DARK PARADISE - A Political Romantic Suspense

by Renshaw, Winter

  I could wait here forever in this little slice of paradise.

  The door down the hall opens and shuts a second later, and I pull the blindfold over my eyes before combing my hair into place. A soft creak trails from the bedroom door, followed by gentle footsteps on the carpet.

  “Camille,” he says. The familiar texture of his sexy voice washes away my fear, and my lips pull at the sides. “I hope you weren’t waiting too long.”

  “It’s fine,” I say, patting the bed next to me. I listen as he shuffles around, and I hear the drag and pull of the blinds and curtains as he prepares the room. “Some things are worth the wait.”

  “I’d have to agree with you.”

  The bed shifts with his weight and the space around me grows warm. I’m sensitized to every scent and every sound, and my nerves hum with anticipation.

  “How was your day, John?” I ask.

  His answer arrives in the form of a kiss. Greedy. Wicked. Heat flushes my body as I kiss him back, our lips gliding and our tongues tracing. John’s mouth abandons mine in favor of my neck, kissing down farther, harder, until he reaches my shoulders.

  His five o’clock shadow bristles against my bare skin like the sandpaper tongue of a cat, only it’s strangely erotic. John’s fingers trail up the back of my neck until they’re tangled in my hair. Digging into my scalp, he takes a handful of curled strands and pulls my head back, angled away from his hungry mouth.

  The combination of his soft lips burning into my flesh and the drag of his coarse stubble send pinpricks up and down my arms and a weakness to my knees. He makes me come alive. He makes me forget I’m just a high-class whore who fucks men for money.

  Each tug of my hair sends a rush of pain to my scalp, followed by a gush of euphoria. I’m on sensory overload, my body running on overdrive. John pulls my head back, my mouth falling open with a solitary sigh, and he kisses me just behind the ear. The touch of his fingers on the small of my back sends tingles radiating from every inch of my tortured body.

  My thighs squeeze, bringing awareness to the soft swell of my clit. I can’t breathe.

  John pulls his hand from my hair and climbs over me, his hands tugging and pulling and freeing me of every strip of clothing covering my body. Intuitively, I reach for him, my fingers trailing down his rippled abs until I find the waist of his pants. I unbutton and unzip him like my life depends upon it, and when I feel his rock hard erection, I press him back into the mattress and bring my lips to his cock. Gliding my tongue across the tip, I place the first two inches into my mouth, followed slowly by the rest. He sighs with each leisurely inch.

  My peaked nipples graze his thighs each time I move. They ache for his touch. His hips circle and thrust, gently fucking my mouth as I swallow his length over and over.

  “Camille,” he breathes, his voice tense. I feel him sit up, his hands skimming my back until he cups them around my waist and pulls me toward him.

  I flip around, straddling his face with my thighs and bring his cock to my lips once more. The wet flick of his tongue between my slit brings me to life again. His fingers dig hard into the flesh of my ass, spreading my cheeks as he laps my arousal.

  My hips buck as the tiniest threat of an orgasm jolts through my center. I’m not ready to come yet.

  I concentrate on unsexy things.

  The Metro. The Lincoln Memorial. The Potomac River.

  His hot tongue circles my clit, sucking hard and almost sending me over the edge until I arch my lower back to relieve the pressure. My cheeks warm, and I’m grateful for the dark. I’m a professional. I should have complete control over my body, including my climax.

  I climb off of him and twist my body around, gripping his cock in my hand and pumping him.

  No more oral.

  I can’t take another minute of his wickedly talented tongue caressing my hypersensitive sex. He’s too good.

  “Fuck me, John.” I offer a breathless plea. “You’ve kept me waiting long enough.”

  If my lines sound rehearsed, it’s because they are. I’ve said them a hundred times. I’ve said them so many times they’ve lost their luster. But I’ve never meant them. Never. Until now.

