by Alex Elliott
“I’ll text you the location. And thanks.”
“Naw. You’ve done me plenty of favors. This will be my pleasure. Uh...what’s the girl’s name?”
This isn’t the time for total transparency. It’ll be difficult enough when I have to admit to Jax that Xavia is a Kennedy and also my intern. I look at the ceiling and reply, “XS”
“Excess?” he asks. “As in overabundance?”
“Not exactly.” I chuckle at the idea. It is apropos given her temperament and what I bet is her experience with living in luxury. Yeah, whatever captivates her interest she more than likely goes after and gets. “As in the letters ‘X’ and ‘S,’” I inform him.
“Sounds mysterious,” he replies.
“Let’s leave it at that,” I tell him and wait.
“Enough said. I’ve got you and take care, Ben.”
We hang up and I reopen my contacts, typing a message to a man I engage to uncover information. He’s useful in determining the pros and cons of accepting a submissive—for one thing. Kennedy would cut off my balls and feed them to me if she knew I was hacking into her personal life.
Archer calls me back and basically barks. “Fuck, don’t you ever sleep!”
“You know what they say about the wicked.”
“Shit, yeah, and you’re one wicked motherfucker!”
“Need you to run a check. Like yesterday. Can you do it?”
His audible exhalation is loud. Clear. This is gonna cost me. “Who?”
I walk toward the sofa but instead of sitting, I pace. “Xavia. Stillman. Kennedy.”
“What the fuck are you tapping into, Stone?”
“This is totally on the QT and I don’t want any possible tracks.”
“Shit. I’m not stupid. Not with those hard-liners. Anything special?” he asks.
I roll my chin, cracking my neck. “Pull her medicals. Recent blood tests. You’ve got...” I glance at the clock. It’s after midnight. “Three hours.”
“I’m on it.” He hangs up and I walk into the bedroom, dropping down onto the bed. This girl has me doing shit I haven’t done before. And it feels so fucking good.
Chapter Seven
No Way In Hell...Unless I Get Directions
HOLY CRAP. I lurch upright in bed, letting the sheet fall away from my body, and check out the other side of the mattress.
Empty.
Why am I not surprised?
Bennett is gone and for a second, I actually question if what I remember—the rough, raw, screaming sex—is some warped decadent fantasy where the man I’m supposed to begin an internship under, fucked me senseless. And I do mean senseless. My body has telltales that Senator Stone between my legs was real. Very, very real.
We fucked in a way—no one I hung around discussed. Bennett re-shredded my resistance the moment I entered the hotel bar and the dark hunger in his eyes bored into me. What is it about the combination of alcohol and Stone—but that’s not it. I only had a drink—a solitary finger of Scotch.
From wanting to kiss him, I became possessed with a carnal craving. One erotic mission, and when he proposed one night. He didn’t have to ask twice.
But the truth is it wasn’t just how he handled his cock—not that he wasn’t a Titan on the sheets. All it took was one of his enigmatic looks coupled with his commanding voice; he came at me with a mesmerizing force in his ability to slither into my mind, unchaining my resistance. He had me willing to do anything and everything to appease the explosive animal chemistry unleashed between us. That’s what has me stunned.
I wanted him in New York and seeing him again, I lost my head. That has to be why I did what I did. Let him do me—like no other. Pushing my knees together, I absorb how sore I am between my legs, and oh God. I long for another round of him riding me rough.
My clit pulses. I can’t deny that I want him deep inside me again. Rubbing my hands down my face, I groan, “Dammit!”
I’m so screwed. Leaning over, I press my forehead into my palms and cradle my head, rocking forward and backward for several seconds, and trying not to hyperventilate.
“Oh shit. Ooooh shit.” I repeat those two words about two hundred times until I’m frazzled, my nerves frayed.
This rocking nonsense has to stop...it’s making this sensation of having mucked up my entire life solidify. Messing up my life, not going to happen. It can’t.
Okay, what I need is a line of logical thinking, not me on a meltdown loop of oh-holy-shit chorusing through my brain. First things first. What should I do? I can’t stop thinking about what I did—the recap is mind-boggling.
