The President's Secret Baby

by Gage Grayson

  We’re quickly learning to anticipate the other’s movements better and work in harmony in the blind, tongue-locked state of our kisses. This time, instead of clumsily clambering across the room, we rise to our feet deliberately, our tongues tangled in passion, holding onto each other as if we’re the only thing keeping each other tethered to the Earth.

  We both fall sideways onto the bed, our kiss never breaking. Madeline pushes me lightly, and I roll onto my back. I let her climb on top of me, her face fixed in a smile that could easily set the room ablaze.

  Madeline grabs the center of my shirt, between the buttons with one hand, then the other.

  No, don’t do it...I’ve already lost one fucking shirt to her. Actually, okay, yeah, do it. Please.

  As if she’s reading my fucking mind—in fact, I’m pretty sure she is—Madeline tears my shirt open, sending buttons soaring in every direction. I hear some of them land on the carpet with muted thuds as Madeline’s soft, delicate hands explore my pecs, roving down to my abs as she lets out a quiet, breathy squeal of delight.

  I grip Madeline’s tits with my left hand as I reach into the top dresser drawer, located ever so conveniently right next to the bed, and pull out a condom from the box resting there.

  No matter what this honeymoon was going to actually entail, I don’t travel unprepared.

  Madeline grabs the wrapped condom from me while my arm is in midmovement. I watch intently for her next move, which is to make a gorgeously sassy sneering face and bite into the wrapper with her teeth, tearing it open. Fuck yeah.

  I know what comes next, so I glide myself up the bed to grant Madeline easier access to my cock, which is pointing right at her, urging her on. She makes quick work of rolling the condom down over my cock.

  She knows what she’s doing, and she’s at that same beyond fucking ready point that I am.

  Madeline starts by pinning down both my arms on the pillowtop mattress, and she continues by grinding her wet pussy against the underside of my fiercely erect cock. We both make almost feral moaning noises at the pure fucking ecstasy of it.

  Once she can tell that I can’t take it anymore, Madeline slackens her grip on my arms, and in another one of those jump-cut edits, I’m hovering above her as she grasps the headboard in shock and excitement.

  I steadily guide my cock into the place it’s now quite literally aching to go. When I first sink inside, just partially to start, the sensation of all-enveloping pleasure almost takes me by surprise.

  “Oh my god,” breathes Madeline, who apparently feels the same way.

  I slowly pull out.

  “No, don’t you fucking stop,” she whispers.

  Usually, my teasing buildups are where I excel, but this time we’re both just too fucking horny for any of this bullshit.

  I do take my time guiding my cock back in, not to try and create some spectacle which may or may not be there naturally, but instead to not rush the moment, to take my time so we both get to luxuriate in paradise for as long as fucking possible.

  “Oh my GOD,” Madeline repeats as I slide back in. Her words perfectly sum up the feeling that I’m getting as well—a carnal bliss that’s centered around my cock but is traveling throughout my body, seemingly throughout everything, making the world feel like it’s fucking vibrating again.

  As I sink balls deep inside her, Madeline emits another squeal, this one not quiet or breathy but brash and piercing, building in pitch until it seems like the window might fucking break.

  God, this is so fucking good.

  I mean, I’ve had my share of women. Some leave an impression, some don’t. But Madeline? I’m quickly coming to the conclusion that I may not ever be the same after her. And the scariest fucking part? I don’t know if I want to be.

  Ethan

  Do you ever have one of those days where you wake up feeling supremely well rested, see the glorious sun shining through the window, and all you want to do is leap out of bed and start belting out Rodgers and Hammerstein songs about what a beautiful morning it is?

  Because I certainly fucking don’t.

  Ever.

  Except this morning, for some fucking reason that makes me check my head for a fever.

  I open my eyes bright and early, which is usually the precursor for me grudgingly starting to get ready for work, or if it’s a weekend, just going the fuck back to sleep if I’m lucky.

