by Alex Elliott
Chapter Four
Gathering a Quorum
FUCK, I can’t let go of the note she’s written in pink ink in large block letters. “INTIMATE STAFF ASSISTANT.” I don’t look down at the page where she’s indicating with her insistent finger tapping.
Sure, the voice in my head shouts to release it, but I don’t. For minutes, we talk about stuff—don’t ask me what—it all sounds like non sequiturs.
Except for when she pointedly mentions the war. That’s what this is like sitting next to her with a driver up front. I’d much rather be in bed with her than dickering. Kennedy’s into war reform—that much I remember but anything else besides a clusterfuck of dirty thoughts concerning her body and me ravaging her—all white noise.
I’m caught in the moment, contemplating the many ways this girl can serve me—not one has to do with the Hill. None have to do with performing legislative research, attending hearings, or answering constituent phone calls. I’m not contemplating where to plug her in with my other legislative staff. Not an idea that involves my domestic or foreign policy opinions nor my ideas on crafting legislative bills. Forget my rocketing career in politics.
What I want from her can ruin me.
Unless, I plot and plan how I’ll go about seducing this woman into my bed while keeping her lips sealed. Her words not mine.
As we gaze at one another, a vein in her neck pulsates wildly, and I carefully consider what’s required to fuck her. I mean really, really fuck her. Everything in my life worth having requires work—hard work and what I’ve brought to the table. Why not this?
Ever since I met her, I can’t forget her and now, I won’t be able to if we’re going to be in close quarters. I’ve never considered an intern, but she’s different. Sure, it’s been awhile since I wholly sampled a girl who’s new to the lifestyle of unadulterated submission to my every whim—all the details are just that. Meaningless checkpoints.
I look at her—look her up and down and don’t even try to hide what I’m doing. God, she’s stunning, with her knockout looks and spunk. Let me count the ways I’m going to enjoy getting her to conform and all the toys and tricks I’ve missed employing in my dungeon of late.
Brain buzzing, raw lust swimming in my veins, and I feel the crash of adrenaline bursting into my bloodstream in committing to the task of breaking her in. Holy shit, I’m more than game for introducing Ms. Kennedy to hardcore sex, and then teaching her all sorts of dirty things to do to please me.
The muscles all over my body tighten, and I’m blinded by eviscerating lust as I mentally undress this woman, imagining her spread-eagle, blindfolded, muffled, and cuffed.
Stone, are you crazy?
As we pull up in front of the coffee house, I silently respond to the goddamn voice in my head that’s fucking annoying as shit, “No, not even close.”
* * *
AT THE coffee house, an informal meet-n-greet that I could do in my sleep, except every atom in my body is hyper aware of the woman standing next to me.
A gentleman thumps me on the back. “Senator, is it true about the immigration reform uproar? What’s the president thinking?”
Shit, I can hardly recite my own name and now I’ve got to talk shop. I answer questions, one after another, but all the while I’m in my own personal hell where my tie feels more like a noose. Standing with a cup of coffee in hand, I’m wishing it were Scotch.
More and more people enter. Kennedy answers questions or directs the speaker to me, coming over and paving an introduction. She’s a natural at making small talk and in the crowded space, our bodies unintentionally come into contact where she accidentally brushes against my semierect cock. More than once. Okay, maybe not completely unintentional on my part. I can’t help steering my body in her direction. I have to cop one more glance as she licks her pink lips and flashes her eyes over to me. Each and every time, I feel a jolt of electricity rip through my awareness. I could spend the night watching her.
Applause starts, then ramps up, and I force my focus to the front as I walk forward. Stepping up to the mic, I look around the coffee house. “We’re living in a time of unsurpassed possibility as well as uncertainty. For a while now, I’ve viewed neighborhood communities as a metaphor for what we should be doing as a nation in the 21st century, and what the Back Bay Business Association has done here in Boston, is a prime example. Your campaign support is phenomenal and your involvement in shaping this community deserves recognition.” I raise my cup to several of the Newbury high rollers I see in front of me...until my eyes touch upon Kennedy’s face and my mind blanks for a second. A groan threads up my throat, and I stifle it, hurling myself into a speech I’ve given countless times over the last month. At the end, I thank everyone for coming out tonight, then I nod, pulling at my collar as I meet her gaze.