Somehow in between handing Bennett my application and downing my drink, my plan to get to D.C. went awry. Complete detour! If I believed kissing my new boss was a terrible idea, how is fucking him crash landing this morning?
Don’t forget, Kennedy... I didn’t just fuck him.
Oh right. I let said boss not only bang me, but he fucked me so hard that I, control freak extraordinaire lost consciousness. And it was the best sex on the planet.
Shit! HOLY SHIT. What if Bennett actually becomes VP next year? Or holy fucking hell...president someday? Every woman he beds will be on a CIA list that eventually like every damn government secret, gets exposed.
Brandished.
Published and picked apart by the press.
And then I think of one reporter I’d like to string up. Jon! Him and his great idea! I’m two seconds away from calling him and telling him off.
But I can’t tell him what I’ve done. I can’t tell anyone. How many god-awful ways can one plan to forge a kickass future and career devolve into the arena of wrong? With this move of nailing Bennett, I’m in contention for winning the prize for clusterfuck of the century.
I feel a bubbling laugh creep up my throat like this just couldn’t be real—couldn’t be happening to me—but... It. Is. Fumbling, I shift my gaze, wearily around the room.
What time is it? Outside it’s still dark but the silvery filaments of dawn, streak high enough to be seen on the eleventh floor. The clock isn’t on the nightstand—it’s face down on the floor. I scoot off the bed, touching my toes to the carpet, and kick one of my shoes. Shoes...then immediately, I recall my last memory. Ben’s broad shoulders under my legs and me wearing these shoes.
Pushing aside the way it felt to have my brains fucked to pieces, I lift the clock off the floor. It’s just five am. I walk a line toward the bureau across the room, forcing myself not to think about Bennett banging me—not helping that the muscles all over my body are deliciously sore. Jesus, even my ass cheeks burn.
Feels like we fucked for hours. Days.
I stumble forward, drunk from the delectable sex we shared, and I plant my hands on the bureau next to my purse. I’ve got to get my head out of the clouds and into what needs to be done to salvage my future.
Lifting my head, I peer at myself in the mirror and oh dear God, I look like the poster child for crazy bedhead hair. If I’d teased my hair for a week, I doubt I could I get this same effect. I run my fingers through my knotted hair, over the tender spots on my head where Bennett yanked on my hair. My focus narrows. I suck in my breath as my gaze alights on the dark marks on my neck.
Are those where he squeezed? I have had a hickey or two before and these aren’t those.
On either side of my throat are impressions of where his fingers pressed. I turn my chin from side-to-side and yeah, I can feel the evidence that what we did isn’t imaginary or overblown in the aftermath of rough, raw sex. That man did something to me—something euphoric—and I shiver, swallowing a gasp. A sliver of fear works up my spine. Not derived from what we did but from the fact that I want him to do it again. Zero is what I know about hard, savage sex. But for my sake, I need to find out why...I want a repeat performance.
Leaning against the edge of the bureau, I close my eyes, fighting this carnal hunger, a serpentine coil of erotic lust, crawling under my skin. I can’t be feeling this. I’ve got to look for a ledge,
some place to hook and reel in my senses. I’m not a woman searching for a guy to manhandle her to the point of blacking out.
Am I? There goes that voice again. The one that got me into this mess. Flashing open my eyes, I snort an emphatic, “No!”
In short order, I’ve got to stop spinning like an emotional basket case. I can if I break this into manageable parts. Slowly, I inhale and think in objective terms. This is a problem.... a project, and what’s most troublesome?
First and foremost, I can’t risk my sanity and my reputation if this gets out. I was insane to think that in the morning, this would be hunky-dory. I remind myself, ‘spilled milk.’ Get past shooting myself in the fucking foot.
Then the problem becomes can I seriously consider going to D.C.?
A big irrational checkmark flares inside my head. I am. I actually, actually am.
