by Alex Elliott
I give Nora the go-ahead to forward calls to Kennedy’s phone—the one she’s intelligently purchased for her intern work—and our eyes seek each other out more and more. Her sparkling gaze is what I crave as a substitute for her warm, seductive touch. A thousand times, I’ve revisited fantasyland, where she’s under me, moaning or screaming my name.
Exiting the car, I glance over to Jon. “We’ll be out in an hour. Be ready.”
“Roger that,” he replies and dips his head, glancing around. “I’ll park nearby.”
“Last stop,” Kennedy says to me and shifts her eyes to her friend. “Thanks.”
Jon smiles and winks. Nothing more.
“You’re friends?” I venture when we’re out on the sidewalk, testing to see what she’ll say.
“We are. I’ve known him a long time.”
“Just friends?”
“Strange you should ask. Isn’t the going rule, we don’t kiss and tell? I do recall hearing that spill from your lips...earlier.”
I peer over my sunglasses. “Ask me a question about anyone you see and I’ll answer you truthfully. But I can’t divulge confidences. I won’t do that to you.”
She considers my answer—I believe—and then shakes her head, and quirks her brow. “When you decide to share your past. So will I.”
I lift my glasses. What the fuck is she holding back? That her ex-lover has been hauling my ass around Boston? “That’s not an answer.”
“But it’s the only one you’re going to get,” she replies. “Unless you’re willing to share your history.”
“Fine. Be abstruse,” I snort. “Consider yourself in trouble.”
She laughs in my face, and I have to hold back a grin at how she’s able to play me. God, I’m keyed up. By the time we walk onto the grounds of Harvard, there’s a sense of accomplishment and excitement in me that has one focal point—my hardcore hunger. I need to fuck X again. An hour and we’ll be back at the hotel. Shit, I can hold out that long. Can’t I?
“Ready?” she asks as we near the auditorium.
“I need you. Now,” I whisper into her ear as I pretend to be showing her something on my computer tablet.
“You’re joking,” she replies, tilting her head and her soft hair caresses my cheek.
I swallow—the muscles all over my body wrap tightly to my bones. “I’d do you in a broom closet...if you’d agree.”
“Not gonna happen, Senator Stone. Your rules. Not mine.”
“You little minx,” I snarl between my gritted teeth as my gaze traces her fuckable lips. “I’m serious.”
“Thank you. Twice.” She smiles, laughing softly, and I’m stunned at how she’s got me dangling by a thin thread.
A slice of sunlight strikes her mouth at just the right angle and a tiny silver ball in her tongue sparkles. “Is your tongue pierced?” I ask, mesmerized by her piercing and understanding why she overcompensates when enunciating certain sounds.
“It is. I removed my piercing when we checked into the hotel last night. It’s back.” She seductively runs the ball across the bottom of her teeth and my dick reacts as if she’s licked my crown. I imagine her mouth on my hard-on, taking all of me as she kneels submissively. Her arms tied behind her back or cuffed, and I’m controlling her every move.
My cock all but stands up and salutes. Her ability to commandeer my arousal response is impossible to put aside. For an indoctrinated Dom, this level of unadulterated lust running rampant in my veins is novel and unsettling as hell. I want her with a profound ache, getting heavy and harder to ignore. My pulse pounds in my temples. A ceaseless sense of turmoil churns in my blood, my bones, my brain. I don’t consider how to cure myself from craving her. Categorically, there’s only one remedy. The solution is sex.
I slant over and snarl, “Fuck the rules.”
“Or make them up as we go,” she replies. “You can’t have it both ways.”
“Yes. We can. Until Saturday, we haven’t signed jackshit.” I’ve got to have her—I don’t care about anything except satisfying this carnal urge. No distance is too far, nor is any threat of jeopardy too great.
“How far over the line?” The echoing of Jax’s measured question fills my mind. I wonder too...at what point will I cross the line with this girl until it’s too far to retreat back into safe secrecy? The question should blossom like a drop of blood on a white cloth, until it’s only the stain I see, not the material circumstances. But I don’t. I see only Xavia. I want only her.