I move to her side. “Any thoughts or suggestions for improvement?” I ask, smiling at those who clap my back as I give rote responses to congratulations floating around us.
“Everyone is thrilled that you’re here.” She smiles at me and then shifts her eyes at the people milling about.
Not everyone. I’d much rather be back at the hotel. “You’re good at working the crowd.”
She looks up at me and shrugs. “I’ve had experience at flashy events.”
Every time I glance at her, she’s doing something that has me to the point of hauling her to the back restroom and pushing her against a wall, demanding to know what’s her game or if she’s the slightest bit interested in letting me do her. If the inside of the Bronco was torture, this is no reprieve, and I can’t wait to get out of here.
An hour later, I’m practically sprinting out the door as I take her elbow, piloting her to the waiting Bronco at the curb. “Goodnight,” I say to those standing around us.
“Senator Stone?” A couple at the curb walks over. “We can’t thank you enough for what you’re doing. Not just here tonight, but all over.”
“Good evening. What are your names?” I smile, and hold out my hand.
They introduce themselves, a husband and wife and owners of a bookstore nearby. I gesture to Kennedy. “My intern. Ms. Kennedy. It’s a pleasure and I appreciate you both coming out tonight.”
For a few minutes, we all talk and I get the full-on Xavia Kennedy impact, a dose of her level of charisma, until the man nods, tugging on his wife’s arm. “Don’t want to talk your ear off.”
I blink and realize, shit. I’ve been staring at Kennedy. “I could stand here all night and talk.” We all laugh and I direct my gaze to the girl standing next to me. We exchange another round of handshakes and as they walk away, I turn toward her.
“Ready?” she asks in a quiet voice.
“Yeah.” I guide her to the car, and silently we climb into the backseat. “Jon, get us to the hotel,” I order in a clipped voice, and settle back, observing the girl who almost brought me to my knees.
* * *
THE DRIVER lifts out my bags and she seems nervous as though she has something important to relay. “Do you want the driver to stay?” I ask, wanting to define our plans.
“I have an apartment in town,” Kennedy replies, following me to the rear of our ride.
“I figured,” I retort drily. Is she about to bow out after trying to convince me how much she’s a team player? Typical rich kid shit.
“But I can stay here if they have an open bed.”
The term ‘bed,’ gliding off her tongue, lands like a bomb, exploding inside my head.
We’re standing out on the sidewalk and I’m right in the middle of reaching into my pocket for my money clip when the driver’s head snaps up at her announcement. I meet his disgruntled gaze, and watch his lips twitch like he’s about to join in the conversation and dissuade her. Excuse me...just ignore her. This girl’s the ultimate tease.
The ultimate challenge. Every guy has met a few. Sure, I could set the driver straight, but instead, I go for the expected reply. The one that won’t get me kicked in the nuts.
>
“Considering we have a ton of work to get done, that might be best,” I say with phony aplomb, peeling off a tip for the driver, and refusing to react to her well-timed reference to a bed that will contain her tight little body for the night.
I look up, meeting her eyes, and grind my teeth. This comment can go south in so many ways. Jon, a volunteer from where I know not, might tweet or post this snippet, or worse, I might lose it in the elevator—forget needing a bed. Fucking Kennedy up against a wall sounds spectacular—and this time around, I’m not going to hold back if given the opportunity.
“Senator, let me go get a room.” Abruptly, she leans in close, infusing me with a measured dose of unwavering eye contact and another hit of her fragrance—light with a citrus undertone...mind tripping and I forget all about the world around us. Christ, her pupils are fully dilated, leaving her arctic blue ice irises captivating neon rims. Her bewitching gaze peers into me, diving deep—too deep.
