come back to that later—he pressed his lips to her ear and whispered.

  “Why were your hands shaking earlier, Liza? My hands have been shaking all day because I’m scared of dying without holding you like this again. Why were yours shaking?”

  “For the same reason.”

  Good, but not good enough. “Tell me.”

  She turned her face toward him, strained to get closer.

  “I was scared.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it looked like…you were dying. There was so much blood—”

  He nuzzled the delicate shell of her ear, determined to focus a little longer so they could get over this hurdle once and for all.

  “Why does it matter to you whether I live or die?”

  To his surprise, her ribs heaved beneath his fingers, and his hand slid against the slick silk of her dress. Was she…crying? God, she was. Liza Wilson, the strongest, fiercest woman he knew or ever would know, was crying over him.

  And these were not the hot tears of a woman in a moment of passion but the emotional tears of a woman who felt something profound.

  He felt a million times more humbled than he’d ever been while standing before a cheering crowd of supporters.

  “Don’t cry, baby,” he murmured. “It doesn’t have to be this hard. I love you and you love me. That’s all.”

  That was it—the exact right thing to say.

  She sagged and gave herself completely. He felt it in her body, which was now supple, fluid, and in her skin, which radiated new heat like the molten crater of a volcano.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Say it.”

  “I love you. I need you. Inside me. All over me. I just…I need this.”

  Instead of leaving to shout his joy from the rooftops, which was a real temptation, he took a long moment to let it soak in, this amazing accomplishment of getting Liza Wilson to admit she loved him.

  Pressing a kiss to her temple, he waited, not at all sure he wasn’t about to start bawling like a baby.

  “We’re going to be together, darlin’.”

  “How, John?”

  Man, he loved it when she said his name. Loved it. His heart thundering with enough energy to power a wind turbine, he loosened his grip a little, turned her in his arms and looked down into the bright brown eyes that would probably be both the death of him and the last image flashing through his mind on his dying day.

  “I’m thinking…maybe it’s time for me to concede the nomination to Senator Fitzgerald. Go back to being a plain old senator.”

  “What?” Wow. He hadn’t expected her to look that horrified. “No. You can’t. It’s not over yet, and you can still win—”

  “I don’t know whether I can or not. The numbers—”

  “You can,” she said adamantly. “I know it.”

  It was beside the point at the moment, although he loved her all the more for her confidence in him. “You’re the most important thing to me, Liza. By far.”

  “I don’t want to be responsible for you quitting.”

  John became very still. The possibility that he could get the two things he wanted most was so glorious he had to creep up on it. This had been his hope, of course, but it suddenly seemed much closer to a reality.

  “You could…help me.”

  Comprehension dawned and her mouth formed a surprised O. “Help you?”

  “You could…do some work for Alzheimer’s treatment and research or choose some other platform.”

  With that, he formally passed his future happiness into her hands.

  “A pres
ident needs a first lady, and I need you as my wife.”

  It was too much to spring on her, the marriage idea more so than the first lady business. He knew it even before she went rigid and tried to jerk away.

  Reacting quickly, he tightened his hold and kept her close until some of her tension eased. A fine tremble broke out over her body, and he hated it, hated the man who had done this to her.

  Seething but trying to be gentle, he kissed her cheek. “Don’t, baby.”

  “I’m never getting married again.”

  He kissed her again. “I’m not your ex-husband. Don’t treat me like him.”

  “Men cheat. Politicians lie. It’s what they do.”

  “Liza.” Drawing back so she could see his face, he stared down at her. “I will never lie to you or cheat on you. Never.”

  She wavered, looking as though she couldn’t quite believe him. “It’s more than that. I don’t want to be a politician’s wife or first lady. I don’t want to campaign. This is your calling—not mine.”

  “You don’t have to campaign or do anything else you don’t want to do. Our calling is to love each other, and I just need you to be there when I come home at night. That’s all.”