With certainty, I silently say, “All the way.”
“Senator Stone.” A voice booms behind me.
I turn and face Dean Nolan, hurrying down the walkway; his cheeks are ruddy, belying his Irish ancestry and his love to drink—more like tie one on. “Long time, Dean. Great to see you again.”
“Likewise, Senator Stone.” He holds out his hand and we shake.
“Ms. Kennedy, my intern,” I say, introducing her to Nolan
“Ah, Ms. Kennedy, hello. Wonderful to meet you.” He smiles recklessly, pumping her hand. “Give your grandparents my regards.”
“Good afternoon, Dean.” Kennedy nods, but says nothing about her grandparents. Instead she looks to me. “Senator, shall we?”
The dean’s face gets a shade redder at the snub and it’s so out of character compared with her whole demeanor—what she’s shown me so far. A huge question—one I stow. More work for Archer.
Nolan points toward the waiting crowd. “Senator, we’ve eagerly been awaiting this talk. Right this way.” He sounds jovial, engaging, but I know otherwise.
“Always a pleasure being back. What an opportunity?” Rhetorical—absolutely.
“Ah, yes. Well, the auditorium is packed. Standing room only. Even though it’s the summer, quite a few students and faculty came back to campus.” The dean nods, side-glances Ms. Kennedy, who’s busy talking on her phone, going over some last minute detail about tonight with Nora.
I flash a glance over to her, not expecting her to catch me gawking, but she does and for the briefest second, she halts whatever she’s saying. The slightest pink tinges her cheeks and her translucent blue eyes shimmer hypnotically, holding me transfixed.
Stunning comes to mind as I stare back, fascinated by her. I smile then wink, feeling no shame at having been singularly seduced by her one more time.
Nolan is up ahead, a few steps away by this time, and I take her by the elbow, quirking my brow at the tiny gasp escaping her lips. “Come with me.” A double entendre that we both understand.
“Don’t I always?” she whispers.
“Baby, don’t tempt me.”
“We’d better get moving.” She cocks her head toward the dean.
I blink, holding back from the urge to kiss her in public. “Right,” I respond, pressing my fingers to the small of her back, leaning close enough to inhale her perfume.
“Bennett,” she groans, so quietly that I wonder if it’s my imagination as we begin walking forward.
We catch up to Nolan. He’s unaware that we aren’t hanging on his every word as he relays streams of sound bites about the recent campus renovations, thanks to Citibank. His spin doctor tone is reserved and what he recites is propaganda bullshit that I’m betting he’s crafted all for Kennedy’s grandparents. The Stillmans—thanks to Archer—I’m very acquainted with who they support, or rather, who they control with their old money. Just not the familial relationship between them and Xavia.
Those types, I steer clear of if I can. Otherwise, I’d be no better than Nolan. A slew like him and a good possibility why the Veep is hot on my trail to be her running mate. To the vice president, I’m a blank political slate that can be used for her ulterior political motives—all of which hold no interest for me. But with the POTUS out of the picture in a year, I owe the Veep an answer, which is becoming much more complicated as I stand next to Xavia.
At the entrance of the auditorium, I take hold of the door handle and stand back, allowing Kennedy to enter before me. Once a
gain, I inhale her familiar fragrance. Epinephrine to my senses and for one blasted second, lucidity prevails. It might not be roadblocks like Nolan who are my biggest problem. What if it’s from her that I suffer a collapsing spiral? Her words ring clearly in my mind. Don’t you see ‘road to ruin’ in blinking neon lights where we’re concerned?
There’s a quality about her in which I feel when we’re together, I can be saved or recreated. And it’s that doorway where I get, she’s a risk. A danger. A chance that I’ll never be free from waiting for my next Xavia hit. Today, I’m a façade, concerned about feeding my ever widening hunger. I’m cool on the outside, but burning on the inside.
We enter the auditorium and rippling handclapping begins. A few more sets of hands join in, and then more and more until the echoing applause is near to deafening.
“Go get ‘em,” Kennedy says softly, yet strangely in the thunderous chaos, it’s only her voice that I hear.
