Elite (Elite Doms of Washington Book 1)

by Elizabeth SaFleur

  A small groan escaped when the now-familiar pulse of the vein on the underside of his manhood promised his release. The first spurt into her throat nearly gagged her, but he mercifully pulled back to allow her to swallow. As she milked his cock to completion, she knew the small favor wouldn’t last. The vibration between her legs stopped, and his hand found her swollen clit. She let out a complaint when he pinched.

  “Very good. Now let’s see what else I have for you, my beautiful, lovely pet.”

  Christiana lost track of time, suspended in a place where Jonathan’s body and her own connected, making their own corner of the universe. Whatever he offered, she took. Whatever he asked, she did. Whatever he did, she sunk into like quicksand. Jonathan moved her around the bed like a precious rag doll. Limbs placed. Mouth taken. Pussy filled. Legs open—always, always open.

  At some point, he removed the mask. His emerald eyes bathed her face with warmth, control, approval. He wrung out new orgasms from her body, always on command. And when she thought she couldn’t give any more, he resurrected even more from deep inside her womb. Jonathan never released her eyes, and she felt his ultimate reward into her core.

  25

  Christiana relaxed on a deck chair and looked out at the trees. Jonathan had needed to make some phone calls in his office. His forehead wrinkled when his phone kept ringing over breakfast. He hadn’t needed to tell her he required some privacy. She needed time as well.

  She drifted into a mesmerized haze, lulled by the soft rustle of leaves. The trees moved in the slight breeze, unadorned by the usual gangs of blue jays and warblers. The hot morning sun must have sent the birds to cooler resting places.

  She was tired, but couldn’t sleep anymore. Her legs trembled every few minutes as if recovering from a triathlon. Well, last night had been a marathon.

  Sometime in the night, she’d descended from orbit: soft caresses accompanied by Jonathan’s reassurances helped her spiral downward into her body—sore, worn out, and euphoric.

  Jonathan made her sip an Emer-Gen-C drink in between spoonfuls of a thick, creamy soup. Was it potato or cauliflower? She was in such a daze she couldn’t tell. He’d left her in the bed, sheets snuggled up to her chin, with orders to sleep as long as she wanted. She didn’t want to close her eyes. She never wanted to close her eyes.

  Jonathan was right. If she’d trusted him, he would show her everything she didn’t know she wanted. For the first time, Christiana understood the difference between acquiescing and trusting someone else’s judgment. Last night, he hadn’t used her body as much as serviced a need that had lain dormant, pulling out something primal that he then worshipped.

  Christiana rose and walked back into the house. An abrupt need to be next to Jonathan surfaced as if a hypnotic suggestion had been awakened.

  The sound of his voice grew louder as she moved across the house. His laughter spilled out into the hallway, beckoning her to quicken her pace. She loved him happy.

  But the laugh morphed into a snicker. “No, I’m not really looking forward to it, Sarah. He only cares about my re-election. I look forward to seeing you, of course.”

  His re-election? And, he’s seeing Sarah? But, I’m here. A little petulant girl arose at the thought of Jonathan being cheered by anyone but her. Don’t be a baby, Chris. Jesus.

  Christiana stepped into the doorway and leaned against the frame. She pushed her hip out, knowing the effect she had on him—now. By the way his eyelids hooded, Jonathan appreciated her stance. He winked.

  “Yes, I know,” Jonathan said into the phone. “Good intentions and all that.” He put his hand over the mouthpiece and mouthed, “Five minutes. Go start a bath for us. I’m not done with you.”

  She tossed her hair over her shoulder before heading to his bathroom. So, Sarah had Jonathan’s attention for five minutes. She’d figure out how to reclaim him.

  “You do know the antidote to your father’s wrath?” Sarah asked.

  “Marry Marla Clampton?” Jonathan chuckled.

  “There you go, Jay. You knew the answer the whole time.” She laughed softly. “It’s a few more months. Get through the election before you return to the beautiful girl. She’s beautiful, but—”

  “I have no idea who you’re talking about.” He picked a piece of lint off his cotton pants.

