by Alex Elliott
Out on the dance floor, I spot her, and it’s as if I can’t look away. I eat her up, inch by incredible mind-blistering, dick hardening inch. What’s not to like? Not a damn thing—except that she’s not my usual dish—she’s a shade of innocence someone like me should never touch.
Blond hair, long legs, hips swaying. Her nipples dart the sheer shiny material, stretching over her incredible tits. She’s braless, free of being encumbered, and has got the type of tits I could suck and slide my dick between for hours. Some quality about that girl screams a secret verse that only my cock seems to hear. That fucker is harder than granite, getting harder the more I stare.
Shit. This captivation has got to stop.
Shifting my gaze, I feign interest in the conversation between Noah, Jax, and Ethan, my congressional associates from the Capitol—they’re engaged in another argument on foreign policy after the war, but for the hundredth time, I find myself gazing at a woman who dances as if she’s in a dream. Mine.
“Ben,” Jax says. “You in for a shot?”
I return my focus to our table. “To wish your sorry ass happy birthday, hell yeah!”
The server smiles and places a bottle of bourbon and shot glasses on the table. We all do a shot and then another, and I glance back at the dance floor just as the girl opens her incredible eyes and our gazes connect. My heartbeat races—it’s an adrenaline rush to my senses. I lift my drink and study her. Every last thing about the girl reaches inside me and demands that I get hold of her. Soon!
I’m sitting here with the Honorable Jackson Carter. Aka Speaker of the House.
Jax, the man in command at the Clubhouse or the other ‘House,’ a private club far removed from the Capitol.
Aka...the guy who’ll give me a rash of shit for getting a hard-on for a sliver of innocence we both know is nothing more than a prick tease to men like us who command and control the women we fuck. He along with the other guys at this table...we’re all hardcore Doms. Together with years under our collective belts, we maintain control in every aspect of our lives. Our public image and our dungeons never intersect. Ever. We’re brutal, stone-cold control freaks, so much that three years ago we put our rules in writing when we opened our own elite club, and that includes no meeting chicks in random places. Prescribed private online sub hookups or at the House. That’s it.
But tonight I’m not thinking with my head. Well, not the one above my shoulders. Watching this young woman, I quickly assess what I can do and how fast. There’s a private hallway off the dance floor that is used to access the club owner’s secret dungeon onsite. I know the owner; he’s the representative of the 14th District, and wants to be the newest House member when we open our semi-annual acceptance of a few select applications. One member will be admitted. This is our surprise visit to check out his place of business, and he’s not allowed to be onsite. He left twenty minutes after we arrived. When we spoke earlier, he divulged that’s where he houses his dirty little secret. A locked room that he uses and invited us to watch him in action this coming weekend.
Not my thing, but now I’m wondering if I can get the keys. I know I can’t. It’s against our House rules, which means I’ve got to either stop this fantasy of what I’m devising, or keep this insane idea of tasting that girl under wraps. I imagine spreading her legs, binding her ankles, and having my complete way with her for one night. The things I’d like to do to her—fill my head. I haven’t felt this keyed up in fucking forever.
Nothing might come of this, I remind myself. The girl could be here with a boyfriend or husband, but why is she dancing like that... alone? Doesn’t look like the kind of girl that’s tied down, but fuck she needs to be.
My muscles constrict. Decision made. My hunger to make contact with her overrides my common sense. Crazy doesn’t begin to describe the level of intoxication running rampant in my veins from watching the blond bombshell. “I’m heading out,” I say, downing my drink.
“What the fuck, Ben?” Noah replies. “You just got here!”
“Jax has other plans tonight. Don’t you?” I query my friend, knowing full well he’s contracted two subs and he’s got a private jet on standby to take him back to D.C. Back to our club for the night.
“Let the pussy go,” Jax follows up. “He’s got to get his beauty sleep. Can’t have the prettiest of the senators with dark circles under his eyes.”
“Actually, I’m going to go find a girl and fuck her up against a wall if you three pricks don’t mind.”
They all laugh, believing I’m pulling their chains.