“Thanks,” I reply, meeting her crystal blue gaze, and then I take to the stage, pushing aside any doubts when she smiles and flashes me a peace sign. She’s the reason I’m on this stage, and silently I remind my moronic imagination to, “Shut the fuck up!”
* * *
THIRTY MINUTES into the talk, I’m taking a sip of water on stage in between answering questions. I establish a rhythm; things are going great. Kennedy helps by directing from the audience, moving up and down the aisles as she’s done all day, and then I notice him. A tall guy, unlike the other people who stand nearby Xavia, waits for a turn at the mic.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t attend to anything much except staring at her—he lets people cut ahead of him and then it hits me. He isn’t in line. She laughs at something he says, and that’s when I start to focus more on them, then the next question. With tattooed arms, he reminds me of Jon, and there’s a similarity in him—beyond the inked appendages—and my spine stiffens with a resounding SNAP!
I get further into my speech—all memorized bullshit at this point. I stop and accept more questions from the audience. But this time, I’m doing the fielding of queries as Kennedy moves farther down the aisle. Another person steps up to the mic, prefaces a question, and as we talk, the cameramen get a close-up, featured on the monitors. There’s a little tension, but I’m on my game with the question posed.
Next person steps up to talk. No problem, but now the dude in the aisle and Xavia are more cohesive as a unit, installed in the background, and she’s less than an actual force in managing the crowd in line. When she hands the microphone to a woman who taps her shoulder, I torque my chin and there goes a distinct CRACKLE in the cording tendons along my neck. I grind my molars, watching her and the guy lean closer together. I think of the derivations of position. Vectors in physics and like a shoe that waits to fall, tension tears a circuit through my body like a zap of white-lightening, shredding my concentration.
I lose my train of thought not once but several times during this part of the Q & A. Luckily, I cover my own ass since Kennedy is too busy socializing in the aisle.
Next question, and fuck, I notice she’s gone.
POP!
The sound reverberates in my head.
My body fills with tension, unending, and disemboweling to my focus. The minutes drag on and she doesn’t reappear. One of the cameramen gives me the signal to wrap things up. Last comment then I wave at the audience, and thank Dean Nolan who stands off in the wings. Nolan waits to come back on stage, and when I flash him the signal, he bolts forward with his prepared closing remarks on an index card that he hides in his palm. I peruse the audience for Xavia, scanning a rapid grid but come up empty.
When the video crew calls out, “Cut,” I’m out of there on the warbling chorus of my campaign theme song. And she’s nowhere. Not behind the curtains. Not out in the audience. She fails to return. I walk to the back of the stage, acutely aware of the white noise of voices, the thudding of feet moving, equipment being dragged across the stage. In the midst of all the commotion, I scout the area looking for a girl wearing a light grey suit with glasses and blond hair. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I glance around the place, still on the lookout for Xavia.
A small wave of relief floods my body as I glance at my cell screen, seeing her number displayed; but the relief is short-lived as I read her message. “Had a mini-emergency. Meet you back at the hotel. So sorry!”
I read and reread her message and don’t know what to make of it except I’m ready to punch a fucking wall.
* * *
INSIDE MY hotel bedroom, I’m suited up, wondering how on this side of hell I can make it through dinner and a cocktail party without exploding. Where in holy fucking hell is Xavia? I jerked off in the shower, unable to escape the thought of owning her body as I imagined making her pay for running out with a round of hair fisting, fast, savage sex. Her down on her knees, bent over, arms tied and me fucking her from behind. Stroke after stroke, it’s my name on her lips.
I’ve got to stop thinking about owning her, but here I sit, my dick hard enough to pound nails, and chaos running through my brain. I could jerk off again, but that’s not what I need. I need her under me. Moaning for me to make it good for her.
Only one thought knifes me: Where in the fuck is she? Yet, our need for secrecy—or really, my pride—prevents me from texting her. I refuse to open that door. Nothing I can do can suggest impropriety. Our messages are open to scrutiny.
