by Alex Elliott
But that’s where I stop with the ‘transparency’ policy and admittance that I am what I am. Forget Washington. Sure, I’m a wolf, but in fact, I’m worse. I’m a calculating, dirty-minded prick that has nothing to do with D.C. If Abby or any like her kind step foot number one in my bedroom aka dungeon, they’d scream bloody murder. If she ever got wind of the type of ‘red room’ kink I’m into, she’d walk—no she’d sprint to the nearest exit. The popular fictional character of Christian Grey and who I am under my propagated Dom persona couldn’t be on opposite ends of a spectrum if we tried.
Abby grins as she replies, “I’ll be waiting.”
“Later,” I say, and give her a wink. Turning on my heel, I have an urge to take a bow as I imagine someone shouting, “Cut!” And that’s how this campaign trail game is played, ladies and gents. Walking away, I slip on my sunglasses, and shake my cynical—correction—my realist head.
Chapter 15
X.S.~ Just Desserts
HOLY GUACAMOLE, I pick up the note Jon wrote. INTIMATE STAFF ASSISTANT. Off-kilter, I look around for a place to hide it and spot Stone. He exits the terminal and I tuck it between the seats.
I’m so nervous that I’d begged Jon to do the driving tonight. Good thing. I saw—nearly ran into Stone inside the airport and almost ditched this whole idea. Now, I’m seated—more like caged—in the backseat of my car and Jon flashes me a peace sign.
My heart is about to burst out of my throat. Worse when Stone walks up to the car and I close my eyes. Please. Calm the hell down. I pray that I don’t self-combust as I make myself take a deep, deep breath.
Inhale.
Hold.
Slowly release.
Jon is talking to Stone—looks like there’s no turning back. I return to holding my breath as the senator opens the car door and climbs inside. We’re sitting next to each other and the air within the backseat seems to crackle as we stare at one another. Up close, the man is more gorgeous looking than before—his thick hair is tousled, and there’s a five o’clock shadow littering his square jaw. Over his aviators, it’s affirmative—he’s got that rock star glare and it’s trained on me. He’s the epitome of the bad boy grown up into a powerful politician. His eyes still possess a force that’s enigmatic and driven, piercing the distance between us.
My memory is spot-on. I wasn’t delusional about him—it wasn’t the alcohol playing tricks on my instincts on Friday. In short, Stone’s a walking, talking piece of sex-flavored candy. He wears another impeccably tailored suit; this one like the last accentuates his sculpted body. A body I remember all too well, exploring with my hands.
Does he remember me? I could be one in a long line of women he’s kissed and now, he’s reacting to the surprise of a new intern. It could happen…
Even though Jon says he doesn’t do staffers—clearly the man does do someone. He reeks of molten sex appeal. Without saying a word to me, the senator’s intractable expression comes with a clenching jaw as he slams the car door shut.
I can’t continue to stare slack-jawed and say my opening line. The one I’ve practiced for hours. “Good evening, Senator Stone. Sorry to be running late. Rental car mix-up. The Apple convention is great for Boston, even if the city is crammed. But good news, we have a car and a driver. A volunteer. I just let Nora know,” I drone on, painfully aware of the hunk sitting next to me. I’ll crumble if we touch; so instead of a handshake, I hold out the envelope. “Your plane ticket. Do you want it? Or shall I hold on to it? I have everything that Mrs. Swan sent for tomorrow’s itinerary.”
Silently, he gifts me with a heated stare for several heartbeats over the rim of his sunglasses. In the light, his eyes are the color of green glass. His brooding glare comes with the same intensity level as before, and just as cutting. It’s like he sees right through me and our nuclear powered exchange has heat flares bursting under my skin, sparks swirling in my veins, hot enough to curl my toes. I have the distinct impression that I should scoot to the door, open it, and get out.
Instinctively, I sit up straighter. Crap. I’m still holding the ticket as we sit there with less than a foot of padded leather separating us. Why doesn’t he just take the thing? Is it awkward in here? Or is-it-just-me?
“Senator, your ticket?” I’m pinching it so hard that my arm starts to shake. The sound of my heartbeat floods my ears.
