by Linnea May
"Oh, toughen up," I tease him, my voice a whisper. "It's just a few more minutes of handshaking and small talking."
He laughs then and looks at me, taking my face between both of his hands and fixating on me through narrowed eyes.
"Easy for you to talk now," he whispers back. "But you're the one I'm going to be taking my frustration out on later tonight."
I shiver and smile at him. "I can't wait, Sir."
He's told me not to call him that when we're in public, but I enjoy the little flicker that appears in his dark eyes too much not to do it. It's a simple word, but spoken at the right time and in the right tone can spark something inside him, that dark, violent side I've come to like so much about him.
He squeezes my face between his hands again, his thumbs digging into my cheeks, pinching me for just a second before relaxing his grip again.
"You're going to pay for that, my little Button."
I throw him a mischievous smile. They may only be words, but when he says them a certain way and accompanied by the right expression, they have the power to unravel me in just the right way.
He lets go of me and puts some distance between us, straightening his jacket before he offers me his arm.
"Let's go get them."
I tuck my arm into his elbow and follow him outside where they are waiting for us. Men of wealth, men of influence, and a few men and women with questions. None of them know that my cheeks are flushed because of his dirty promise, or that my heart is racing with anticipation and my core is throbbing with lust, as I walk next to the man who introduces me as his life partner. Presentable, chic, articulate… and her panties soaked with the juices of her arousal and sticking to her center.
We all have our own little secrets.
Chapter 23
Jared
Button carries herself so well today. The smile on her face looks real, her words are well chosen, her new dress hugs the curves of her sexy frame perfectly, emphasizing all the right spots - and driving me crazy. I can't help but be impressed with her, especially considering how terribly bored I am with this whole campaigning thing.
When I decided to run for Congress, I primarily did it to prove something to myself. I've conquered the business world, and after seeing so many useless idiots running for office, being elected, and then making decisions that benefit no one but themselves, I decided that I had had it. I'm not an idealistic person, mind you. It's power that I'm after, the knowledge that my word carries more weight than those of others. But I also like the idea of having a real influence. I need purpose and a platform to let people know I'm here and ready to leave my mark where it matters.
It's a simple enough thing to run for Congress when you're in my position. I have strong ties in the business world and the wealth needed to support my campaign without months of fundraising. My team is still organizing fundraisers, though, because my campaign needs them to generate grassroots and hands-on support, but I'm less dependent on raising money than any of the other candidates.
But all the money in the world can't buy supporters if a candidate doesn’t have clear positions and schmoozes with the right people. This is especially true for me. I may have the financial advantage, but I lack what my campaign manager calls "character credentials”. The damage done to me years ago still overshadows everything I do. Button knows nothing about it, even though she's closer to uncovering the truth than anybody else. She's never heard the rumors, and while I know she would dismiss them more willingly than anybody else, I still don't want her to know this part of my past.
I don't want her to know about the betrayal inflicted on me by the last person I thought possible of doing such a thing. Elsa Miller. Even recalling her name makes my heart race with furious rage. But it's also a good reminder for me to never let it happen again.
My eyes rest on Button standing next to me, watching as she chats away with another moneybag standing with us. She's dangerous. Too perfect, too damn good at playing her part in every aspect. I can already feel my heart softening for her. It has been slowly happening from the very beginning, but it's only gotten worse since I first fucked her and then she passed out, still throbbing around my cock. She's everything I ever wanted for this endeavor, and so much more. I've been watching myself gradually fall for her, passively allowing it to happen, without ever wanting it.
And the worst thing is: she doesn't feel the same way. Because she is fucking everything I wanted for this job. She never asks to sleep in my bed, she never whispers sweet nothings into my ear, she doesn't write me silly letters, and she hasn't confessed or shown any deeper, growing feelings toward me.
Because she is so damn perfect. Fucking cunning and rational like a machine.
Exactly what I was looking for.
Watching her now and seeing how she performs in front of these clowns, wearing her mask like a professional, reminds me of how careful I have to be around her. It also makes me wonder how raw and natural she really is when I play with her. I don't want to believe that all of it is just a show, but I can't discard the thought completely.
However, I want to believe that the intensity of the intimate part between us is real. The way she struggles, the way she moans, and the way her eyes glaze over when she's on her knees in front of me, the way she shrieks when I spank her, the way her eyes roll back into her head when I choke her until she climaxes. No. There's no way that all of that is just for show. No fucking way.
I catch her smile as she turns around to me. "I'm going to get myself another drink. Can I bring you something, too?"
She places her hand on my upper arm, an intimate touch that's one of the classic trademarks of a long-term couple. Something that we are not, but something we want to make others believe.
"A water, thank you."
"Sure."
She smiles again and excuses herself before leaving our little group. I’m left with three old dudes, all associates of foundations whose support could heavily impact the success of my campaign.
