by Alex Elliott
“Senator?” she inquires, as crystal blue ice eyes lock onto my gaze.
The full memory of that night in the hall comes crashing into my awareness like a meteorite. Is this plausible? She’s the minx from the club. The one I watched like a rabid jackal then kissed up against a wall. I’d been a trigger hair away from fucking this girl after dry humping and palming her ass and tits.
Christ... I want to pick up where we left off.
This firecracker better not be my new intern. I can smell a screaming hardcore lay a mile away, and she has all the makings that have my dick thickening and my blood boiling.
I couldn’t forget her for weeks. For days after that night, I’d woken up with my cock harder than a plank of wood. Forced to jack off roughly to cut through the wall of lust in wanting her. I hungered to spank her. Mark her. Fuck her senseless. There was...is something...a shade too innocent about her.
Enough to keep me in check that night...but I don’t know about today.
I’m not accustomed to meeting potential lays anywhere except through online covert dating hookups or at my club. Never in all my Dom days did one just materialize before my eyes. Twice. And to think I’m sitting here with her again. I wonder if she’s playing me or am I becoming paranoid?
“I’ll take it,” I say hoarsely.
Even though it was an intern’s chore to keep track of this type of nonsense, this girl isn’t going to last long. At least, no longer than it takes to straighten out this mess.
“And you are...” I scramble—what the hell had Nora said? “Miss Kennedy?”
“Ms. Kennedy,” she replies and smiles, still holding out the envelope.
I go to take it but instead, bat it out of her hand for fuck’s sake. Now, we both reach for it and end up colliding, our shoulders banging together.
“Okay. You go for it,” I say, skimming my fingers down her smooth, firm calf to a pair of high heels no normal intern would wear. Ever.
Ms. Kennedy comes up with the envelope, victoriously holding 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 jolt of electricity shoots through me just by looking into her translucent eyes. Over-the-top and similar to the first time we kissed when it had taken weeks to put aside the connection I’d felt that night.
“Here you go, sir.”
Sir? That one word spilling from her lips has my dick standing up and at full attention. If she by chance utters ‘Master Stone,’ we’ll lose the driver. Then I’ll have her face down over the back seat, piles of her hair in my fists, while I fuck her like she’s never been fucked before. Either she’s playing me like a pro, or she is about to get banged senseless right before she’s shown the door. Except, I have to ask her about our lasting... meeting.
It’s too easy to tap into this seismic draw of hers. Too easy to recall the feel of her unforgettable lips, her tits, and those legs—I’d recognize her even if she wore a mask—
“Where in the hell did you come from?” I demand as I take the envelope from her hand.
Slick—a real way with words, Ben.
The question rips from my mouth as I simultaneously calculate the distance to the hotel and how long it will take to throw her down on the seat, tear off her panties, and slam my cock into her.
Her brows knit. “I was born in Phoenix. Then I moved to California—San Diego. Lived in Chicago and Atlanta briefly.” Her voice comes out soft while she motions vaguely toward the window with her hand. “But my mom remarried and we moved to Boston when I was five. I’ve lived all over the U.S. I guess I’m as American as apple pie.”
“No!” I shake my head, swallowing what feels like a gallon of molten lust, and shift back on the seat, trying to conceal the state of lead pipe dick.
“No?” she sweetly echoes me, lifting her brow.
Is she challenging me?
Talk about shifting fucking gears. This girl has me seeing Technicolor Americana all right. Red—the color of my handprint on her ass. White—the color of the lingerie I’d dress her in and then rip off her body, and blue. The color of my balls ‘cause none of that shit is going to happen.
She better know who she’s calling front and center in our little charade, and this veil of innocence she tries to hide behind. Looking into her eyes, I can damn well see her version of innocence is tinged with something dark, and captivating. I want her and everything I put aside that night comes back, hitting me with the force of a natural disaster.
What is it about her? I’ve got to silence the blaring fuckable submissive alert she incites.
Slowly, I gather my loosely strewn brain cells and compel myself to speak intelligently. “I didn’t mean your personal history. How did you procure the position as my intern? You’ve got family ties. Kennedy and Stillman. Democratic ties unless that changed in the last twenty minutes. And yet you signed up to intern with me? Even after we previously ‘met.’”
All of a sudden the driver climbs in and announces with a wide grin, “All set.”
I scowl, nodding curtly, and he replies, “Uh... Sorry.”
I return my focus back to Kennedy, meeting her expectant gaze.