  “Jay, this is me you’re talking to. I don’t think taking risks is in your best interest right now.”

  “Risks? This is me you’re talking to, Sarah.”

  “True. Forget what I say. Show up by five on Thursday and escort me to the big fundraiser so we both can get Brond Senior off our backs.”

  “Still trying to fix you up with eligible men?”

  “The old man never gives up. But, then neither does my mother.”

  “You don’t have to tell me. See you then, Sarah.”

  After he hung up, he stared out at birdless trees. They probably hid from the heat too. Such simple lives they lived. Short, but simple.

  Sarah was right. He had neglected his duties. He had staff, constituents, business partners, all counting on him. Just because his father tried to run his life was no reason to forget his responsibilities. He’d agreed to run for office. He had no one to blame but himself for joining the family business of politics.

  Of course, he had not foreseen a certain nineteen-year-old. He had planned to care for no one—until the right time. Timing was everything in Washington.

  Too bad he’d met the perfect woman during an imperfect time.

  Last night, Christiana had wrestled with her demons and won. He witnessed her stunning fortitude in letting go. She’d taken everything he’d dished out and reveled in his command. If he’d only met her five years from now. He’d have married, cherished and protected her every second of her precious life, not to mention fucked the living daylights out of her every available moment.

  You’re an animal, Brond. You’ll let her go—for her sake, remember?

  If only he could figure out a way to keep her with him beyond the summer or at least squirreled away until a better time. Why couldn’t he pack her off to school, and then spend long weekends at Covil Sereia, feasting on her submission?

  His ten-year master plan smacked him upside the head. No ties, no complications. His family and position didn’t have room for—for what? Someone so pure the dirt clinging to him, to his family would show?

  A dozen men could fill his place. She’d want someone tall, confident, imposing with a touch of gentility. He could find such a man.

  No. He couldn’t stand the thought of another man touching Christiana. Not ever. He just didn’t know how to make Christiana a permanent part of his life. Too bad he wasn’t religious. Because I need a miracle.

  When Jonathan entered his bathroom, Christiana crouched before the tub, testing the water temperature. She smiled up at him when he entered. Seeing her on her knees, he couldn’t get his clothes off fast enough. Christiana only added to his urgency by slipping off her skimpy tank dress to reveal nothing but temptation.

  “Fuck, Christiana.”

  “You’re such a romantic.”

  “In the tub, now.”

  She slipped into the rising water and twisted her hair up with an elastic. He stepped into the tub and pulled her to straddle his hips.

  “Can I ask you a question?” she asked.

  “Always.”

  She puffed out a half-laugh. “How do you get away with all of this?” She rubbed one eye, like a small child might. “I mean, this dual life?”

  “With great difficulty. Fortunately, given sufficient justification, people will believe anything. What they can’t stand is mystery. The more open you are, the better. Like the other day at The Oak. All they need is one plausible story.”

  “Well, you’re pretty mysterious. Doesn’t anyone wonder how you spend your weekends? If I was one of your voters, I’d want to know where you were all the time.” She traced his forearm.

  “No one cares where I am, only that I’m doi
ng something they approve of.”

  “Would they approve of us?”

  “Not at all.” He smiled into her eyes.

  A flicker of pain crossed her face. He hugged her closer to his chest. Of course, she wasn’t suitable. Only a twenty-five-year-old socialite, ripe in her childbearing years and from a good family, would be suitable. He’d die of boredom in the first six months.

  Jonathan searched for something to say to soothe the wound his words created but couldn’t find anything that wouldn’t also promise something he wasn’t sure he could deliver.

  “I’m proud to be with you, Christiana. I just want people to think there’s nothing to discover. I let people know you’re the daughter of a reporter I talk with, who might need a little mentoring. None of it’s false, and it gives people a reason for you being in my company. This way, they won’t make one up.”