  Her jaw shut with a snap, and he decided to take advantage of the opening. Enough with the talking. They had more important things to do.

  “We’ll work on the logistics in the morning. Right now we’re going to get to know each other a whole lot better.” Palming her face, he tunneled his fingers through the black silk of her hair. “Aren’t we?”

  After a brief hesitation, she nodded.

  Good girl. “I’m going to kiss you here.” He stroked a thumb across her dewy bottom lip and she smiled. “And here.” He let his hands slide lower and filled them with the delicious weight of her breasts. Just when her head fell back and she began arching into him, trying to get relief for her nipples, which he sincerely hoped were now hard and throbbing, he slipped his hands lower, to the center of his universe, and cupped the dark triangle he planned to explore tonight with the exhaustive thoroughness of Lewis and Clark.

  “And here. Okay?”

  “Yes.” Her eyes were bright now, her face flushed and gorgeous.

  Easing her closer, he palmed her butt and ground her against his straining erection. This nearly killed him, but it was worth it. He must have hit a sweet spot, because she whimpered and writhed against him, her body’s needs making her shameless—just the way he liked her.

  “And when it’s time,” he told her, “you’re going to spread these thighs for me and let me in. You’re going to relax and let me take care of you—let me do everything I want to do with you, everything I tell you to do. Aren’t you?”

  And Liza Wilson, the woman who’d traveled to war zones, interviewed dictators and made corrupt politicians sorry for the day they were born, shivered and said, “Yes.”

  “We’ll deal with the rest of this tomorrow, baby, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  John wanted tonight to be all about Liza.

  Liza had other plans.

  Maybe it was the martinis he’d seen her sipping tonight, in which case he planned to buy stock in Absolut and order vodka by the case, or maybe it was realizing he could have died today, in which case he planned to get shot more often. Whatever it was, it made Liza soft and easy, so sensual she stole his breath and scattered his thoughts.

  That sleek hair had slid over one eye again, and she glowed with some secret inner light that put a tiny smile on her parted lips as she towed him down the hall to the bedroom, never breaking eye contact.

  Her spring garden scent fogged his brain almost to the point of insanity. By the light of a single nightstand lamp he stared at her, unable to believe his enormous good fortune and ready to jump on her in a frenzied mating that would make a stallion with a mare in heat look like a G-rated peck on the cheek.

  He’d never thought there was anything sexier than a woman’s bare skin, but Liza in that black dress standing in front of that enormous bed gave him a whole new perspective as he shrugged out of his jacket and dropped it to the floor. The silk hugged her plump breasts and dipped low, flared over curvy hips and butt and fell away over juicy thighs.

  Liza in that black dress was lethal.

  As though she knew what she did to him, she beckoned him with the slightest tip of her head and widening of her smile.

  “Come here.”

  But John hesitated, not entirely sure the dream had become a reality. “I pictured you like this. The first time I saw you—every time I saw you—I wanted you like this.”

  “What will you do with me, Senator?”

  He had more than a few ideas.

  They came together with his hands in her hair and hers gliding under his shirt, unhurried and gentle. Angling her head the way he needed it, he caught her mouth and drank slow and deep, trying to catch her elusive tongue, to hold it, to suck it.

  But she slipped away, teasing him, a Mona Lisa smile curling her lips.

  John wasn’t sure he could play, not tonight. Running his hands up over her hips and butt, he cupped her heavy breasts, weighed them and enjoyed her shiver. A tremble rippled through him, and his aching erection leaped and strained for her. He pulled her close again, to bury his face in her neck, to breathe her in.

  “You’re so sexy.” He barely recognized his own hoarse voice. “So sexy.”

  She didn’t answer, and that inflamed him even more because she was just out of reach and still in control when he was already gone. Holding his gaze, she put her hands to her hips and gathered the skirt of her dress up, revealing inch by slow inch of legs and then a patch of black satin that covered what he needed, what he meant to have and keep.