“Better than your self-imposed celibacy!” Jax snorts, eyeing me critically. He doesn’t say anything else—no one does. What can they say? I got royally fucked, and now, I’m taking a break—trying to figure out my future. I had a sub who nearly threw me under the bus and why I’m on a hiatus from offering up my services at our club.
“Are we good?” I ask, looking between them. I still take part in the running of our club and tonight is the first time in a long time that I feel the itch to do more than paperwork.
Ethan leans back and looks around, looks toward the dance floor, and suddenly I feel a twinge knife my chest. I don’t want his eyes or anyone’s eyes on that girl. He squints but doesn’t do more than lift a brow as he swings his attention back to me. “Yeah. This place is happening. No doubt, it’s classy. So, do we accept Congressman Lowe or not?”
Jax nods as does Noah. I stall as if I’m on the proverbial fence. “I’d like to scope out what’s happening at the bar. Listen in on what’s being said. Ask a few questions. Lowe’s got to agree no more action in his onsite dungeon. If he shuts that door, and there’s nothing being talked about, I’ve got no problems with him.”
“Good fucking idea,” Noah says. He was a D.A. before becoming a senator. Cynical as shit and what a ballbuster.
“Enjoy.” I stand and loosen my tie, then reach into my pocket and remove a pair of tickets. “Happy Birthday, cocksucker.”
Jax has a thing for jazz. Good jazz, and he smiles. “Fuck you, boy,” he says, his voice brimming with a Texas twang, and I laugh.
“Later,” I say in parting.
In D.C. we’re the face of Congress. Three others are missing tonight. No biggie. Together, we’re classified as the ‘poster boys.’ A photographer captured and posted a series of us online during a joint session that turned into a Whitehouse PR blitz that caught fire. From magazine covers to rallies, we’re featured around the nation in a campaign to reinvigorate or popularize politics. PR bullshit gone wild!
Tagged as the gang of seven—the other one. We don’t crawl up anyone’s ass. We’re too busy covering our own. We’re the ones you elect and with any luck, you never contact. Yeah, screw any idea that we want to hear from you if you think that writing a check gives you power. Shut up but pay up is my unwritten motto. Not everyone’s. There’s only one type of contact we appreciate and it’s silent; contributions with no strings. Make a deposit. Send a check. Hell, cash works.
And sure, there are those constituents who really care. Voters who aren’t interested in owning our souls and trying to turn us into political marionettes.
Those people, step right up. I, like my other esteemed congressmen seated here, have plenty of staffers and interns to deal with voters—their questions, calls, emails. And the ton of letters that arrive each and every day. For one moment—one night I’m putting aside that political B.S.
Walking away from the table, I see the girl move to the side of the dance floor. Fuck me flying! Is she leaving...? I lengthen my strides comparable to how I’m lengthening in my trousers. When I reach her, I say the first thing I noticed—not what I’m actually thinking, “You’re quite a dancer.”
The material of her dress stretches over her chest, molding tightly to her tits, and I imagine sucking each erect nipple into my mouth as I fist her hair, and after I’ve thoroughly spanked her ass. God, to stain her cheeks with a paddle or a cane... On that thought, my cock turns to forged s
teel inside my pants.
She thanks me, her eyes—fuck I’ve never seen eyes that crystal color, and it’s my turn to say something. Do something. Come up with a plan that goes beyond trading stares. I’ve got to move us away from the line of sight from the table, and when she agrees to come talk to me, I can’t resist but touch her. Tug her. And the feel of her satin smooth skin has my nerve endings relaying a message that she’s too young...too innocent for what I hunger for. Too perfect and that’s the problem.
“Who the heck are you?” she asks me.
Moment of truth. I’m going with honesty. “Your worst nightmare.”
When she promises I’m not, I wonder what’s she been through. No one this pristine should be touched by darkness. I should step away and leave her be, but fuck I can’t. Not if my insane life depended on it.
I move us into the hall and I lay out the edge of what I want. A tiny morsel. A kiss. She agrees and I tell myself to go slow, but hell when our lips touch, I thrust my tongue all the way inside her mouth, threading my fingers in her silky mane, and pull—yank her hair. The exquisite feeling of owning her mouth has me ravenous for more. Holy hell, I’m ready to unzip my pants and have her ride me in this hall. In fucking public.