  Her shoulders trembled. Tears.

  He scooted her up higher on to him, so her face nestled deeper in his neck. “You’re crying.”

  “We can never be seen together. I guess I understand that . . . but somehow I wish things could be different.” Her voice cracked. After last night, she’d float in a delicate state for a while.

  “We have a special connection, Christiana. We always will.” She’d wrung more truth from him.

  Jonathan tightened his hold and rocked Christiana slowly. Her breathing deepened. She’d drifted to sleep, still exhausted from their encounter.

  In the stillness, the idea of Christiana finding someone else rose. Perhaps he’d been insensitive to give her a taste of the powerful connection between a Dom and his sub. She’d now crave it moving forward. Hell, she’d be lost without it. Now she knew what to look for and what to expect. He could find someone for her—he’d done it countless times when submissives grew too close—a man who would be firm but gentle, with an all-consuming passion to care for and protect her, and treasure the gift of her submission.

  Sooner or later, he always arrived at this place, an unpalatable choice—a meaningful relationship or his political career. It’s why he’d rarely uttered those three little words all women seemed to live for. A shudder ran through him as he articulated what he’d always known but never admitted: he didn’t know how to reconcile his career with his love.

  What if he tried to have both? Go beyond the summer and incorporate Christiana into his life somehow. Would she even want that? Who’d want a life of fundraisers and political rallies?

  She deserved better.

  Another thought fought itself forward, unsettling him more. Yes, he could be replaced in her life, but he’d never find anyone to replace Christiana in his.

  An oppressive silence descended with his newfound realizations. He concentrated on Christiana’s soft breath moving over his neck, like a meditation. He caressed her hair and trailed his fingertips down her neck to her shoulder. He cherished every curve, every gentle rise and fall of her chest and sought to memorize her unique scent. Irreplaceable.

  26

  Christiana clutched her father’s arm and tugged the gossamer gown’s bodice one more time before stepping inside the ballroom door. Sarah had said to keep it down so her breasts threatened to spill. She hoped that remained only a threat.

  She’d let her father believe Avery lent her the dress. No reason to burst his bubble with the news that their friendship stood on a rocky cliff.

  Her father, clad in his old black tuxedo, had slicked his hair back and smelled of Old Spice. Christiana glimpsed what must have captured her mother’s interest when he circled in front of her in their living room.

  “Still fits,” he beamed.

  “The ladies don’t stand a chance, Dad.”

  As promised, Jonathan had sent her dress and two large embossed cards providing entry to the Club’s annual Fourth of July fundraiser for the American Mental Health Research Center. All year, the club’s philanthropy committee planned for the event, which included a dinner, fashion show and then cocktail party on the outside terrace to watch fireworks explode over the bay. It was the “grandest event in all of Washington,” according to Coco Churchill. But Coco declared all affairs grand. She would know, having been bred from birth to chair philanthropic committees, host parties, and help her husband up his career ladder with her own socialite family’s connections.

  Christiana had never been officially invited to this event before, only brought in by Avery to help dress the runway models.

  “You look beautiful, Christiana.” Her father gave her wrist a squeeze in the ballroom doorway.

  She prayed her father was right. Over the weekend, she’d given Jonathan all she had. Then he said there was nothing to discover regarding their relationship. Well, she’d be sure he’d discover something tonight—her candidacy for a more permanent relationship.

  Jonathan had dropped her off Sunday night, leaving her weak-kneed and wet from a long passionate kiss. Then few words came during the week. His note accompanying the dress on Wednesday was short and polite. Stingingly so. His texts were no better. She’d let her fingers hover over her phone every night to demand his sudden emotional retreat. Something told her to wait. She’d already displayed enough immaturity.

  But tonight? Well, she wasn’t waiting anymore.

  Between Sunday and today, she had put all her mental energy into ways to get Jonathan to agree to keep seeing her after August. They could see each other on weekends. She practiced her speech to him in front of her mirror. She couldn’t let her face give away the desperation festering behind it. She had a feeling he didn’t respond to that particular emotion.