  Hurrying out of his clothes, getting rid of the heavy layers that kept his skin from hers, the pain in his neck all but forgotten, John watched that dress rise past skimpy panties…a taut brown belly with just a hint of softness…a slim waist…and then the generous curve of breasts tipped with nipples pointed like Hershey’s Kisses.

  John watched those breasts bounce back into place and his mouth went dry and his head felt light.

  When she stared him in the face as she shimmied out of that scrap of satin, lounged across the edge of the bed, planted one foot on the duvet and spread herself like a banquet, inviting him to gorge until he was sick, he groaned, dropped to his knees before her and feasted.

  She glistened with honey, intoxicated him with her delicious musky scent and tasted like ambrosia. He lapped her up, his crooning mingling with her cries as they both palmed her breasts. When her body went rigid and she spasmed against his mouth, he suckled, wrung every last drop of pleasure from her and felt like a king.

  Sliding up over her body, he hurried out of his underwear, ran his tongue over her torso, dipped into her navel and latched onto each breast. Liza clung to his head and arched for him, offering everything.

  He was just reaching between them, thinking that now was the time, now, when, with a surprising burst of strength and energy, she flipped over, straddling him.

  John panted, his heart thundering.

  Crouched on all fours over him, her breasts dangling like ripe fruit that needed plucking, she gave him that knowing, enigmatic smile, the one that was driving him right out of his freaking mind.

  “Sit up,” she murmured. “Watch me.”

  John broke out into a fine sweat and adjusted a pillow behind his head even as he shook his head, told her no. He could hardly speak.

  “Not tonight. I can’t—”

  “I think you can,” Liza said, and laughed.

  He watched, mesmerized, as she closed her eyes and moved for him, stretched for him, reached sleek arms high overhead and displayed those round breasts for his hungry eyes. Then she ran her hands down through her hair, rolled her head back and showed him her neck, the arch of her spine.

  Her hands slipped through the valley between her breasts, stopping to squeeze each one, to press them together from th
e sides, to let those dark nipples peek through her fingers and taunt him.

  When her hands ended their journey buried between her thighs, stroking, he had to rein himself in and squeeze his penis, hard, just under the swollen head, to keep from shooting off like a Fourth of July rocket.

  Her eyes opened, and they were bright with purpose.

  “Don’t, Liza,” he gasped. “I’m already dying here. Don’t…don’t…ahh.”

  She did.

  Crept up over him like a cat, licking first one of his sensitive nipples, then the other, then eased lower, pressed her tongue into his navel, cupped his tight sac and took him deep into her mouth.

  John’s hips rose up and off the bed, and he nearly jackknifed at the hot suction. There was no way to hold back his astonished cries, to keep her name from pouring out of his mouth.

  The last thing John saw before his eyes drifted shut was her round butt stuck high in the air, her shining hair in her face and her lush berry lips wrapped tight around his hard length. Then he clamped his hands on the sides of her head and let her bob at will, because she didn’t need any guidance.

  A few seconds of this torture was all he could take. When he was close to bursting, he gently pulled her hair and she let him slide out of her mouth with all the reluctance in the world. Crawling back over him on all fours, her lips swollen now, she stared down at him and he stared up at her and neither one of them could speak.

  Stunned, John struggled to find words, to tell her how she’d changed his life, what she meant to him. Nothing in his life had ever prepared him for this moment—not marriage to his first wife, dating other women or running for the presidency.

  There was only Liza. His world began and ended with her and would until he died.

  Turning her onto her back, he smoothed her hair away from her face with one hand, reached between them with the other and entered her with a long thrust that had them both moaning. She was tight, hot, wet and everything he needed.

  “I love you, Liza,” he told her as his hips began their slow circles. A big word but way too small for this moment. “Love you. Love you—”

  “I love y—”

  The rest of her sentence died on her lips as her eyes rolled closed, her beautiful face twisted with ecstasy, and she bowed and tensed beneath him.