  This is a pretty goddamn comfortable bed, which doesn’t hurt. The silk linens are agreeing with me too. I mean, this is the motherfucking honeymoon suite, after all.

  Also, I’m in Hawaii—a destination which lends itself to you being in a pretty good fucking mood when you’re here on vacation.

  Oh, yeah. One more thing. I also had what I’m pretty fucking sure was the best sex of my life last night.

  I mean, it was un-fucking-believably great. Nothing I’ve experienced even comes close.

  Goddamn.

  I decide to stay in bed for a little while and put my hands behind my head to match the fully relaxed, content vibe that this morning brings with it.

  “Madeline.”

  Man, I can’t seem to stop saying that name out loud, especially after just waking up.

  This time, there’s no hungover confusion about it.

  This time I’m thinking about nothing but Madeline’s amazing pussy and how I made her come so fucking hard.

  Well, I’m also thinking about us fucking on this very bed and how it felt so damn good for both of us it was like we transcended the current understanding of time and space and found new, unexplored dimensions or some shit.

  It was so fucking good.

  On this very bed.

  Last night.

  So where is she now?

  So this is what it’s like. Waking up in my own room, alone, after what was arguably the most mind-blowing sexual experience of my life.

  Fuck that, it in-fucking-arguably was the most mind-blowing sexual experience of my life.

  It’s an experience I’m sure I’ve given others—women familiar with men who provide enough sweetness and romance but lack the prowess and dedication that I pride myself on bringing to the table.

  I’m not one to boast, but rocking worlds is what I fucking do, and what I do when I’m done with that is to make myself scarce in the dead of night to go sleep in my own bed and continue with my own life.

  You could say that I’ve lacked empathy, maybe more than I’ve realized. The way I typically see it, I can provide a world-rocking, enjoyable time for all parties involved. But I’m not always good for providing what someone may want beyond that.

  But if the empty room coming into focus right now is what those middle-of-the-night disappearing acts feels like...let’s just say that it’s fucking time to reconsider my comfort zone for the sake of my own damn sanity.

  I throw off the silk linens and the down comforter. I swing my feet down to the floor. I’m still well-rested, at least.

  The sun is peeking in brilliantly, and the plush hotel-room carpeting feels fucking awesome against my bare feet.

  Audra. That was one instance where I decided I could provide both the bedroom world-rocking and everything else that could come with it, anything she would ever want.

  I push myself up from the quicksand-like pillowtop, letting reality flood in like it keeps fucking doing these past few days.

  Obviously, I couldn’t fucking do it with Audra. I’d say I tried, but the way she made me feel, it was like I didn’t need to fucking try. I could just act on my heart.

  I never used those words with her. Maybe I should’ve.

  But now, this—the empty honeymoon suite bedroom that looks so small right now—it gives me some fucking perspective. Maybe my habit is leaving women alone with empty honeymoon suites, over and over, figuratively and, well, sort of literally.

  Who knows how many times I did that with Audra, and she definitely fucking did it with me with no small dose of melodrama.

  Now I’m pulling up the sheets
and comforter, smoothing them out and tucking them under the mattress. Why the fuck am I making the bed?

  Madeline’s serving up that karma quite fucking literally herself, and somehow it’s hurting more than Audra—it’s because I don’t really even know Madeline, and it’s because I’m processing that shit right now. But no worries. I’ll be over it soon enough.

  Right? Right.

  It must really be about Audra still. How can it not be?

  But she’s not the one I’m thinking about. She could show up at the bedroom door right now and I can almost guarantee I wouldn’t feel anything. But if Madeline showed up...

  Where could she be? This can’t just be projection. Granted, all this canceled marriage and false honeymoon shit is new to me, but Madeline is taking up a clear spot in my mind—my desires—that not even Sigmund fucking Freud would deny is real.

  In this case, really wanting to see Madeline is just really wanting to see Madeline.

  I finish making the bed so I don’t abandon what I started. I choose a casual outfit from the closet and dresser in about two seconds, and I shower the last of the sleep off and leave a tip for housekeeping on my way through the main suite room and out the door to...to wherever the fuck I’m going.