I wonder what’s running through her mind and why there’s this undeniable connection between us where all I want to do is go upstairs, strip her naked, tie her to my bed, and spend the next few hours fucking her repeatedly. Hard. Driving. Some might describe my type of sex as brutal in how forcefully I’ll dominate this girl.
Only one thing is needed and it’s her admission that she’s a willing participant. A rush of lust coats my reason until it’s slick and slippery. Every filthy fantasy involving Kennedy that I’ve entertained for the last seven weeks overpowers my sound judgment until I’m left fighting the urge to shove her against the car, cup her head, and haul her mouth to mine.
“Hey, is that okay?” she asks when I’ve yet to respond.
Decision made. This girl and I are going to fuck. Protracted and carnal.
Handing the driver a tip, I say to her, “Put it on my credit card.” Afterward, I murmur a delayed, “Thanks, Jon. See you tomorrow.”
As a porter takes my computer case, I’m vaguely aware of the driver mock saluting me before he retreats into the car without further incident, and the hotel staff wheels my luggage away.
At least that’s what I believe, not that I could say exactly what anyone else was doing as I remove my credit card and hand it over to Kennedy. It’s her reaction I’m finely tuned into as I gauge my next words. I need a drink to unwind and plot my next move. The chances of her agreeing to go upstairs and let me fuck her like a savage are in the range of probable, and I’m keyed up to the max.
“Hopefully they have a room available,” she murmurs, flicking her gaze to the driver as she waves.
Once again I’m knocked in the forearm by her sudden movement, jarring my thoughts as I hold my wallet and almost drop it. Dammit, together Kennedy and I are clumsy. Some type of kinetic lack of spatial orientation exists between us that keeps us in close proximity.
“We have an early morning and I plan on hitting it before sunrise.” Words aren’t my forte right now, envisioning her naked, bound, and under me.
“I’m good with that. College is all about all-nighters.” She takes my credit card but not before her silky fingers slide over mine, discharging an electric jolt that shoots up my arm.
“Doesn’t get much better in politics,” I mutter.
At this rate, I don’t know if I can keep my distance if she’s next to me on a sofa in my suite. Alarm bells blare a warning. For all her teasing and the one heated kiss we exchanged, she could have an aversion to being manhandled and meekly submitting as I fuck her nonstop. The idea of hitting the sheets with her is looming larger, occupying the space in my head, and I tug at my tie. How can I find out?
“I’m not put off,” she replies.
“Maybe so, maybe not. We’ll see,” I say, motioning to the entrance.
Entering the hotel with her, I focus on the floors in lieu of her ass. They’re a warm, dark gleaming wood and I’m conscious of her heels tap-tap-tapping. A few feet before the check-in desk, she slows and curls her fingers over my arm. “There’s a line. I’ll check us in if you have calls to make.”
The feel of her fingers solidifies my resolve that fucking her is my next stop on this campaign trail. A glimmer of practicality knifes my consciousness and I question my sanity. I’m hungry to slam my cock into her more than anything I’ve ever craved, but if she’s not down for that...the slightest reference could land my name, face, and the U.S. Senate in the limelight. Not the type of press coverage I or the White House covets.
“I don’t know if this will work,” I say softly, watching her mouth and feel my body heat. In that second, I can plainly see how fucked up this could become with a girl like Kennedy, and I clench my jaw for having admitted aloud what’s plaguing me.
“Again?” she replies. “Look, I’m here to work. Whatever you’re thinking, it’s bullshit, Senator Stone. Total and irrevocable bullshit.”
A burst of fire scathes my nerve endings, signaling that what’s going on between us is far outside the norm even for the places I inhabit. In a secret world where edgeplay relies upon instinct, I’m throwing caution to the fucking wind.
“Fine. If you’re up for what I’ve got.” I look down at her fingers, focusing on the deep red color on her nails, and grind out, “I need a drink, Kennedy.”
Backing away from her, my only plan is to head for the hotel pub. No question, I need some liquid ammunition to stop from coming onto her with the force of a wrecking ball. I glance around the lobby, spotting the hotel lounge. A dark rectangle cut-out in the far wall where the twinkling white lights remind me of Christmas. I squelch that thought as my only means to disengage the rolling nausea whenever I contemplate the holidays.