Stone doesn’t just look at me over his glasses, he consumes me, and it’s as if I can feel his perusal power up.
“You’re Miss O’Malley? My intern?” Obviously, he’s troubled. When he speaks, gone is the iceman. His simmering glance touches my skin and lights a line of fire.
He calls me ‘Miss’ with his deep voice tinged with a Southern accent and immediately I correct him.
“Ms. O’Malley,” I say, notching my chin upward, unable to curb my wayward need to contradict him. Definitely, something about this powerful man has me ready to debate each time he speaks in that smooth baritone voice.
I go to hand him his ticket, but I’m so nervous I drop the damn thing. We go for it at the same time and end up colliding shoulder-to-shoulder, close enough for me to get a whiff of his masculine cologne. That scent commandeers my memory and acts like a karate kick to my chest. His earthy fragrance ignites an erotic yearning buried inside me. Only in his presence does that idiot yearning scream to be set free. To say I vividly recall how over the edge he got me is the understatement of the year—of my life.
How can one kiss possess this much power?
I curl my fingers around the envelope—directing the last fragment of my inner strength to anchor my fast-dwindling self-control. Except as we’re scrambling for the dropped ticket, Stone grabs my ankle. His touch sends a pang of racing awareness up my calf that crash-lands between my legs. The feel of his fingers trailing over my skin has me to the edge of my seat. I’m so shocked—so turned on—I snatch up the envelope, almost smacking him in the face.
Smooth X, real smooth.
We both sit up and suddenly, Senator Stone decides to speak instead of staring holes in me and asks, “Where did you come from?”
A million possible questions and that’s the one he picks? Handing him his ticket, I give him a rundown of where I’ve lived, skirting the truth since I’m unwilling to dive into my family history. “I spent my early childhood in Boston, but then moved out West. Then I lived in Seattle for a couple of years. Between school in Connecticut, I spent summers in Philadelphia and Nantucket. My mom moved to Miami when I began high school and I visited when I could. I’ve lived across the four points of the US and am as American as apple pie.”
Unimpressed by my vague reply, he redirects our conversation otherwise—clearly he’s the same as every other person who hears my last name. Stone proceeds to ask the pointed question of how I came to be a quasi-intern in his office. Umm, because your staff assistant was captivated by my last name. Repeat after me, O-M-A-L-L-E-Y.
As I rattle off why I’m looking to intern on the Hill, Jon jumps in the driver’s seat. He looks between Stone and me, and confirms Newbury is the destination. We both give him a slight nod and he gases the engine as we pull away from the curb. The tires mildly screech and I direct my focus on Stone, not on Jon’s driving skills in getting us to the coffee house.
Jesus, I’m still holding his ticket. “Sir, your ticket?” Somehow I have to prove to the senator that what we did in a dark hallway means nothing to me. Not a thing. It was a mistake—his summarization. It isn’t like I haven’t spent enough time with powerful men to gloss that one over. This should be simple, if only Stone would stop staring at me with that penetrating gaze of his. It’s so unnerving and my muscles begin to quiver.
X just focus. You’ve done this a hundred times—same drill. Nora said her boss has a tendency to act as a team of one and might decline my quasi-internship. Hell, at this rate, he might toss me out of the car while it’s in motion. Glancing down, I hear Jon’s pep talk streaming in my head. Charm him. Do what
ever it takes to land my posterior in the seat next to Stone on the plane come Wednesday morning. I can’t fail. Too much is riding on this job reference.
“Clearly, you’ve got experience with top names. The Gazette? Why aren’t you doing a jaunt at the Times or Journal? Wouldn’t that be a better fit given your experience and goals?” Stone’s question makes sense.
I lift my gaze not that I can spew the truth. I’ll toss out crumbs as a factoid red herring. It isn’t the moment to come clean or tell him, guess what? I’m adopted. Get over the fascination. How I’d love to shout, “Sure, I’m an O’Malley in name, but I’m not part of any good ole boy clan.” But I’ve got to be smart this time around with Atticus Stone.
“That was a college practicum.” I hedge my reply to his question, “I’ve done the newspaper desk internship at the Globe. But it wasn’t real-life. The practicum was overly supervised. A stifling bubble, and I want the truth. Not the spin.” Smack-dap in the middle of my mental upheaval, Stone lifts his sunglasses. Our eyes connect and it’s palpable.