  My hands guide me back to the head of the bed, and my back glides against a silky pillow. For the first time, I don’t think about whether or not my hair is framing my face at the right angle or if my current position creates an unflattering perspective on my thighs. I’m not thinking about whether or not my lips are pouting enough or if my breathy gasps are over the top or just right.

  I’m only thinking about the deep, dark void and the impending fill.

  My thighs widen, and the sound of paper tearing puts a hitch in my breath. A second later his pulsing head drags along my slit, up and down, again and again, in a merciless tease.

  When I least expect it, he plunges into me with one fell thrust. An agonistic flash becomes sweet euphoria and my thighs fall limp. His hands grip my ass, pulling me onto his throbbing cock with every buck of his hips. He pumps harder, faster than ever before, the friction below causing a powerful ache as I dance along the edge. Any minute now, I’ll be pushed over, and I won’t even try to stop it.

  This man, this god of a man, can fuck me as long as he wants. All night tonight. All day tomorrow. I won’t complain. I won’t grow tired of it. A man who can own my body with a kiss on the back of a neck and his fingers in my hair can use me as much as he needs.

  My thighs clench against his sides, quaking when the muscles tire out. I can’t fight it any longer. The pressure and ache build up to create a perfect storm, and we’re in the eye of it.

  His lips graze mine before crushing them, and each heavy thrust sinks us deeper into the mattress. I’m pinned. Owned. And loving every second of it. I rock against his thrusts, coaxing myself a little closer because I’m so ready. My fingers dig into his muscled arms, hooking into the indentations of his triceps.

  I feel him rise above me, his hands trailing mine and taking them. He pins them above my head, almost to signal that he’s completely in control, and within seconds his hips slam into mine, driving him deeper than ever before.

  “You feel so good inside me . . .” My head falls to the side of the pillow as I repeat the words I’ve become so immune to in recent years, only this time I mean them.

  He pumps harder, and I swear I feel him grow. In that moment, I let go. He groans, and I suck in a breath. Our climaxes synchronize like we’re tuned to the same frequency.

  I didn’t know sex could feel this way.

  And I never expected the hottest sex of my life to be with a man whose face I’ve never seen.

  I’m trembling beneath him, my body quaking as I come down from this earth-shattering height. He lingers inside me a little longer. The rise and fall of his chest mirrors mine until he rolls off of me and moves from the bed.

  “My God, John, what’s gotten into you?” I smile and offer breathless praise. “Rough day?”

  I hear the clink of his belt, and my spirits fade. He never sticks around long. At least some of the other guys would lie down for a while. Make small talk. Sometimes order room service. It was always just as emotional for them as it was physical. All they ever wanted was someone to make them feel special.

  That’s the funny thing about people with money and power. They can have almost anything they want, but most of them just want to feel loved, and if they need it badly enough, they’re always willing to pay for it. Araminta says everything has a price. I tend to agree.

  “Leaving so soon?” I sit up, dragging my nail down my caved belly as roll to my side and cross one thigh across the other.

  “Regrettably.” His warm lips press against my forehead.

  One of these days, I’d love to get him to stay a while, maybe engage him in some kind of conversation just to feel him out a bit more. I could start with a childhood memory and go from there. A man’s childhood can sometimes provide priceless insight.

  I offer a sweet smile. I can’t nag or be
g. Nothing about that conveys any kind of ideal fantasy for them. All I can do is play the part of the princess who waits patiently in her tower. The doll put back on the shelf until next time. The void-of-opinion Stepford wife.

  Reminding myself that this is supposed to be all business and no pleasure, at least not on my part, I stretch my arms over my head and roll to my stomach, giving him a view of the ass he loves so much on his way out.

  “Oliver has called a cab for you downstairs,” he says.

  I hear the metallic twist of the doorknob, and I feel the opportunity to get to know him better disintegrate.

  “John?” I call out.

  “Yes?”

  “What was your favorite childhood memory?”

  He huffs. Or laughs. I’m not sure, since I can’t see him.