I command her, “Open for me. All the way.”
In reality the door within my Dom self has burst off its hinges and I’ve got to have her. In sixty seconds, I crave her like a drug, worse like the answer to a curse. One I possess and she’s the one who will break it apart. Break me apart! I know sampling this girl is as dangerous as it will be satisfying. I haven’t traced the edge of something this sharp...something this eviscerating...NEVER.
“Please,” she begs me in a siren’s voice that reverberates in my brain. Her tone, the softness she offers I hunger to devour.
“You can’t imagine the things we could do,” I murmur against her ear. “The way you’d feel if you gave yourself to me.”
I’m out of my head. Insane to possess this girl and when she gives me a snappy answer, I turn her around, prepared to show her how she can expect to be treated when she disobeys me. Lifting her dress, I stare at her perfect ass. And I do mean perfect. Firm, round, and I separate her cheeks, imagining how I’d feel with my hard-on thrusting into her.
“How old are you?” I ask and she tells me old enough with her fresh mouth. Between gritted teeth, I remind her that’s no answer.
I close my eyes, seeking the strength not to cave and fuck her up against this wall when every cell in my body demands that I take her.
Own her.
Bite her.
Mark her.
Make certain she understands how good, how extreme, how complete what I offer can be...if she submits to my every desire. In truth, she’ll own me in how much I hunger to possess her.
Well fuuuuck! Again, she contradicts me and again, I’m closer to the point of no return. Her fresh remarks are pure friction, leveraging my libido against my self-control. I lean over, cupping her ass, pumping my cock between her cheeks, and ignore my need to make sure she’s legal age. If she’s nineteen or twenty, this won’t work. Over and over I slide up against her ass, skimming my fingers down between her cheeks, and stopping short of touching her pussy.
If I do, there’s no stopping me. I’m so close to freeing my rod and slamming into her.
Fuck, I don’t even have a condom handy!
Without knowing if she’s legal age, one slip...one fall, and there goes my political career. With the Veep offering me a spot on her campaign ticket, I can’t risk a scandal. And being in this hall is career crushing enough. I lower this woman’s dress and step back...both figuratively and literally. I admit she and I would make a pair and as I do, I see how fucked up this is if I take her in public. So many shades beyond scandal—if she realizes who I am, she’d ruin me with the truth. I can walk away now, and what could she say? We shared a kiss. That’s not exactly headline news.
I’m harder than titanium and carnal instinct imbues me with an unshakable sense of how good it would be to bury my cock inside her over and over. Raking my fingers through my hair, I nod as the tendons knot in my neck and shoulders. “Guess we got carried away,” I say...or some line of total bullshit.
She looks up at me with the face of an angel and I’m slipping...fast. I need this girl. Why? I don’t fucking have a clue!
If I don’t say something incredibly asinine, I’m going to back her up, into the corner, and that’s it. I’ll fuck her until she screams and comes all over my cock.
I admit this is a career MISTAKE. I say the word aloud, and inwardly curse myself. She’s upset—probably hurt, and I want to reach out, smooth away what she feels. Get her naked, feed my hunger, and then take care of her. Hold her until the first rays of dawn burst apart the darkness in my soul, reflected in the sky and then do it all again. Over. Over. And Over.
Instead, I watch her turn on her lovely heel, and walk way. Best mistake I ever let go of I keep repeating, not that it’s helpful. I’m not a complete prick...just the unnamed running mate for the position as Vice President of the United States.
Chapter One
Everybody Uses Someone.
AT THE CURB, I park and get out of my car, whistling and waving to Jon exiting South Station. “Hey oh! Let’s go. We’re running late.” We’re headed to Nantucket. A three-hour drive to my grandparents’ end of summer cookout before they close up their home and head back to Manhattan.
As I go to move past him, he grabs me and crushes me within his arms. “Not too late for a hug!”
I squeal and thump him on the back, scrunching my eyes shut at missing him so much. “You’re a nut.”
