Elite (Elite Doms of Washington Book 1)

by Elizabeth SaFleur

  “Hmmm. Spread your legs.” His breath, hotter than the steam, moved over her ear as he rested his chin on her shoulder. His chest glided over her back, slippery with soap and water.

  Christiana hooked her hands over the arm holding her ribs and pushed her ass backward into his cock, urging it deeper into her crevice.

  She startled when his finger dipped inside her slit.

  He withdrew. “I think you’re more than a ‘little’ sore.”

  Christiana held her breath at the soft correction in his voice, then released it in one pant. “But I don’t want you to stop.”

  “There’s little chance I could ever stop with you. But I insist you always tell me the truth.”

  “I will. I-I am.” She pushed against his erection.

  “Hmmm. I know how to make you feel better.” He returned his hand, his fingers intruding and moving slowly in little circles until all the consciousness in her body coalesced into that one spot. Her legs weakened, and his arm tightened in response.

  Christiana spread her legs to rest astride his muscled quads and fell deeper into his thrumming fingers.

  “Christiana, let go.”

  Her name, spoken in his voice, drove all remaining awareness to her clit. He pressed the tip of his finger inside her and his thumb on her nerve center, just firmly enough. Her bruised interior squeezed his finger, and he gently nipped her shoulder. Peak followed peak until the tidal wave of ecstasy tipped her over into a waterfall of spasms, her knees buckling. A moan escaped her throat and echoed off the tile.

  As her orgasm subsided, she took big gulps of thick, steamy air, her muscles milking his fingertip in a final shudder.

  Jonathan slipped his hand from between her legs and spun her around. He scooped her up into his arms, and his rigid cock ground into her belly. Should I do something for him?

  But he only pulled her head back by her wet hair and grinned. “So, now that you know more, perhaps we can continue our conversation?”

  Conversation . . . now? “There’s more?”

  “We’ve only just begun, lovely.”

  Christiana wondered what else she didn’t know. Jonathan seemed to be alluding to a depth of sexual knowledge she’d never imagined existed.

  Jonathan handed her a fluffy white robe after turning off the shower.

  “There’s a blow dryer in that second one.” He pointed to a set of recessed drawers and wrapped his middle with a large blue towel.

  Christiana bent over to towel dry her hair and when she threw her head back, he was gone.

  Twenty minutes later, clad in jean shorts and a plain white t-shirt, hair dried, she stepped out to find Jonathan. She blushed at the thought of running into his housekeeper.

  Christiana tiptoed to his office. He was on his phone, his voice sounding pissed, so she retreated to the deck to check her phone. Avery had been texting all night. She also had missed two calls from the dishwasher repairman. After listening to one slurry voice mail message from her father, she laid the phone down. She wouldn’t let reality encroach further on her fantasy weekend.

  “Yvette. It was simply a referral.” Jonathan rubbed his forehead. Shit, the hand-off wasn’t supposed to go down like this.

  “Fuck you, Congressman. No real man has another guy call me to pick up pieces that haven’t even fallen.”

  Her words arrowed through his heart. The last thing he’d meant to do was add to the hurt Yvette had amassed over the last few months.

  “I’ll see you on Sunday, as planned. But with my re-election coming up, Carson is better suited for you.” A little bit of truth mixed with a small white lie.

  “Like hell.”

  “Our time was always to be limited, Yvette.”

  “Why now?”

  “Yvette.” Jonathan didn’t need to see her sit down. He knew her—and himself well.

  “Sir.” She sounded like she might cry.

  “On your knees.” Jonathan heard her breathing. “I’m warning you.” He’d wanted to soothe her, but he’d known Yvette long enough to quickly assess what she required at the moment.

  “I am.”

  “Good girl.”

  “Jonathan?”

  “Yes, baby.” He’d let the informal address slide.

  “You’ll always be my friend, right?”

  “Always.”

  “Because I’ll always be yours. I’ve always wanted to-to . . . help, too.”

  “You do help me, Yvette. We’ll always be together, just differently.” He meant it. His loyalty—once given—was never withdrawn. “Now suck on a finger.”