“Where are you going?” Her eyes grow to the size of saucers and I gesture with a snap of my chin toward the hotel lounge.
“I’ll be in that bar.”
“Then I’ll meet you there.”
Nodding, I can’t get away fast enough in my quest to toss back a few shots of steel reserve in the form of straight single malt Scotch. Hell, I’ll guzzle unfiltered moonshine if it means sweet relief from this razor sharp ache that’s crawling under my skin from Kennedy and her perfect pink fuckable lips.
“It’s been a long day and we won’t get to bed ‘til probably early morning...” And the audacity of her being here hits me. Twice we’ve run into each other and are closer than two coats of paint in what we want. “Why did you come to the airport, if you could have met me tomorrow morning?”
She smiles. “I didn’t want to miss the opportunity and when Nora offered me the spot, she mentioned it was last minute since you’d dismissed your team. She changed up your schedule and worries about you.”
“Worries too much and I understand, you’re partially to blame. Thank you.” Standing this close to Kennedy, I’m faced with the plaintive truth. She’s the type of woman who’ll be a royally great lay, but isn’t a recruit for what I habitually seek. One taste of her pussy and I might want another. And another. I feel the force of that veracity spread through me, all the more tempting under the weight of potential disaster she represents. You’d think a prick like me can find a lay but it’s not that simple. Not anymore.
Silently I’m chanting for her to step away, or better yet, spin on her circus height heels, and go conquer the world miles away from me.
“My pleasure. I had a few favors owed.”
“It’s been awhile since I was back on campus and I’m looking forward to this IRT talk with the independents.”
“IRT?” she asks.
“In real time.” I stiffen and the chanting fades to a dead stop. What favors could the independent party possibly owe her? This question grounds me, and I formulate a casual response, but all the while, I’m interested in getting to the bottom of more than a few things where Kennedy is concerned. “Interesting to be owed favors. We need to talk.”
“Indeed. After I check-in, I’ll bring your key to the bar. Okay?” Her suggestion sounds innocent...but with our raw attraction, I’m wondering how innocent she actual
ly is.
“Sounds like a plan,” I retort. Plan? I’m the one who needs one. The sole strategy I come up with is to let her decide if we’ll take this further. It’s basic, flawed, and the only one I’ve got. No wrangling or maneuvering, no fancy talk or flirting.
Her brows knit together and then she points toward the check-in counter. “Any special room requests?”
“A bed. King size. What do you drink?” Tempting fate, I offer her a drink, and I wait to hear her response.
She meets my stare. “Whatever you’re having.”
I cock an eyebrow. “You drink Scotch?”
“Sure. Why not?” She stops in midstride, glances over to me, and returns my raised eyebrow. “I’m tougher than I look.”
“I believe that.” After meeting plenty of champagne-looking women who can drink me under the table, I’m not about to turn this into a drinking gauntlet. “Great, we’ll drink Scotch together and talk campaign strategy for Boston.”
Provocatively she smiles, pivoting on her heel, and leaving me once again frozen in my tracks. This magnetic connection we’ve got—the push and pull—is driving me berserk.
If I don’t get a handle on my runaway reaction to her, I might drink the bar dry in an effort to extinguish this craving she flagrantly unsheathes in me, and seems to enjoy antagonizing. Lost in a tangle of my thoughts, I cross the lobby, envisioning Kennedy under me. I weigh the possibility that she might be a virgin. I don’t do virgins.
I almost trip over my own idiot imagination and curse under my breath. Ben, shut the fuck up! If Kennedy is a virgin, I most certainly will be open to popping her cherry. Every last one for that matter.
*
Inside the bar, it’s crowded for a Wednesday...hump day and I find a spot open but only one chair. I remove my jacket and drop it over the back of the barstool and order our drinks. Raking my fingers through my hair, I glance around and meet the glittery eyes of several women. I slide my gaze away, following a trail of half-filled glasses toward the television and a Red Sox game that’s almost over.