  “I know where this is going, Camille,” he says. “Nice try.”

  He’s a smart one, my John.

  “I’ll see you again soon,” he says.

  “I’m going home this weekend,” I almost forget to tell him. “To Tennessee. I visit my mother the first weekend of each month.”

  He doesn’t answer at first, and my thoughts suspend. He’s unhappy with this news. I can feel it.

  “Very well,” he says. “Have a wonderful time with your mother, and we’ll reconvene when you return.”

  I listen as his footsteps grow distant, and I hear the click of the front door.

  By the time I’ve redressed and freshened up, I glance out the window to make sure the cab is still waiting. It is. Padding down the hall on my way out, I stop by the kitchen when I spot a pile of mail shoved into a wooden tray on the counter.

  I’m not sure how I didn’t see that there before, but sure enough, it’s sitting in plain sight.

  It’s not like I’m snooping . . .

  And no one’s here to see me look . . .

  Without further deliberation, I trek toward the stack of mail and rifle through. It’s all junk. Not a single bill or questionable letter. All of it is addressed to the same person, or company, rather: Vivacorp.

  Never heard of them.

  I pull out my phone and snap a picture. I’ll have to Google them later.

  My stomach somersaults at the thought of the possibility of this leading me to John’s identity. But then again, do I really want to know?

  And what happens when I find out?

  TWELVE

  “John”

  My father grills breakfast on the promenade outside the White House’s “Sky Parlor.” That’s right, grills. It’s a Montgomery family tradition: bacon, sausage links, and breakfast potatoes, fresh off a gas grill with a buffet of fresh fruit and fine pastries made from scratch in the White House kitchen. One Saturday each month, when my father is stateside, we meet in the solarium for breakfast.

  This morning, Vice President Darlington and her husband join us, as well as a few of my father’s closest confidants. This is more than just a family affair.

  “What’s going on, Mother?” I ask as she pours coffee from a porcelain carafe.

  Her polished nails click against her mug as her eyebrows angle. “We’re celebrating the unofficial start of your father and Nanette’s re-election campaign. I thought we could enjoy a nice breakfast together in the solarium and talk shop after a while.”

  Mother brings her mug to her lips, her eyes leaving mine and landing on the doorway behind me. With hands in my pockets, I turn to see who’s joining us now. And I wish I hadn’t.

  “Why is she here?” I keep my voice low.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” My mother swats her hand at me, clucking her tongue. “She’s a Darlington. You’ll be seeing a lot of her during this campaign. It’ll be just like old times.”

  “Wouldn’t you love that.”

  “You know that I would.” Her nails trace the crystal eagle brooch on the lapel of her tweed Chanel jacket. “It never hurts to give destiny a good shove in the right direction.”

  My mother, First Lady Busy Montgomery, has the entire world fooled by her charm and grace. The benign smile she wears at all times is only ever for the camera, and that helmet head hairstyle of hers pays homage to First Ladies of yesteryear, back when America was truly beloved and its citizens placed blind trust in the families who lead it. Her wardrobe consists of mostly pastels, a nod to holidays like Easter, which is synonymous with family values and gatherings.

  Beneath that carefully crafted façade lies one of the greatest masterminds of this generation. What Busy wants, Busy gets. How else could the eighth daughter of a destitute coal miner from rural Kentucky grow up to marry the son of President JL Montgomery?

  “Be polite and say hello. Don’t make this awkward for both families.” Mother says, her voice audible only to me. “And that’s an order, not a request. You do not have a choice.”

  “Everyone has a choice.”

  “Not when you’re a Montgomery, dear.” She taps me twice on my shoulder before pasting a smile on her face. Before I can protest, she walks away to offer Vice President Darlington an absolutely divine blueberry muffin.

  The solarium is small enough that I couldn’t avoid Lydia if I tried. My father stands outside at the grill, stirring potatoes in a grill basket and wearing a canvas apron with the Presidential Seal logoed across the front.

