by Amy Faye
Rock Hard
Bad Boy Baby Daddy
⚜ Amy Faye ⚜
Published by Heartthrob Publishing
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Here’s a preview of the sexy love story you’re about to read…
Adam can feel the moment that she gives into him. Her body, suddenly pliable in his arms, like putty. And then she seems to find herself again, out of the blue. She stiffens and pushes back. Not to stop him, per se, but a fire lights inside and her mouth starts to move as well, wrestling for control of the kiss.
He smiles a grin that's full of teeth and scrapes them against her neck, biting down hard enough to pull a gasp from her lips, close to his ears. He shivers hard, the threat of growing arousal that's already well past the point of creeping down his spine.
It runs through him, his cock twitching painfully. He leans into her and his arms wrap around her hips, pulling her closer as his knee slips between her thighs and spreads them. She lets him, he knows. He can feel the heat, pooled at the place where her legs meet, as she presses herself down onto him, trying to take what she wants.
Adam starts to lean, pressing her back into the sofa behind her. She acquiesces. The older man continues to press his advantage, his hand finding her breast and squeezing down on her sensitive nipple. Another gasp, hot and moist, inches from his ear. He lets his eyes close as another shiver of need runs down his spine.
It's been far, far too long. He'd like to take his time, but the fire inside him is burning too hot. There will be time later, to take it slow. To explore every inch of her body with his lips, with his fingertips, with his teeth and his tongue and to show her exactly what he wants from her.
For now, his fingers dig into the soft skin of her hips and pull her down, laying her out as flat as she can be laid out on the seat of the sofa.
Her skirt rides up her hips easily when he pushes it. She's wearing tights that tear easily. He's got the money to replace them, and she doesn't fight him. Her hips press up to meet his exploring fingers. He pushes her panties aside. They're already moistened by her arousal.
His fingers only probe her for a moment before he's working the zipper on his pants, freeing his hardness from the confines of his trousers. Her eyes go a little bit wide and her hips open a little wider, knowing what's going to come next.
There's no gentleness in the way that he takes her, rough and fast in a single swift motion that pushes all the way inside. She gasps and her legs wrap around his hips before she can stop herself.
He pulls back and thrusts again into her, the searing heat and tight grip forcing his eyes to flutter shut. His hands don't slacken, though. His hips move, hard and fast, his thumb between them working as fast as it can on her hard clit.
Linda's hands grab at the air, trying to find something to grip on, until her hands land on the cushion of the sofa. It wouldn't be the first time that a hole has been torn in it. If he works very hard, then it won't be the last.
Adam can feel the edge approaching. Can feel the temptation building to take what he can, as fast as he can. To wrench every ounce of pleasure. His hips do the thinking for him, his rhythm speeding up, the teasing of his fingers between them moving to match.
Her body tenses around him, her ankles crossed on the other side of his hips and locking him in as deeply as possible. He doesn't need any more permission than that, as his own orgasm rips through him. He can feel her milking him as he cums. His breath comes in short, sharp gasps as the need leaves him.
He's not a teenager any more, he thinks. He may need twenty or thirty minutes before he can go again.
But he's never let that stop him before.
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Chapter One
Linda Owens sits at her desk and closes her eyes and tries to ignore the fullness of her bladder. This has always been a big job. There's nothing new about it. She shouldn't be letting herself get this worked up over it, but worked up is exactly what she's getting.
Normally, her clients knew how to hide old girlfriends. They'd just go the hell away. Sure, sometimes they'd pop up as suicides—two bullets in the back of the head, classic suicide.
But the one thing that they sure as hell didn't do, at least not usually, was have those girlfriends just show up on national television, hoping for their five minutes of fame as the woman who used to fuck Adam Quinn.
Well, apparently, Adam Quinn was the exception. Sure, maybe Marilyn and John Kennedy had their thing, but nobody talked about it.
Well, apparently, if Quinn had been in Kennedy's place, there wouldn't be much secret. It creates a bad image. It makes you look like a philanderer to have a thousand ex-girlfriends come out and say, well, sure, we used to play around. What's the big idea anyways?
Then they get passed around until someone manages to get them to say something that isn't positive.
Then it just makes Linda's job that much harder. Which is why, right now, she should probably have been working, but she just had her head stuffed into her hands. Because clearly, her hopes to settle into the new job weren't going to happen.
She'd only been in the office for twenty minutes, and she was already thinking how she was the only person on the face of the earth who could bring Quinn out the other side of it looking squeaky clean. She's had three cups of coffee, and there hasn't been time between segments to run to the bathroom.
The media will start with the girlfriends, of course. They haven't said anything yet. Adam Quinn is a real ladies man, he's a great guy, he never said a bad thing toward me. So far, nothing but positive coverage. Which is good.
It can only last so long. Nobody's a saint. Adam Quinn, doubly so. You only have to spend five minutes in a room with him to know that he's never going to be a saint and you're never going to paint him as one.