I don't like these guys, not at all. They represent the kind of arrogant old money that stands for stagnation and class division, but if I want to succeed in my run for Congress, having them at my back will make a gigantic difference.
I also don't like two of them. We've met before, but under different circumstances and at a time when I was in a less promising position. They witnessed the damage done to me back then. They've heard the rumors, they may even have helped to spread them, but I wouldn't know by the fake smiles on their faces right now.
"Pretty lady you've got there, Mr. King," one of them says once Button is out of earshot. His gray hair has thinned a lot since I saw him last, and he’s grown another spare tire around his middle. The smug smile accompanying his words tells me they're not purely meant as a compliment.
"She's pretty amazing," I say, speaking the truth.
"Pretty tough cookie, I'm sure," he says, leaving me to guess what he’s insinuating with his choice of words. "Where did you find her?"
We've prepared an answer for this question. Button and I rehearsed it again and again before attending our first public events. It was easy enough because we decided to stick with the truth as far as her former occupation, in case anyone ever decided to look it up. I doubt it will be an issue in the near future, but it's always good to be prepared and raise as little suspicion as possible to begin with.
"She oversaw press coverage for one of my company's fundraising events last year."
"Oh, she’s with the press! She is a journalist?"
"She was. A very good one, and that's how we got to talking, actually. She's a very talented writer and a smart observer."
"I bet she is, I bet she is," the guy says, adding heavy nods to his statement, as if he was agreeing with himself. "I'm wondering, though, did she ever investigate you?"
There you go. I knew this bastard had an agenda. I try to keep my calm and not let it show how much his inquiries agitate me.
"I don't know why she would."
"Well, if she's such a good investigative reporter, I'm sure she's heard about your little... trouble back then, no?"
I clear my throat, straightening my back and widening my stance to remind him that I'm not the least bit intimidated by his side remarks and the suggestions associated with them. "You mean those nasty rumors spread about me to threaten my ambitions and ruin my reputation?"
"Rumors, sure," the guy scoffs. "Sometimes false allegations are so hard to discern from the truth, aren't they?"
This fucking bastard is really grinding my gears by now. It takes all my willpower not to punch his ugly condescending grimace and maintain my composure, acting as if I wasn't the least bit affected by his subtle threats. Losing my temper is exactly what he wants, exactly what he's trying to get out of me. I don't know about the other two, who have become nothing but bystanders in this uncomfortable exchange, but it's pretty safe to say that I can't expect any trustworthy support from this guy and the foundation he works with. If anything, he's one of those I'll have to watch out for in the future, an enemy more than a friend.
"A wise man once said that the truth is ever to be found in simplicity, and not in the multiplicity and confusion of things," I tell him, my voice calm and steady, and not showing the faintest hint of intimidation. "False allegations and the nasty rumors that feed off of them are nothing but the latter."
I fixate on him through narrowed eyes, and he manages to withstand my gaze just long enough to be saved by Button’s return.
"Your water," she chirps next to me, handing me a ridiculously small glass filled to the brim.
"What did you gentlemen engage in while I was away?"
Her bright and innocent smile looks natural, brilliantly masking her dislike for these men, as her inquisitive eyes wander from face to face, awaiting a response.
"Old times," I say, placing my hand on her upper arm just like she did earlier with me. "And how some of it is better left in the past."
Collective nodding follows my words, and when I look at her, I notice the smile on her face has turned stale. Button is too smart not to notice that I'm hiding something from her.
It's just a matter of time until she finds out.
Chapter 24
Jared
She's most beautiful when she climaxes. My Button is so strong and self-contained, always on top of things, always in control. It's hard to break through that tough shell she has so carefully built around herself, and the only time she's truly able to let go is during those magic seconds when her mind is shut off and her body takes over in a savage outburst.
But boy, does she make these moments her own. She craves them just as much as I do, and to get there, she's willing to go a step further every time we play. Her orgasms all belong to me, but she makes sure to earn them and get as much out of them as she possibly can. By now, she has felt more than just the belt on her impeccable skin. I've left marks on her with thin leather floggers, canes, and even a paddle, one that left an unmistakable imprint on her ass spelling out the word SLUT. She didn't like that one and hated the degrading mark she was forced to carry for a couple of days. But she craves the feeling of leather strings on her skin, and the belt still appears to be her favorite.
I couldn't wait to rip the deep red dress off of her after we got home from the Rotary Club. It was hard enough not to attack her on our drive home, especially since she looked at me with those big, expectant eyes, her breathing deep and heavy, a telltale sign of her ignited anticipation. She teased me by pulling up the hem of her dress just the slightest bit every time my eyes wandered over to her.
We barely made it through the front door before I started tearing at her dress. She mewled and tried to stop me from ruining her dress, which only egged me on further. I was between her legs within seconds, switching the button that shuts off her public self to make room for the slut I need her to be for me behind closed doors.
"The belt," she breathes as I pleasure her with my fingers. "I want the belt, Sir."