“You’re searching for the truth?” he counters and trains his unwavering gaze on me. His eyes are hard, without an iota of warmth or charm.
No more trading glances over the rim of his aviators. It’s as if he’s searching, but for what? My face heats but I’ll be damned if he can get me to break our little glaring contest. “Yes, the truth. You have heard of it?”
A micro expression overtakes Stone’s chiseled features. A nonverbal and it hits me full force that he’d like to do something to me that doesn’t involve trading pleasantries about the weather. As if I’ve crossed a line and what he brings forth is a full-on-stare that cuts to the bone.
“O’Malley, if you’re serious about a career on the Hill, more than your noble quest for the truth, this type of job requires total commitment. Are you up for the challenge? Once you’re in, there is no backdoor. Is the truth that important to you?” His condescending growl snaps me out of my brain fog.
“Absolutely! Yes, it is and yes, I am.” What am I saying? I’m spewing whatever it takes and from the smirk on Stone’s face, he’s made me. “Look Senator, I’m not a lightweight if that’s your concern. I recently graduated from BC with a master’s in communications.”
“Then perhaps we can agree to drop the judgments,” he offers, not that he’s smiling and making nice.
Fine. I can do hardball. I’ve seen Gran in action for years. “Agreed,” I say, mimicking his expression and tone.
Without missing a beat, he continues, “Are you available to work all types of hours? This isn’t like a typical internship. You won’t have a regular schedule. Not in my office. The fact that you’ve graduated is a plus.”
“Long hours aren’t a problem. And actually, I might be interested in the graduate credits, but it’s not a make or break point,” I admit and all the while it’s his eyes I’m focused on. Having been blind in accepting Spencer’s masquerade, I’m hypersensitive, especially given my attraction to this man. Deluded, I do not intend to be, not one second.
All of a sudden that familiar pressure behind my forehead creeps up on me and then the sensation of liquid streaming from my sinuses. No. No. Please. Senator Stone’s eyes widen, warning that it isn’t my imagination.
Chapter 16
Atticus Stone~ Show No Weakness
Ten minutes ago.
OUTSIDE ON the curb, a black Fiat idles, and leaning against the hood, the driver is texting nonstop. I clear my throat, less than impressed.
He glances up, and immediately his brows draw together. “Senator Stone?” he says, losing his phone into his back pocket.
“Last time I checked.” Where is the goddam intern? If I didn’t need to ascertain the lowdown on O’Malley and her supposed connections, I’d fire her ass on principle.
The driver darts to my side, looking like he belongs in a rock band more than working as a driver and I brood over my next move. Either Nora’s plans changed or the intern is still MIA. I pull out my cell while reading his name tag. “Jon” but then it’s one of the symbols inked onto his skin that catch and hold my gaze. A spider definitively pointing upward. The flicker of a memory and I shutter my expressions.
“Just leave the luggage,” he says, not seeming to notice the direction of my recent focus and I play along.
Every cell in my body demands that I shut this last campaign stop down and return to D.C. But I can’t. The number one rule of the game is I can’t call off the dogs. By now, The Saint has put the wheels in motion. There are zero flip-flops when it comes to him giving an order to The Cleaner. It’s a matter of show and I’m all too aware that sacrifices are made. Innocent people have been dealt with to save face. Show no weakness, no mercy, and leave no loose strings. That’s fast turning out to be my underwritten campaign motto, not the naïve ‘get committed.’ A million years ago, I might’ve believed it; not today.
“You’re my ride to the coffee house and hotel?” I ask tersely, handing him my bag.
“Yeah, and all day tomorrow. Here, let me get that, Senator.” He’s wearing a #LeadRight2016 button. Bending forward, he almost bumps into me, but I slide to the left.
“No problem. I can get my own door. You worry about getting me to the next two stops and we’ll be square.”
“Sure. I’m down with that.”