He just has to look presidential. He just has to seem like he's going to be able to pull it back. And right now, Linda is looking at her options, looking at the future, and trying to figure out where things are going from here.
Which leaves the bigger problem. This is going to be big, it's going to be frustrating, and there's not a whole hell of a lot that she can do about it.
There's an incredible amount of media about him now. If her previous campaigns have been any indicator, then that will continue. She's got to watch just about all of it. A 24-hour news cycle on three channels, with only so many hours in the day.
Then she's got to figure which parts can be safely ignored. There are two TVs talking at once, now. The audio on the left one is turned up, the right one is muted. They were never going to get good coverage on Fox in the first place.
So there's not much point, as long as it doesn't say they've got breaking news that's going to ruin Adam Quinn's career, it really isn't a big deal. CNN, on the other hand… they could have favorable coverage. Or unfavorable.
Which is why you have to watch them. Because they'll lie if they think they can get away with it, and Linda's job is to make sure that none of it sticks. And if some of it does stick, wash it away by throwing money at it until it comes unstuck.
It's a good gig, all told. With the one problem being, of course, the candidate that she's dealing with now. Or, at least, the candidate they tell her she's dealing with. Usually, they meet beforehand. With a ten million dollar paycheck coming at the end of the election cycle, and another ten million bonus if he wins, though…
Linda let it slide.
She taps her thumb on the hard wooden desk to try to get her mind off the discomfort in her gut. It makes her nervous to think about l
eaving, but the pressure is starting to build into frustration as well, and that's honing a fine edge of nerves that makes it seem like every little cut of the camera is suddenly going to be met with disaster.
Linda takes a deep breath again, closes her eyes again, and steps out the door in as much of a hurry as you can go in heels and a tight-fitting skirt. Which isn't as fast as she'd like, which in turn is why she's not paying close enough attention to avoid the broad-shouldered man in a thousand-dollar suit.
He's surrounded by advisers, a few reporters with their microphones pointed right at his mouth, but the powerful strides keep him out in front of the swarming mass, and in a perfect position for Linda to ram right into him.
"Miss Owens. Glad you could make it," he says. He smiles. His voice is warm and inviting. Just like it sounds on the television. She's heard him since she was a little girl. He was younger, then. Age hasn't slowed him down a bit. She takes in a breath and forces herself to still.
"Mr. Quinn. Nice to finally meet you."
He sweeps an arm around her waist and turns to the crowd. She can't help noticing the way that his arms seem to fit around her waist. She can't help letting him guide her, as if he were there just to control her.
"I'd like you all to meet my new campaign manager, Miss Linda Owens. She's great, you're all going to love her." A microphone gets shoved into Linda's mouth.
She wasn't supposed to be dealing with an announcement right now. Not until the press conference Friday afternoon.
But then, running a political campaign, whether it was for Mayor or for Governor, for Congress or for President, was about dealing with the unexpected.
In Adam Quinn's case, of course, the unexpected was a little more common.
Chapter Two
Linda's home life, unlike her job, was easy. A cute little sweetheart of a dog that wasn't looking for any trouble. He never yapped. At least, not in front of her.
She flips on the news, because there's no time when the news cycle isn't going. Pizza could be great. She's already dialing the numbers into her phone by the time that the audio really kicks in from the television.
And as usual, it turns her stomach.
There's got to be some law out there about exactly how little the news knows what they're talking about. There's internet 'laws' that claim to govern and describe scientifically how internet discussions will go. Poe's law, for example, suggests that all arguments will eventually end in someone being compared to Hitler.
And sure, Adam's been compared to Hitler by several internet commentators. That's not Linda's concern. That's a perception problem. They just have to re-frame the situation. Right now, things look bad, but they always look bad at first.
Donnie jumps up into her lap and pushes his head under her hand. She scratches his head absently. The pizza should be here in about half an hour, which is plenty of time to catch the rest of the evening news.
The new boss is something else. This is her first time on the biggest stage of them all, of course. Maybe they're all like this. Certainly, there are horror stories about every candidate. Stories about people insulting all their staff, treating them like garbage.
Stories about candidates who have had hundreds or thousands of their acquaintances 'mysteriously disappear' and wind up dead in a bathtub in Tijuana. But whether it's luck or skill or just picking the right people, Linda doesn't have to deal with those people.
No, she just has to deal with a man who's never been political about anything in his life.
Married four times. Four. All of the wives, of course, still alive. It's not hard to get ahold of them, either. And they're all ready to talk about it. No secrets, whether you like it or not.
Then there's the girlfriends. Some of them during the marriages, some of them before, some between. There may have been a few since the most recent divorce, but Linda doesn't know about them. And since Mr. Quinn's There's something almost charming about it, because you know he's not doing it on purpose. It's right there on his face.