  I’ve still not decided by the time I’m in the elevator heading down to the lobby.

  “Just pick something, dude. No fucking wandering,” I mutter out loud to the empty elevator car. “And no fucking talking to myself anymore.”

  I look down at the faux-marble floor of the elevator and at my feet.

  “The beach it is.” Jesus. There I go again. I don’t know where the fuck that habit’s coming from.

  As conflicted and as I am in fucking Hawaii of all places, I don’t think I’ll ever get sick of this beach. Walking that paved path toward the clear cobalt sky and the Pacific, I’m thinking that my future may just be right here. I may never fix whatever stupid lovesick wounds I’m bearing, but Hawaii is a pretty damn good salve for whatever ails you.

  There are people on the beach—too distant to see clearly—but I know none of them are Madeline.

  She’s probably on a plane back to wherever she’s from. She may or may not find anyone who deserves her, who can give her everything she needs. I wouldn’t mind trying, but all this shit will probably fade with time, and in this moment it’s time to visit that beach bar yet again and maybe see if the buffet is open.

  I’m still a few feet away from the bar when I see it’s closed with a makeshift wooden gate. I look up at the sky over the ocean. Fuck, I can’t even picture Audra’s face.

  I try to picture Madeline.

  Even in the late morning sun, she’s looking damn good. She’s wearing no makeup today, her hair is just pulled back sloppily, with stray wisps going in every which direction. She’s wearing a T-shirt and distressed denim shorts, but...

  Oh, okay. Yeah, she’s right here again, in the flesh.

  “I love how you just show up.” I’m thinking it, and I can’t help but say it aloud.

  The idea is to tell her how happy I am to see her—and already the scenery is looking so much fucking better and my day’s turning around with her here now—but she doesn’t look too pleased with that sentiment.

  “Is that sarcasm?”

  Her face has no humor in it. Fuck, how can I pull this one back?

  “Oh no, that’s not what I meant. I was just thinking about you, and you’re here. It’s not the first time.”

  Madeline’s face lights up a little, which is good since I feel like I could be on the verge of scaring her. Fuck.

  “You think about me a lot, huh?”

  Madeline seems mildly amused, but not thrilled, not excited. She looks bogged down by something. It may be the highlight of my day so far, but I don’t think she’s giving our interaction too much consideration.

  “You okay or what, lady? I haven’t seen you since last night.”

  Looking in an unfocused way at the scenery behind me, a sardonic little smile flits across her lips, and Madeline shrugs.

  “Today was supposed to be the best day of this whole trip,” she murmurs, turning back to me, “but that’s gone down the fucking drain.”

  “Hey, I’m no stranger to disappointment these days.” Pull it back, Ethan. Stop being so fucking self-centered. “What happened?”

  “Parasailing.”

  “You went parasailing? It went okay, right?”

  “No, we didn’t go fucking parasailing. That’s the problem.”

  Now we’re getting somewhere, but I don’t know if it’s somewhere good yet.

  “Who’s we, Madeline?”

  “Remember Laura? She saw your cock.”

  “How could I forget,” I say dryly.

  Madeline rolls her eyes at either my reaction or some annoyance regarding her friend—probably a little of both.

  “Yeah, she had this whole thing planned out. We had reservations to go out this morning. We did a shitload of research, we were going to see the coastline, some mountains, volcanos, you know, great fucking views, once in a lifetime. But she couldn’t get out of bed. She said she needed sleep. Too many fucking drinks. I’m not going by myself. So...yeah. That’s all.”

  Madeline’s eyes are focused down at the sand. She’s usually so in control, a confident mask in place, but she’s an open book right now.

  I put my hand gently on Madeline’s shoulder, and she looks at me, her eyes resigned, full of disappointment.

  “Let’s go.”

  “What? Get more drinks? I guess that’s all I’m doing in fucking Hawaii.”