Loosening my tie, I reach for the door handle as he pops the trunk. Somewhere close by, a truck backfires. I clench my jaw, tightening my grip on the door, and remind myself, I’m not on any political hit list. Not yet. I open the car door, scanning the street and taking in the people scurrying on the sidewalk as my neck muscles knot. Too much Starbucks and not enough shut-eye. Exhaling, I lower into the interior of the backseat then stop. I stare across at a woman who meets my gaze with an arched brow.
Holy hell, it’s the pair of legs from the airport corridor. Shoes and all. But that isn’t the half of it. I know her… Know those incredible lips. I slam the door shut and can’t get word one out.
“Good evening, Senator Stone. Sorry to be running late…”
She’s O’Malley? My brain uncharacteristically blitzes as I stare over the rim of my sunglasses.
“Senator, your ticket?” she inquires as her crystal blue eyes lock onto my gaze.
In the early evening light with her blonde hair pinned in place and hiding behind glasses—I stare at a woman who’s a contained version of the untamed girl from the dance club. The one I watched like a rabid jackal then kissed up against a wall. A coincidence? The stats have to be a million to one.
“You’re Miss O’Malley?” I bite out. “My intern?”
In mid-play of how I’m going to handle her to extract the truth, she licks her full bottom lip, and the memory of that night in the hall crashes into my awareness like a meteorite. I approached her that night—didn’t I? Or was it a setup I fell into? I’d been a hairsbreadth away from nailing this woman after dry humping and palming her ass and tits.
Christ, I want to pick up where we left off.
She schools me on her name. A hot button topic from the way her pupils dilate. No wonder I came on to her. And haven’t forgotten her for the last sixty-nine hours. I can smell a screaming hardcore lay a mile away, and O’Malley has all the makings that have my dick thickening and my blood boiling.
Over the weekend, I’ve woken up with a serious case of fossilized morning wood. On account of an ongoing fantasy of this nameless woman, I’ve beaten off to assuage my need for a rough ride by her. If she’s working for someone, she’s far from innocent.
For a fiasco, this little intern could prove useful in determining her connection to Harvard and if Nolan the douche has ties to the Silvers. Already seeing my next move, I commit. This firecracker is going to answer some questions.
Factoring in the danger she poses, I extrapolate the return. Her hazard quota isn’t a deterrent in wanting to get her naked and spread-eagle. I’m ravenous for retribution. If I have to spank th
e truth out of her, so help me, one of us is going to end up marked, bruised, and fucked into a mattress. Forget calling The Saint to deal with what an intern knows. This woman is all mine to handle. Her play of innocence is good—too good. I’m going to enjoy breaking Miss O’Malley.
Never in all my Dom days did a sphinx materialize before my eyes. Twice. Am I paranoid? Does it matter.
“I’ll take the ticket,” I say hoarsely. Even though it was an intern’s chore to keep track of this type of nonsense, I trust her as far as I could kiss her. I go to take it but instead, bat the envelope out of her hand. We both reach for it and end up colliding, our shoulders banging together. Skimming my fingers down her smooth calf to a pair of high heels no normal intern would wear, I admit defeat, “Okay. You go for it.”
Ms. O’Malley comes up with the envelope, victoriously waving it between us. Our faces are inches apart. So close, I can see that behind those black-framed glasses she wears, her eyes are the color of a glacier pool. So unearthly, a jab of electricity shoots through me just by looking into her translucent eyes.
“Where’d you come from?” I ask as if jacked up on truth serum.
O’Malley blasts through where she’s lived, not realizing my outpour wasn’t an actual question. I grapple over what this woman is doing next to me and cut to the chase. “How did you end up on my team?”
The driver climbs in and declares with a wide grin, “All set. Next stop Newbury.”
Nodding curtly, I dial down my scowl, refocusing to O’Malley, and meet her expectant gaze.
She holds out the ticket as if it’s a boundary between us. “Sir, you’re ticket?”
The defiant note in her ‘sir’ has my dick rearing up and at full attention. If she by chance utters ‘Master Stone,’ I could give zero shits if she’s working for the CIA or Isis, Elvis or JFK. We’ll lose the driver. Then I’ll have her face down over the back seat and silky piles of her blonde hair in my fists. I’d bury myself to the hilt in her tight body. I’d take her like she’s never been taken before.