He likes dating. He likes women. He likes going out with women. Presumably, he likes fucking them, and they're not afraid to admit that they liked fucking him too. The phrase 'couldn't walk right for a week' had been uttered at least twice in the past thirty years, since he'd jumped to the front of the papers with his front-page breakup with the Princess of Spain.
If he'd known, thirty years ago, that he was planning to run for office, maybe he should have managed his life more quietly. Politicians are people, too. They're men, and women, with needs and the money to get what they want. To get what they need.
The reason it's a big deal when someone gets caught cheating on their wife isn't because they were cheating on their wife, after all.
It's because they got caught.
Adam Quinn has gotten caught so many fucking times that it's unbelievable. More unbelievable, still, is the fact that he's doing as well as he is in the polls. Which is why it's absolutely imperative that he turn this ship around as soon as possible.
The sleeping around, fine. Do it quietly, if you have to do it. But there's no stopping him, so he's going to keep doing it.
The brash boldness is great, as long as it's under a little bit of control.
But for God's sake, please, Adam, stop getting caught doing shit and stop throwing curve-balls to your team. Her face appeared on the TV. She looks like hell. She felt like hell at the time. Three cups of coffee and she was jittery, and never mind the need to use the lavatory, she had to give a little impromptu press statement.
Of course Mr. Quinn hadn't been worried about why she was leaving. Of course he wasn't. That would be too convenient, too polite.
No, he was just doing what came naturally. There was some charm in that. And Linda had to admit, if she hadn't been in exactly the position she was in, she wouldn't have minded.
He sounds just like he does on TV. Sounds incredible. He's got a voice for radio, and he always knows what to say in order to get himself plastered all over the evening news, whether he's running for President or not.
What nobody had so-far managed to capture was his looks. The hair looked too tight, too square, too boring on TV. They had to fix his glaring eyes, his military hair-cut. They had to make him look charismatic and like a leader. He had to look like a movie star, or nobody was going to be remotely impressed.
What the cameras utterly failed to capture was the look that he had in person.
The doorbell rings, pulling her halfway out of her reverie. Linda mutes the TV and stands up. Donnie jumps down obediently and follows her to the door. No barks, so different from all the other yappie dogs that she's known. A sweetheart.
A boy on the other side of the door has a pizza in his arms and a blue and black uniform shirt on. Linda fishes out the money that she's going to have to pay, along with a respectable tip.
The cameras didn't manage to capture his look at all. She'd been watching him since she was ten years old. He was all over the TV, then, and he'd been all over it ever since. A man with presence, with personality, with a voice to die for.
And the one thing that she hadn't realized, a gaze that made a woman's knees go weak. She thought she was prepared for this job. She was a professional. She'd dealt with philanderers before. With serial adulterers. They get what they want because they've got enough money to buy it.
That wasn't the case for Adam Quinn. The way he looked at her, she'd have dropped to her knees right there in front of the press, God, and everybody, and she'd have done it for free.
Chapter Three
Adam Quinn sits down for the first time tonight, and for an instant he allows himself to enjoy the respite from the day's work. He lets it wash over him and then looks at the clock. Eleven-thirty. Still work to be done. It's time to start taking himself more seriously again.
There's work that's left to be done. Work that he needs to be doing. If he can't even keep up with his usual workload, then he might as well drop out of the race. The American people don't need
a president who can't work a few long days.
He stands up and flicks the news on, walking away and not particularly listening until he hears a familiar voice that catches in his mind.
Mr. Quinn turns toward the TV, the last of the day's work temporarily forgotten. His 'campaign manager' is on the screen. Jesus, she looks good. For an instant, he feels the edge of arousal starting to form. Then he pushes it away.
Not right now, not while he's running for President. Not with her. That would be a terrible idea. Still, he can't take his eyes away. She looks good. She's more comfortable with the cameras than most people who Quinn plucks from the rank-and-file.
Up until now, she's probably mostly been in the background. Campaign manager is a terrible name for what she's doing. But then again, how else would he explain her presence?
No, her job is to mop up his messes, so that he can make them with impunity, and that's exactly what Adam has every intention of doing.
America needs a mess. They need a mess to understand exactly how bad the situation they've gotten themselves into. And he's more than ready to be that mess, if it means that everything else starts getting worked on as well.
He forces himself to turn away from it. There's other work to be done. At least two calls to be made, and the sooner the better. Anything else can be done any time. He can wait until three in the morning if he has to. But the phone calls? At some point, they'll go to sleep.
He picks up the phone. Tom Delaney won't be asleep, but if he only makes one call, then it has to be to Tom. Three rings, and the call connects.
"Yeah?"
"Tom? Is this a bad time?"
"Adam Quinn. You son of a bitch. I was wondering when you were going to call. How's politics treating you?"
"If these boys had to spend five minutes in the business world I think their heads would pop clean off," I tell him. And it's true.