So I gave it to her. She squealed in my arms as I carried her over to the bedroom, naked and hungry for pain. Her expressions of joy quickly changed into groans of agony, desperate yelps, and heated, ecstatic cries when I let her taste the leather. Her perky ass is painted in red stripes by the time I'm done with her, and she's in the midst of cathartic wailing when I turn her over to fuck her. I need to see her face every time she comes, I need to be a part of it, witness every moment of victory as I see her shattering beneath me.
Right now, one of those magic moments is about to come to an end, right before I decided it was time to join her. She's still clenching around my cock, my hand at her throat, but not choking her, when I explode in that same delirious bliss she just experienced a few moments before me. I always come so hard with her, harder than I ever have with anyone before. The intensity is blinding and emotionally painful, because I can no longer fuck without being haunted by doubts.
Doubts about her honesty.
Doubts about my decision to let her in.
Doubts about her loyalty.
She's still breathing heavily, her foggy eyes seeking mine as a soft smile plays around the corners of her mouth. Her make-up is smeared from crying, and her ash blond strands of hair are sticking to her sweaty face or tangled in a hot mess. She has never looked more beautiful to me.
How can she fucking dare...
"Thank you."
The smile on her face widens after she says those words. She always thanks me when we're done because I told her to. And while she's following all of the rules, I can't even trust those simple words because she speaks them in a way that makes me believe she may actually mean them.
I can't let this happen. She's being paid to do this, or she will be. I have to remember her place in all of this.
"You did very well today," I tell her, caressing the side of her face and moving a sticky strand of hair out of the way. I’m acting like a fucking little boy in love. "You earned this."
She grins. "I really did, didn't I? Man, those guys were boring! I hear you on the draining part. It really is draining."
"You didn't look exhausted at all," I say. "In fact, you actually looked like you were having a good time, making good conversation."
I notice the accusing tone in my voice, and so does she. Her eyebrows furrow and she slowly shakes her head.
"Heck, no. I was bored out of my mind. But I can't let them know that, can I?"
"No, of course not."
"See? I'm just doing my job."
I don't know why, but her voice leaves a fucking bruise on my heart
I'm just doing my job.
Why did she have to say it like that? Why does it matter? Why does it bother me this much?
"I'm hungry," she complains. "Feed me, Sir."
She cuddles up to me, burying her face in my chest, and my heart almost bursts. This is not how I'm supposed to feel, this is not how she's supposed to be, how it’s supposed to be.
"I'm starving, too," I say. "They never serve proper food at these events; it's pathetic."
She chuckles against my chest. "We should order some pizza next time. Imagine that, all those stuck-up money bags with a slice of pizza in their hands, fresh out of the box."
I laugh, shaking my head at the thought. "That's a picture I'd like to see."
She lifts her eyes up to me. "Can we order pizza? Like right now?"
"If that's what you want, sure."
Her face lights up like that of a little kid who was just handed the keys to a candy store. It looks adorable. Fucking adorable.
"I'm sure that's something you never do," she assumes. "Order pizza. So low-class."
"Don't misjudge me, Button. It's not like I've always lived in this... what did you call it, 'ridiculous rooftop palace'?"
She grins. "Yep. Exactly."
I have to distance myself from her, even if it means getting out of bed, and detaching myself from an embrace that couldn't feel any more comfortable if I wanted it
to. I could lie there forever, talking to her, watching her lively face while she speaks or ponders, feeling her body pressed against mine until the urges return, and my hardness orders us to connect as one again. Hell, I could even watch her sleep. I want to watch her sleep.
I have to get out of here.
She throws me a confused look when I jump up from the bed, hastily putting on some pants and getting away from her mesmerizing touch.
"Are you okay?"
She sounds hurt, and her words cut into my heart like a dagger.
"Of course," I assure. "Just fucking hungry. Let's get that pizza."
She sits up, drowsily fixing her hair that's hugging her shoulders in sweat-dampened, ruffled waves. I watch her climb out of bed, grimacing as her tortured ass presses against the sheets, a sight that gives me great satisfaction.
I have to do something about this. We've come further in our training in a shorter amount of time than I expected. She has shown that she’s not only capable, but eager, to explore more of this, test her limits, grow as a submissive, and thus as a person. I wonder if she could develop a deeper understanding of what it means to be mine.
Though the bigger question might be if I’m ready?
I should be. I always have been. Taking it further with her is just a natural next step, something that has to be done. And it may be even more important with her than it ever was with anyone else because it would prove that she's nothing special to me. She shouldn't be, at least not more than any other toy before.
"Button," I say, as she wraps the silk robe around her tender body.
She looks up at me, not suspecting a thing.
"We'll try something new in the near future."
"Something new?" she asks, her face lighting up with curiosity.
I approach her, holding her by the shoulders while her mascara-smeared eyes hold onto mine.
"You're mine now, and you promised to do whatever pleases me," I tell her. "Have you ever been with more than one man before?"