  “No, Madeline, let’s go get those once-in-a-lifetime views.”

  Ethan

  Madeline’s walking alongside me along the beach, and I feel the electricity from her—even in her denim shorts and T-shirt—but she’s seemingly ignoring me, looking straight forward. I feel like a friend, like an acquaintance.

  “Are you sure you can get us out there?” Her question is charged with apprehension but also mild interest.

  I’m scrolling through a website on my phone, filling out forms and giving my credit card info and tapping a button that says Confirm.

  “As of a split second ago, we’re officially reserved for twelve-thirty.”

  I hear Madeline’s platform sandals stop short in the sand, and I stop along with her. We turn to each other. Madeline’s eyes have that same piercing emerald as always, but there’s a soft, innocent happiness to them right now.

  “For real? Don’t bullshit me.”

  My phone vibrates noisily. I peek at the screen then give her a cocky grin.

  “There’s the confirmation text. We can get in some once-in-a-lifetime views before lunch.”

  Madeline raises her arm up in the air, and the scent of roses and vanilla mingles with the salty sea air when she does. I’m not sure what’s going on, though. Madeline has her hand raised like a teacher’s pet who knows the answer and desperately needs to share it, but the look on her face—eyes wide, lips in a subtle duck-like pout—strikes a perfect balance of goofy sexiness.

  That’s a phrase I never thought I’d fucking say.

  I’m sure Madeline can see my confusion, but she stays with her hand up, her goofy-sexy face unrelenting, until I finally fucking figure it out. I raise my hand to give Madeline a high-five, and as our palms slap, Madeline grabs my hand and interlocks her fingers with mine, pushing my hand and my entire arm so it rotates down toward the sand, and we’re holding hands like normal.

  Watching Madeline’s goofy-sexy expression transform into a sassy, frisky grin as her hand grips mine sends exhilaration racing through me. Fuck, this girl and what she does to me. I don’t even fucking get it.

  “Let’s do this shit,” I say, pulling her closer to me as we walk. I shoot her a grin, but she just keeps looking forward, toward the ocean, the same smile on those lips I’m suddenly dying to kiss again.

  I don’t know how long it takes us to walk to Lahaina Harbor. It could be ten minutes,
or fifteen, or maybe even a half hour, but it feels like a fraction of a second, and it also feels timeless as Madeline and I take in the beach, the aroma of salty ocean air, the gorgeous coloratura-soprano melodies of indigenous birds, and the distant sound of waves and tranquil conversation, our hands locked and our comfort reaching the point where we can enjoy our surroundings and take each other in without having to fill every fucking second with needless words.

  We keep walking north, leaving the fantasy world of the beach and the resort and entering another fantasy world of actual roads, houses, businesses, and natural vegetation that hasn’t been landscaped and engineered to death for tourist consumption.

  “How do you know where we’re going?” Madeline keeps looking straight ahead after asking the question, as if she knows where we’re going.

  I can tell from her persistent grin and her lively tone that she doesn’t really care how I know; she knows we’ll end up there.

  “I wouldn’t be showing you around if I didn’t know this island like the back of my hand.”

  Madeline reaches over with her free hand, leaning over with just the right blend of recklessness and grace, and she grabs my other hand as we walk.

  We’re now facing each other, walking slowly. Madeline’s face is full of mirth.

  “Oh, you’re showing me around. Is that what you think is happening?”

  “If you know the way to the slip, or anywhere else, by all means show me. I’ll follow you.”

  Madeline’s stumbling intentionally, dragging us both toward the poorly paved ground and bouncing back up.

  “I don’t know how to get places, is what you’re saying? My sense of direction sucks?”

  I’m not usually the tripping, stammering type myself, making it a point to carry myself with confidence, to move with purpose and pay attention to what the fuck I’m doing. When she intentionally falters and moves in random directions like this, it puts my own sturdy, dependable swagger to shame.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I respond, pulling her in closer. “If you wanna lead, I’ll follow you. I don’t care where the fuck we’re going.”