My reasons for signing up haven’t changed—they’re only more complicated. At the root of my decision to go to D.C., it’s still as irritating as ever. I’m tired of being housed in the land of boring pastel and pearls. Last night, with Bennett at the coffee house—aside from his sexual charisma—it was fun being around people who are energized. Excited. People who want to conspire to do good—not see who they can own. Manipulate.
I hunger for inspiration and that’s what he does to those within his orbit.
I am so worn out doing the ‘survival mode’ or the ‘accept my life sucks’ mode. Or worse, let my grandparents take the reins and control me mode.
Glancing down, I spy my tattered dress, lying in a heap on the floor, and I definitely recall the thrill of having it torn off my body. A reminder that Bennett Stone isn’t the type of man anyone controls. He’s a double-shot of self-confidence and with his air of authority, I could learn a lot from him.
Or get run over trying. The trick with a force like him is no different than preparing for a natural disaster. Sure, I could say, I’m not going to stick around and find out!
But deep inside I want to. Bennett’s strong. Magnetizing. Vibrant. A reason why I couldn’t seem to say no even though every atom in my body was and is in a carnal war. Am I going to run away from the one man who might teach me to stand on my own two feet around people who believe—rightfully—that they own or can buy anyone they choose? I love my grandparents but I don’t respect them.
And Stone—I relish fighting him... because I respect him. He’s like some huge ass mountain that no one has climbed. Yet. My own personal Kilimanjaro. He fills my whole being with a sense of purpose that is beyond a bed.
So, if I’m set on swimming within this river of wanton lust, while suppressing an iceberg of erotic hunger, what can I do to head off disaster?
Start with the basics like primary needs. It’s what we look at when assessing a story to write and what’s at the root of a problem, the tip of a solution. For me, right now, it’s clothing.
I need to get home, shower, and change. Marching over to the closet, I slide the mirrored door back. It’s empty. I muse and look around the room; then I see the bigger picture unfold. I can’t even leave this room. Bending down to retrieve my dress, I can’t believe Bennett rendered it completely from top to hem. Of all the times to be without my car and no extra clothes. I glance at his jacket and walk over, picking up the dark sleeve. Light wool and it’ll work if I can do something with my dress to keep it from peeling wide open.
I hold out my dress again and remember I do have a stapler and tape in my bag.
* * *
EXITING THE elevator, I’m careful in how I plant each of my high heels, focusing on silent steps in my panty-less trek across the lobby. Early morning hours and I’ve managed to contain my bird’s nest hair in a tight bun and my dress is fastened together—barely. As long as I don’t inhale too deeply or snag it on something, I’ll be just fine.
A man jostling two bundles of newspapers enters through the automatic doors. Abruptly he stands back, smiling and allowing me to pass outside into the chilly predawn air.
Lucky for me, there’s a taxi at the corner and the driver has just exited. His roof light is off but there’s a billowing cloud of exhaust as he stands, puffing on a cigarette next to the driver’s door.
“Excuse me,” I say, stopping in front of the driver.
He trains his gaze on me and flicks his cigarette away. “What can I do for you?”
My teeth clatter even though it’s a summer morning, and I enfold my arms closer together across my chest, a barrier against the cool bay air. “Looking for a taxi. By any chance are you available?”
“Where to?” He cocks his head, waiting to hear my reply before answering. Smart man.
“Beacon Street.”
His eyes widen and he straightens, nodding. “Sure thing. Hop in. There’s hardly any traffic on Storrow at this time.”
“Great,” I say, shivering as he opens the backseat door.
The cab ride is brief and I remove a crisp fifty dollar bill. “Wait for me and there’s another. I just need to grab a few things and I’ll be right back.”
“Then where to?” The cabbie asks.
“Back to the Hyatt.”
“I’ll be here,” he replies, his expression morphing into surprise but he keeps his lips buttoned.
The doorman tips his hat and I smile, greeting him by name and breezing past. I could stop and chat but I don’t have time. Upstairs I enter my apartment that is quiet as a tomb. It’s only me in my boss’s Brooks Brothers’ jacket that I slip off, folding it over the arm of the sofa.