  “Jonathan, please—”

  “Yvette.”

  Wet sucking sounds. Very good. She was hurt but wasn’t pissed.

  “Put your finger inside yourself,” he said. “Good. Now I want you to stay that way for ten minutes. You’ll not move your finger in any way. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “When ten minutes are up, you will get dressed. You will not make yourself come. I will see you Sunday—to talk.”

  Christiana dangled her legs off the edge of the deck and leaned her back onto the wooden surface. She centered her mind on the speckled sunlight squares that filtered through the tree limbs to blanket the deck and dance across her torso. She needed to think. First she needed to wrest control away from the stupid cheerleader girl dancing about and shouting, you had sex with Jonathan Brond! She had so many questions.

  Was sex supposed to be like this? Was it strange she liked it when he held her arms down? Would her body now obey any command Jonathan’s spoke?

  She couldn’t get answers from Avery. Avery coveted Jonathan and would kill Christiana for talking to him. But just because Avery wanted Jonathan didn’t mean he was automatically hers, right? Who said Avery had rights to every man who struck her fancy? Besides, Christiana didn’t want to stop. Despite her soreness, her female parts jumped into readiness at the mere thought of what his advances led to.

  But now what? It was the after part she hadn’t quite considered.

  Christiana’s eyes snapped open when Jonathan’s bare foot nudged her leg.

  “Still jumpy, I see. Come, you must be hungry.” He held out his hand to help her up.

  A tray of fruit and croissants, butter and jams, and two glasses of orange juice waited for them on the kitchen counter. Roasted meat scents rose from the oven, where juices spit and sparked inside.

  “Blanca brought us a roast for later. For now, would you like some eggs and fruit?”

  When did Blanca arrive? She slipped in and out like a ghost, even in broad daylight.

  “No, fruit is great,” she said.

  Jonathan watched Christiana intently as she nibbled on a piece of melon after consuming a croissant loaded with butter and jam. “You finally look rested,” he said.

  “Yeah, I feel pretty good.” She was more than good. The sugar from the breakfast treats coursed through her limbs. Or maybe Jonathan’s company made her jittery. She didn’t know how to interpret her body’s reactions anymore in his presence. The man unleashed a torrent of craving with one glance.

  He pulled her off her stool into his arms. “I’m glad you let me make love to you, Christiana.” He smoothed her hair off her forehead and ran his thumb over her scar.

  She instinctively pulled back a little.

  He only held her more strongly. “I think you’ve been waiting for someone to understand you. You haven’t always had it easy.”

  Her stomach lurched. She hoped he wouldn’t tread into hazardous territory, like anything about her father—or ask about her forehead. Talk about a downer after last night.

  “This summer, when we’re together, I’ll take care of you.” Jonathan released her head and ran his hands down her arms to encircle her wrists, ran his thumbs over the thin skin. “But we’re going to go slow. Yet there’s much to get in order, quickly.”

  Jonathan pulled her to the couch and sat her down on the snow-white leather.

  “Fir
st, we’ll start with the basics,” he said. “You should always know the medical condition of anyone you’re sleeping with. I’ll show you my medical records later. Do you have a gynecologist?”

  Okay, she had wanted the conversation to turn away from her past . . . but perhaps not in this particular direction. She shook her head. She hadn’t seen the need for a gynecologist before.

  “I’ll make an appointment for you. Dr. Bethany Jevicky. Discreet. Tuesday morning since you don’t work that shift. Depo-Provera should work nicely.”

  Irritation ran up her spine when he mentioned her work shift. But birth control? She didn’t argue. She wanted to feel his hardness deep inside, naked and unfettered.

  “I want to make the most of our time together, and for that, you need more sleep.”

  Christiana couldn’t fathom choosing sleep over Jonathan buried deep inside her most intimate core. Besides, she’d slept more last night than she had all week.

  “You need to stop pulling double shifts, wearing yourself out.”