“Oh, well it’s not hard to understand,” she replies, straightening and smoothing out the material of her dress over her lap.
I’ve got to dismantle why one girl has me rattled to the core. It’s not her background—I’ve met too many trust fund princesses to give a flying fuck.
“Try me.” I slide my aviators to the top of my head and she tracks my movements like one of those long-haired cats my sister adores and I distrust.
Besides a pair of ride-me-hard pumps, the rest of her getup runs rather conservative—but on her, it comes off like some sexy pinup secretary I observe; now that I have working power over my brain.
Instead of answering, she bites her lip. The one I sucked and bit myself. Marshmallow-soft and just as sweet. I want to taste her mouth again. We stare at each other for what feels like a year.
“Uhh...I’m not...” she stammers.
“You were going to say?” I prod her, all the while aware that my cock is in overreaction mode and for the life of me, I can’t get that fucker to relax. She’s just a girl. No matter how many times I repeat it, deep down something about her resonates. Eviscerating any attempt to disengage. Un. Fucking. Believable.
“Senator,” she says and pauses, and I want to tell her don’t.
Don’t call me that. I clench my jaw but remain silent.
“I think we both can agree our previous encounter was a onetime thing. A mistake. Right?” she asks, looking me dead center in the eyes.
I stare at her like one of us has lost her mind, and grind out, “Regrettable.”
“Well. That’s settled.” She notches up her chin and I get it.
I’ve touched a nerve—one I’m responsible for crafting. How can I tell her the real mistake was letting her go that night? “Tell me about yourself. I want to know...about you.”
“Me?”
“You are the one applying to be my intern?” I soften my tone, wanting to reach out and tip up her face. “Please.”
She looks down for a second and I’m captivated. What secrets does she hold?
“I’m not a Democrat. I’m majoring in communications and in my last year at Boston College. This spot opened up and I decided to get some fieldwork in before classes start again. Perhaps continue through the fall semester, if there’s a position available. Nora said this was a short stint—and that’s perfectly fine,” she assures me.
“If you’re serious about a career on the Hill, this requires total commitment. Won’t that inhibit you graduating on time?” I rattle off more bullshit and can’t believe I just went back to sounding like a complete tight-ass.
“Actually, I’m ahead insofar as my graduate credits. Frankly, I haven’t done anything like a Hill internship before...more along the lines of reporter posts in schools and pap
ers around Boston. I’ve worked freelance, but I’d like to get involved in something with a broader scope. Cutting edge.”
“The Capitol is that,” I agree tensely, and follow up with another dipshit question. “Are you sure about a D.C. placement?”
“Nora said I had a choice. Either I do it during the fall when the regular internships begin, possibly with other congressional representatives, or now. And I decided why not? It’s only a month.”
“So you’re fine that this isn’t a complete internship then?” I ask, reminding myself to stop staring at her mouth. Besides her skill set of kissing like no other—the girl’s got a mind-blistering style when she speaks. Perfect annunciation and the way the tip of her tongue dances across her lips, holds me spellbound—in another minute, she’ll have me by the balls. I’d better figure out what she’s after and end this internship to hell, before it starts...except out of my idiot mouth springs, “Not that a trial run is a bad idea. Far from it.”
Chapter Three
Licked By The Flame
Ten minutes ago.
HOLY GUACAMOLE! I’m so nervous, I 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 exits the airport 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.
Fuck! Up close, the man is more gorgeous looking than before—his tousled thick hair has gotten a little longer, and there’s a five o’clock shadow littering his square jaw. Over his sunglasses, 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.
My memory is spot-on. I wasn’t delusional about him—it wasn’t the alcohol playing tricks on my instincts in June. In short, Stone’s a walking, talking piece of sex-flavored candy. He wears another impeccably tailored suit; this one like the last fails to hide the perfection of his sculpted body. A body I remember all too well, exploring with my hands.
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...” 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. The type that draws a girl in, inviting her to stop, drop, and return his hungry stare.
I’d like to remind myself: Been there with Ben. Done that!
I’d like to, but all reminders of him send me straight to crazyville. And him staring at me is of no help. 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.
When I say stare, I mean the good senator really truly gives me a mind obliterating once over like WTF am I doing in his ride? I have the distinct impression that I should scoot to the door, open it, and get out. 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 me—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 icy expression comes with a clenching jaw as he slams the car door shut.
“Senator?” 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? I’m pinching the ticket 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.