  If my brother were here I could shoot the breeze with him until the inevitable, but alas, he’s late as usual.

  “Good morning.” The sing-song voice that once set my soul at ease sends an unwelcome jolt down my spine.

  I don’t have to see or hear Lydia to know she’s standing directly behind me. I feel it—that heavy energy, that sick thud in my chest, like a pesky houseguest who refuses to leave.

  I pull my shoulders tight and turn to face her, staring down at the same shiny emerald eyes I used to love. They’re not as bright anymore. Years of being an evil human being have left them tarnished.

  “Hi.” I don’t disguise my disdain as she studies my face.

  “You look good.” The second thing out of her mouth is typical Lydia: flattery as an icebreaker. “How have you been?”

  The third thing out of her mouth is a tactic to place the ball in my court, to get me to open up to her under the guise of a benign, quintessentially American conversation starter.

  “Small talk, Lydia? Really? After all these years.” I huff, pouring myself a coffee simply because it allows me to turn away from her for a moment. She steps closer, cornering me.

  “Is it too much to ask that we’re cordial to each another?” Her voice holds an innocent quality, but I know better.

  “We threw cordial out the window a long time ago.” I pour two creamers and a sugar into my mug and stir until the liquid swirls. I’m not going to drink it. I just want her to know that right here, in this moment, this stupid little cup of coffee is more important to me than she is. It’s more deserving of my time and attention than anyone else in this room.

  “I made a mistake. A big one.”

  I’ve heard that line several times before. She’s famous for it as far as our history is concerned. You don’t spend twelve years on and off with a woman and not figure out her patterns and strategies after a while.

  “Let me guess: you still love me, you realized you’re only ever going to love me, you were young and foolish, you were scared, and you know now that we’re meant to spend the rest of our lives together.” I repeat her old lines before she has the chance. It’s more efficient that way. “Oh, wait. I forgot the one about being each other’s first loves, and that there was a reason we keep coming back to each other.”

  Her jaw falls, and her arms fold across her wrinkle-free linen dress. A tiny American flag pin is attached below her collarbone, and it sparkles in the sunlight.

  “What’s wrong, Lydia? Take the words right out of your mouth?” I smirk.

  A friend of my father’s stands within earshot of us, and I spot him whipping his head in our direction. This isn’t the time nor the place, and the last thing I ne
ed is for his comrade over there to inform him of potential interpersonal issues on the campaign trail. He has a job to do, and he should focus on that and not my personal life.

  But she started it, and I’m sure as hell going to finish it.

  “I hopped off the Lydia Darlington train two years ago,” I say. “I’m never getting back on, and there isn’t a single thing you can say to make me change my mind. Understand?”

  I lift my mug as if I’ve just made a brilliant toast and offer her a counterfeit smile before taking a sip.

  “We’re going to be seeing an awful lot of each other here soon,” she says. “You’re going to have to be nice to me. You’re going to have to spend time with me. A lot of late nights.”

  Quite the contrary. I’ll personally see to it that every working minute on this campaign trail is spent as far away as possible from this demon spawn, and as for my late nights . . . well, those will be spent with Camille. I’m taking her with me.

  “Whatever you say, Lydia.” I chuckle and walk away just in time for my brother to make his appearance. I can’t count on him for much, but he always did have a knack for perfect timing.

  THIRTEEN

  Camille

  I pull out several filled journals from my carry-on bag Saturday morning and transfer them into a locked suitcase beneath my childhood bed. I’ve been transporting the older ones, a handful at a time, with each visit lately. Call me paranoid, but I don’t want them all in one place.

  My mother knocks on the door, and I shove the unzipped bag out of sight. She doesn’t know about it. Linda Buchanan would be sick if she knew what her daughter was really doing in Washington, DC, and I don’t want to involve her in any of this anyway.

  “Come in,” I call out.

  “I was going to see if you were coming down for breakfast,” she says. “I made Mickey waffles.”