  “I’m not quitting work. If I don’t work a lot, I won’t make enough money for school. I also won’t be able to take time off to be with you.”

  “I’m not asking you to. I can help.”

  “Please. Don’t. I know I’m naive about sex. But I’ve been taking care of myself for a while.” She dipped her face from the concern coloring Jonathan’s eyes. “I can handle my schedule at work.”

  He frowned. He didn’t believe her?

  “I’m not afraid of hard work.” She sent him a small smile, and his mouth relaxed.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. Doing too much.” He pulled her to his chest. “I want to do so many things with you, Christiana. We’ll come back here next weekend.” He placed a soft kiss into her hair, and she relaxed into his body.

  “But now I want to get you out of those jeans.” He dipped his fingers to the apex of her denim-clad crotch and rubbed.

  “Whatever you want.”

  Jonathan had her back in the bedroom and naked in seconds.

  14

  Birds. Screeching, twittering, calling. Christiana’s consciousness arose from a sleepy cloud. Jonathan’s arm draped over her torso, a sheet covering only their lower halves. She stretched under the heaviness on her ribs. She felt stiff, wooden, and a fire sizzled between her legs.

  Christiana marveled at Jonathan’s ability to grow hard within minutes of taking her. She could tell he’d restrained himself last night, slowing down, moving into her gently and steadily until she came several more times. Finally, as light rose in the sky, he cradled her worn-out body with his own, succumbing to sleep.

  She loved every second of his demanding hands, lips and tongue—pulling sensations from her she didn’t know her body could produce. Now she understood what she heard in Yvette DeCord’s voice that day at the Jefferson Suite. In seconds she moved from longing to begging to rapture.

  Even sore and aching, she wouldn’t have stopped Jonathan last night if Avery Churchill, herself, sat in a corner, watching.

  Christiana slipped from under Jonathan’s embrace and twisted to face him. His breath ran between chiseled lips, and the gold hair on his head lay tousled in little waves. Like a men’s cologne ad, of course.

  The clock read seven a.m. She’d been in bed for twelve hours. She’d never had so much sleep or activity in her personal life as in the last two days.

  Jonathan stirred. He rolled to his back, stretching his arm out over his head, but remained asleep. He presented the perfect classical profile.

  Christiana pulled the sheet down his body, inch by inch. She didn’t want him to wake. Her insides still pulsed with his use. She couldn’t afford to start something she’d have to stop. Yet she wouldn’t disregard the opportunity to study the man. Muscled planes and angles landscaped his arms and chest. He had to lift weights all the time, she thought. Blond hairs dusted his pecs and trailed down his torso into a triangle that disappeared under the drape. She wondered how many elections he’d win if he used this shot on his campaign poster.

  Christiana lowered the sheet, and her eyes followed the track of blond hair from his chest down to his . . . Jonathan moved. Please don’t wake. He sighed and turned his head on the pillow to face her, but his eyes stayed closed.

  She scooched closer to his hips and pulled the sheet down to his knees. Even limp, his penis was huge. It explained how raw she felt. She wondered how his slack flesh would feel cradled in her hands.

  Her phone vibrated in her jeans, draped over the chair in the corner. She glanced up at Jonathan who slumbered despite the insistent shuddering. Christiana knew who wanted to connect with her this early. You go back to sleep too, Avery. Finally, the phone silenced.

  Seeing Jonathan like this provoked an overwhelming sense of ownership within her. She lay next to this god, not a certain member of high society. She had squatter’s rights. Christiana kissed the velvet skin of his shaft and took in his musky warm scent. She placed her mouth on the tip and ran her tongue around the rim. Salty.

  He moved underneath her lips, and his hand came down on her shoulder.

  Christiana looked up. He still slept. She crawled between his legs and took more of him into her mouth. His cock stiffened, and his hand knotted her hair in a fist.

  “Christ,” he hissed.

  Her mouth released its hold, and her eyes shot to his face. He stared down at her as if he didn’t quite recognize the girl holding his hardness in her hand.