“I miss you, Xavia. Terribly.”
“Then why do you stay away so long? A train ride. Not too tough.”
“Girl, that rail runs in both directions,” he mocks me. “You need to come to D.C. more often. I’ve got a job. You’re the freewheeling student.”
“Student, yes. Free—not even close,” I retort, escaping from his grasp as I take shotgun.
Jon flips me off as he stalks around the hood of my car, humming under his breath. Once inside, he opens his messenger bag, and laughs devilishly. “Then help me, help you.”
“What have you done?” I ask, eyeing him suspiciously, wearily. My best friend has a propensity to believe in the impossible and does the outlandish at the drop of a hat.
“You’re welcome, Ms. Kennedy,” he says, handing me a manila envelope. There’s three copies, and a telephone number. Your contact is Nora Swan. Call her!”
I shift my glance from him to the envelope, knitting my brow. “I’ve got a contact? That you’ve arranged...dear mother of God.”
“Follow through on this one and you’ll thank me. Fuck, will you thank me!”
“Clearly, we see the world differently,” I mutter, opening the envelope and removing a stack of neatly stapled documents. “A U.S. Senate internship application? Ah no!”
“Button your lips and read,” he commands me as he puts the car into gear.
I hate driving and when he’s in town, he’s behind the wheel, but right now I’m rethinking that one. I want to do anything besides give this application an iota of my attention. I may not know what direction I want to take when I graduate and everyone’s good intentions, suggestions, connections...are strangling me—regardless of how well-meant.
“I’m so not going to D.C. Especially not to the part near Capitol Hill. It’s enough to have to deal with the political leeches we’ll soon see at Gran’s.”
“Oh but you are,” he replies. “This is ‘mission get your ass in gear’ and get the hell out of Dodge. You’re drowning here and besides, I’ve got it going on. Just need my wingman.”
“Correction. That’s wingwoman. I’ve got a vagina to prove it.”
“Sweetheart, I’m not the one who needs reminding of that fact. Another of the myriad of issues we’ll address. One-by-one. I’ve got you in my sights. But back to the app you’re holding. Nora
is expecting your call. She’s crazy, on the verge of bridge jumping with her boss. Bennett Stone.”
I glare at the application. Exhaling, I scan the page, and stop as I stare at the photograph of the gorgeous and unforgettable man at the bottom of the page. “Shit!” I hiss.
“What’s wrong?” Jon glances over at me. “Do you know him?”
Yeah, I know the man or rather his mouth. Don’t forget his hands, his cock, and his ability to torment me for seven weeks, and two days. But who’s counting!
“Know him?” I can’t find the words to admit this is the guy from the club.
Back in June, I’d told Jon that I met someone—more than met; that I’d relapsed into my old ways. He didn’t crucify me—we commiserated.
But if he finds out...that guy was—is—a congressman... a senator!
What will my friend think? He’s gone to all this trouble.
“Hello?” he says, lowering the music.
Steeling my features, I dodge diving back into the pool of my shame at having lost my head in a dark hall. Instead of coming out with my dirty little secret, I seal my lips, refusing to divulge the truth. For weeks, I was clueless about that wolf from the club, but now I know. This gig is for the world’s most incredible kisser, going by the name of Senator Bennett Stone.
My nightmare. An unforgettable mistake.
“No. No. Of course, I don't know him!” It was true. I didn't actually know him. He was a drive-by suck my lips off kiss. The guy I had the craziest, hottest sex with in my life. Minus the sex!
“Great. Then take a look.” He fishes out a magazine as he drives.
Now, it all makes sense. Why Stone seemed so familiar. I stare at the cover and mutter, “He’s that politician featured on the cover of Rolling Stone last spring.”
“The very same brilliant hottie. Shit, if he was gay, I’d go intern for him.”
“Okay Einstein, why would one of the hottest senators want me on his team? He’s a front runner, and probably has scads of interns—cough chicks—lined up to do his bidding. This seems like a... mistake.” The word pulsates inside my mouth and I recall what it was like to kiss Senator Stone pushed up against a wall with his fingers fisting my hair.