Removing my dress, I head into the bathroom where I stop as I get an eyeful of my bare ass cheeks in the vanity mirror. Turning around, I glance over one shoulder, pivot and glance over my other shoulder, studying my rear. The red marks are angry stripes and I exhale sharply. Stone didn’t just spank me. He striped my bottom, leaving belt marks and bruises that aren’t likely to disappear in a day, let alone a week. Bennett Stone is a controlling...what’s the term? Dominant.
“Dom,” I say out loud and yeah, without knowing what it entails—the term fits him.
Am I perverse in liking the way he commandeers me in bed? Using an erotic hold so tight I blacked out? But he didn’t seem to be acting irrationally. And that’s part of the Bennett Stone package I get. He’s solid—nearly unshakable. He knew what he was doing—clearly I’m not the first woman he’s pleasured this way. His words explode in my head: I promise, I’ll take you over the edge into a world few ever get to visit.
Holy fuck...what’s he into? Senator Stone has secrets. Dark, erotic secrets.
I open the glass-walled shower and turn on the water to scalding. I love hot showers and for minutes, I stand under the jet streams until my thoughts subside into a low roar as I decide that Bennett with the highflying political aspirations has some explaining to do. Inside my shower, under the pelting water, I touch my skin, soapy and slick, and relive how it felt to be fondled by Bennett. No not fondled—manhandled. Commanded. Forced to take him as he fucked me from behind, pulling my hair.
His consummate ability to control my body has me searching, scouring for any and all clues of what he has—why he has this hold on me. For seconds, I give into how amazing he made me feel. Over my breasts, I squeeze out a stream of lather, dripping bubbles across my nipples as a soapy line runs down my belly and between my thighs. I drop the sponge, following the bubbly route with my fingers, closing my eyes, and think of his large hands on my body. I’m too tender in my touch. I hunger for harder and I pinch my nipples, recounting that’s more like Bennett’s rough touch. Bruising.
That’s what I want, not soft.
Not sweet.
I want him. I sway, placing a soapy palm against the tile in front of my face. I want too much. I want it all. I’m greedy and he knows that.
This has to stop.
Stop as in right now!
Gran’s words ring in my ears about coarse behavior—about Aunt Bridget’s out of control libido. Stillmans don’t do scandal.
Well
sorry to say, apparently we do. I’ve joined the disreputable ranks when faced with a gorgeously arresting senator who could rip the panties off a girl—this girl to be exact. Senator Stone with his million dollar smile and his expert mouth...he’s bitten my skin, leaving a trail of marks that even the soap suds do nothing to hide. He’s offering me a doorway—he’s giving me the keys. If I’m brave enough to take what he offers, the benefits could be astronomical. But so can the risks!
Rinsing off, I stand under the scalding water as the suds wash away from my hair, down my body, and down the drain.
But not the memory of Ben fucking me.
Owning me.
Leaving me looking like I was in a car wreck.
I have to get my act together, a plan in place on how to get exactly what I want. Turning off the water, I wipe droplets from my eyes, vowing once I step outside this shower stall, that’s it.
No fucking wimping out!
Peering at the foggy glass, I can’t see much beyond...I’m partially blinded. A good reminder that I need my instincts as much as my sight. I don’t know if it’s possible to exit my shower, and be in control... like the control Bennett exercises over me.
He was the one who talked about teaching me self-control.
And then I falter—both mentally and as I hold onto the shower door. I wonder why is Bennett willing to play with fire? If he’s so into control.
But is he? Aren’t we a precarious situation for a man like him? There’s something I’m not seeing. He’s like Gran with her safety net.
If I’m not going to talk. And he’s not going to talk...
Still...this is totally insane.
Hardcore fucking with a U.S. Senator? Wake up! In a second of reflective thinking, I jump to the opposite end of the spectrum, vacillating back and forth between two choices; there’s simply no grey here. Sex—great out-of-this world sex—or nothing.
Am I going to end up needing Gran’s team of attorneys? The whispered subject behind closed Nantucket doors?
Fuck no! If Bennett and I both contain what we did last night, and agree not to do each other again...who’d find out? Christ. Is that what I want?