  Without breaking his gaze, she sheathed her teeth within her lips and slowly sucked him inside her mouth, running her tongue on the underside to wet his entry. She swirled her tongue around the head. Then she pushed down on him, taking as much of his cock inside her throat as she could. For a moment she fought a gag reflex, quelled it, and moved him out and then back in.

  “Easy,” he said. “Christ, you’re eager.”

  She looked up.

  His eyes were unreadable as he pulled his hips back. His cock slipped from her mouth. “You didn’t tell me you knew how to do this.”

  “I don’t. I’m experimenting.”

  “You’ve never gone down on a guy before?”

  “No, I, um, never got that far. I told you I really have no experience at all. But I’ve always wondered.”

  His eyes said he didn’t quite have confidence in her words, but he only answered “Good. I want to be your experience. Do you like this?” He arched one eyebrow to indicate the blowjob.

  She nodded because, actually, she did. It felt strangely powerful holding his most intimate part in her mouth.

  “Well, don’t let me stop your fun.” He pushed her head back down toward his rigid, slick cock.

  Christiana trailed fingers through the fine, soft hair covering his balls. She pulled his hard rod in and out of her mouth, running her tongue up and down, rising and falling, circling and lapping.

  His breath caught. “Mmm, you’re good,” he said.

  Heady elation blossomed in her heart. He thinks I’m good.

  His hands twisted in her hair and pushed her head down until his cock, now rock hard, hit the back of her throat. She fought another gag response. When he released her head, she pulled out only to reclaim him. She sucked as firmly as she dared.

  Jonathan’s balls tightened under her other hand. A shot of warm, salty liquid hit the back of her throat, and she eased him out a bit so she could swallow. When his length went limp, he released her hair.

  Christiana slipped her mouth free. A mildly victorious feeling spread across her wet face. She did something he hadn’t asked for. She’d pleased him.

  Maybe.

  She glanced up to check.

  His face was inscrutable, but he pulled her up into a waiting kiss. “You’re a fast learner.”

  She sank into triumph.

  He brushed her hair out of her face and smiled. “And I do believe you are a morning person, Christiana.”

  “Sir, I’m doing my best. Your father is rather difficult to, uh,
redirect, especially in person.”

  Didn’t Jonathan know it. An image of Shane being bent over backwards on his desk while his blowhard father barked orders raised some sympathy for his legislative aide.

  “He’s just pissed I didn’t make that floor statement.”

  “Well, making it part of the congressional record—”

  “Is not what I’m going to do. Shane, next time he shows up uninvited, just say you don’t know where I am.”

  “When can I tell him he can reach you?”

  “You can’t. I’m out of town, and he’ll have to figure out someday I’m not eleven anymore.” The roiling in his gut belied the humor he’d peppered into the conversation. Shane’s loyalty deserved more than he was getting from Brond Senior. Dammit, why can’t the man leave well enough alone? Showing up at his office on a Saturday when his overworked staff toiled their weekend away took nerve. While he, himself, had burned plenty of midnight oil, Jonathan frolicking between a woman’s legs while they labored at this critical juncture probably wasn’t much better.

  “Sir, if I may, I think he just likes being here.”

  Jonathan sighed heavily into the phone. “I know he does. Giving up that kind of power is . . . hard.”

  “I can only imagine.”

  His father’s obvious dismay at being dethroned from his beloved political post only added to the mystery around why he’d let things get so out of hand in the first place. The messy divorce from his mother, the stupid public remarks, and then his ultimate betrayal . . . . He shook the memories that dared to arise from his head. Nothing good came from visiting the past.

  He had a future to focus on. Jonathan had worked hard to get elected and even harder to ensure his promises to voters did not go undelivered, especially on his platform of mental health reform and personal privacy. Perhaps his father would have still been in office if he’d followed a similar plan.

  Voters hadn’t appreciated Brond Senior’s last few speeches about mental health care funding, saying people just needed to pull themselves up by their bootstraps and stop bleeding the system dry. Well, they took his advice and offered his father a chance to do just that—go home and stop draining their tax dollars with his Senate salary.