Closing my eyes, I focus on my breath in vain, hoping the feeling of drowning will retreat. I had a plan. I know—another so-called brilliant one. Second time in less than twenty-four hours with this chick. Campus talk followed by a session of uninterrupted sex with her. Her being my personal drug.
My heaven.
My hell.
Aka my MIA intern.
Xavia Stillman Kennedy.
Now, it’s fifteen minutes until I have to go down and make nice at a cocktail party I want to blow off. I’m so pissed I can’t see straight, forget thinking sanely. My phone rings. “What?” I bark.
“Calm the hell down,” Nora laughs. “You should be smiling. Tomorrow you’re on your way back. Just checking in and making sure you’re ready to rock tonight.”
I’m not smiling—far from it. I’m teetering at the edge and if I spew molten lava all over the carpet, I wouldn’t be surprised. Not one bit.
“Do you have some indication as to why the fuck I wouldn’t be capable of rocking this thing?” I close my eyes, and swallow. This isn’t the first time that Nora has seen me fried to a crisp, but she’s never been on the receiving end. “I’m sorry,” I say and clench my jaw.
“Ben, what happened?”
“Nothing. I’m just strung out.”
“Look, I just got confirmation that the seat to your right is freed. Henry Jarvis phoned me back and confirmed his wife won’t be coming. He’ll be in D.C. next week. Wants to meet. I gave him a ten minute spot on Wednesday.”
Great. Another favor I now owe. In twenty-four hours I’ve pulled in two because of Xavia. I silently curse myself for getting involved with her. Jax warned me against losing my head. Impressively on point, and there’s no one to blame but myself. The second I stared at her dancing in New York, I knew Xavia was trouble.
But no. I had to go and fuck her.
Twice.
Why couldn’t I have just kept my dick in my pants and waited until I got back and hooked up with a real pro? A sub who knew the score—knew how to get me off and back on track. But even agreeing to how fucked up this is...my palms itch to bend and bind Kennedy over a bench and take my sweet time with her. Make her as crazy out-of-her skull as I feel at this moment.
“Thanks,” I say.
“You’re almost done. By tomorrow you’ll be back in D.C.,” Nora reiterates a point that now only makes the tension hike up inside me.
“That’s what I hear.”
“Anything I can do?”
Without a lucid reply, I stare out the window at the dark evening skies and envis
ion the future, perceiving the impossibility of the mess I’m entrenched within. Question answered. I’m at the brink and for my self-preservation there’s only one plausible solution. When I see Kennedy, I’ll tell her... forget it.
Finally, I say, “Nope. You’ve done wonderful work as usual. Everything went smooth as silk.” Christ, I envision blond silk, and exhale sharply.
“Miss Kennedy called and sent me some photos to post on FB. Things went well...yeah?” Nora sounds oddly reticent.
“Fine, but I don’t think I’m going to be bringing her back with me.”
“What?” my assistant semi-shouts, then she falls silent for a few beats. “Wait, did something happen that you’re not saying?”
“No. Look I’ve got to run. Still prepping for the speech tonight and it’s been a long day. I’ll see you in the office. And thanks.”
“Okay, but Ben...if you need to talk, call me.”
“Will do.”
Hanging up, I get that I’m spiraling. The sound of the air conditioner is masked by each of my heartbeats that crash in hammering waves within my ears. I should begin the cocktail hour up here, but the thought of drinking Scotch just doesn’t do it for me.
*
Downstairs, I exit the elevator and take a right into the corridor, and straight into the cocktail fundraiser. It’s jam-packed but it’s also just as Nora said, no biggie. I could do this in my sleep. But each person I meet and speak with, I’m all too keenly aware that Kennedy is nowhere in sight, and this is turning into a nightmare. I pull at my collar, grinding my teeth, a drink in hand but I don’t sip it. If I start, I might not stop, and that would be a mistake too many politicians have made. Not me.
I inhale a lungful of air to suppress a yawn coming on and I stop, the muscles all over my body go rigid and my dick follows suit. I inhale again, another trace of the fragrance teasing my senses... Fuck! A slash of anger rockets through me. For both our sakes, it better not be her.
Chapter Thirteen