  “You look so much like your mother tonight, Christiana,” her Dad said. “She’d be so proud of you.”

  Words stuck in Christiana’s throat. Her father hadn’t mentioned her mother in years.

  Her father jutted his elbow out in invitation for her hold. “Ready?”

  “Thanks, Dad.” She bumped him with her hip, trying to lighten the mood. She needed to focus on her future tonight and didn’t need her past creeping up to bite her in the ass. Only Jonathan was allowed to do such things.

  They stepped into the sea of Washington’s elite.

  Red, white and blue bunting hung over a dozen bars, interspersed through the tables, where tuxedo-clad servers doled out glasses of champagne and tumblers of scotch. Waiters, balancing trays of canapés, wove through small groups of men in black tie and women in long dresses—Christiana could see shrimp toast and caviar points and smoked salmon adorning dollops of cream cheese on bagel rounds. White linen-draped tables laden heavily with steaming chafing dishes promised fragrant fish in béchamel sauce and succulent roasted chicken.

  A woman in a long red gown swished by Christiana, nearly knocking her off her feet with the stiff taffeta skirt. Christiana recognized her as a newscaster from the evening news. Okay, maybe Coco was right about “anyone who’s anyone” attending tonight.

  Jonathan had said he might not be able to talk with her much at the event, given its size. She believed him. The large crowd tested the size of the ballroom and probably the fire code. She wondered how she’d find Jonathan in such a horde. She craved seeing him in black tie.

  “You look so grown-up, I think it’s time for a little champagne,” her father said.

  “Oh, no, Dad, I’m fine. Really.” She couldn’t afford to be anything but steady on her feet.

  Her father headed to one of the bars in the room, leaving Christiana to stand alone. Before she could scoot to the side, a hand touched her shoulder. She turned and faced Avery, nearly blinded by the diamonds cascading down in an intricate pattern over her friend’s décolletage laid bare in her strapless ivory gown.

  Avery’s eyes trailed up and down Christiana’s body. “Wow, where’d you get the Herrera?”

  “The what?”

  Avery let out an incredulous huff. “The dress?” She raised her eyebrows.

  “Oh, it’s on loan. How is everything going backstage?”

  “Frantic. I need y
our help. Jessica Sterling is in the bathroom puking her guts out.”

  “You need me to hold her hair?” Not in this dress. No way.

  “No, you’ve got to take her place.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Modeling.”

  “No way.” Christiana turned away from Avery’s stricken face to search for her father.

  Avery grasped her arm. “Please. My mother finally let me handle something this big. It has to go well!”

  Christiana had rarely heard Avery beg. “I’m not a model, Avery. I can’t—”

  Avery tugged her toward a side door. “I have just the thing for you.”

  “Forget it. I am not getting on that runway.” Christiana wrenched her arm free.

  Avery spun to face her. “Listen, I haven’t asked much of you. How could I? You’re always disappearing. But I really, really need you to do this for me.” Her lips curled into a smile. “You’re gonna love it. It’ll make any man notice,” she hissed into her ear. “Who wouldn’t want that?”

  Well, attracting men was Avery’s specialty. Perhaps it could present a perfect opportunity to show Jonathan her adult side—this time with clothes on, rather than off. How bad could it be?

  Christiana sighed. “Okay.”

  She failed to signal her father she was headed backstage. He stood engrossed in a conversation, already with a drink in hand. He wouldn’t miss her anyway.

  Before they stepped into the hall, Christiana caught a glimpse of a familiar, blond head. He entered the ballroom from an entranceway at the end of the hall talking to two gentlemen. Jonathan laughed and slapped the back of a man’s shoulder, earning him a broad smile. Her heart swelled at the sight of his broad shoulders clad in a finely cut black jacket. The memory of a summer wool and linen scent enveloping her on a dance floor arose.

  Avery’s grip brought her back to full reality. “Wait ‘til you see the dress!”