“Miss Kennedy?” he says, obviously 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. Kennedy,” 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, deep voice. Not a good start, X.
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 cologne. That scent commandeers my memory, and acts like a karate kick to my chest. His earthy fragrance ignites a hidden erotic yearning that screams to be set free. To say I vividly recall how over the edge he got me once, is the understatement of the year—of my life.
How can one kiss possess this much power?
I fight to suppress the shiver moving across my nerve endings as my nipples spring into erect darts, aching for relief. Lust pools inside my core, a spring that has lain in wait and all it takes is seeing him again. I curl my fingers around the envelope—directing my last fragment of inner strength to anchor my fast-dwindling self-control.
Except the man grabs my ankle, sending a jolt of racing awareness up my leg, that crash-lands in my clit. The touch of his fingers channels an onslaught of heavy aching lust, deep inside my body that has me to the edge of my seat. Literally. I’m so shocked—so turned on—I snatch up the envelope, almost smacking him in the face.
Smooth X, real smooth.
Suddenly, Senator Stone decides to speak instead of staring holes in me and asks, “Where did you come from?”
Handing him his ticket, I give him a rundown of where I’ve lived not wanting to dive into my family history. But no, he directs our conversation otherwise—clearly he’s the same as every other person who hears my last name, and 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, K-E-N-N-E-D-Y.
Jon jumps in the driver’s seat, looking between Stone and me. We both give him a slight nod and he gases the engine as we pull away from the curb. Tires mildly screech, and I try to keep my focus on Stone, rather than on Jon’s driving skills in getting us to the coffee house. All I have to do is somehow prove to him what we did in June means nothing to me. Not a thing! It was a mistake—his term. And dammit, it isn’t like I haven’t spent enough time with powerful men. This should be simple but Stone won’t stop staring at me, and my muscles begin quivering.
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. I hear Jon’s pep talk streaming in my head. Charm him. Do whatever it takes to land my ass in the seat next to Stone on the plane come Thursday morning. I can’t fail. Too much is riding on the line.
I answer his intern question with, “Oh, well it’s not hard to understand.”
I can’t spew the truth, but maybe I should come clean and tell him, look I’m adopted. Get over the fascination. How I’d love to shout, sure, I’m a Kennedy in name, but I’m not part of any good ole boy clan!
And smack-dap in the middle of my mental upheaval, my world stop
s spinning.
Holy Fuuuck!
Stone lifts his sunglasses and our eyes connect. No more trading glances over the rim of his glasses. What he brings forth is a full-on-stare that cuts to the bone. “...If you’re serious about a career on the Hill, this requires total commitment,” he says and I blink deep in a brain fog. “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.”
“Actually, I’m ahead insofar as my graduate credits...” I nod, jabbering, but it’s his eyes I’m focused on. I end up just saying, “Look...I’m fine with long hours.”
His eyes trace lower on my body. Is he wondering whether or not I’m serious? Not some club hopping bunny.
Instead of thinking anything sane, I get the urge to say the only thing he and I should do is get naked. Am I crazy? I squirm on the padded leather, tamping down that thought bubble, while pulling at my dress collar as a blast of heat billows up my body.
Until he spouts, “Are you sure about a D.C. placement? This isn’t an off the cuff decision. You just admitted that this was last minute. I don’t need the headache of training you, only to have something else snag your attention and then you’ll be gone. What I’m about is structured chaos and that requires absolute commitment. Operating by the seat of your pants, what’s that going get you or me?”
What the hell did this pompous prick just say? Did he just imply I’m a twit?
I can’t believe my mother-lovin’ ears. I laugh, but inside my heart is hammering and I’m oh so ready to flip him off. Valiantly I seek to recoup my IQ. Should I remind him, that’s what kissing him sure as fuck felt like? One minute he’s lifting my dress and the next...see ya later, gator.
No! Big no!
Foremost, I remind myself, I’m the one who needs to ingratiate myself to this man—not the other way around. He needs me like a third armpit.
“What gives you the impression I’d jump ship? If you offer me a spot, I’ll stay. Through thick and thin. I’m not looking for a cushy position. I’m here to learn and not afraid of hard work. A lot of it, if it’s required. You ought to know that one, Senator Stone. Isn’t it part of your platform and why so many people flock to your camp versus your opponent’s? Get committed,” I rattle off lines of bullshit and on my roll, I follow up with, “Let me assure you, Senator—I am!”
